Page 96 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
For the boy they expected to wear the name without ever earning it.
For the man they didn’t think would survive long enough to take anything seriously.
I touch her jaw, just lightly.
She lets me.
Her skin is warm beneath my fingers, but she doesn’t lean in.
I don’t expect her to.
"I’ll see you tonight," I say, and then leave without lingering.
The car is waiting, and I get in and drive, my mind refocusing on the job at hand. I drive myself.
South of the river, the streets thin into that dead industrial stretch where the buildings sag like old dogs.
This neighborhood doesn’t ask questions if a van idles too long.
One of our satellite storehouses sits here, tucked behind a fenced lot with rusted signage from a company that hasn’t existed in a decade.
We have a problem.
On paper, it’s just a supply delay.
But Marco believes otherwise.
I park at the edge and kill the engine.
One of the floor men—Tavo—waits out front.
He nods as I step out, eyes bouncing from me to the side of the building.
"When did it start?" I ask.
"Late last night. Exterior cam was wiped. Back door re-keyed. We had to go in through the boiler shaft."
"Inside?"
His eyes go wary. "Too clean."
He unlocks the side entrance and I follow him in.
The space is cool, silent.
Inventory sits lined and stacked the way we left it.
Pallets of sealed boxes.
Nothing scorched or cracked open.
But the office smells different.
Too sterile.
Tavo hesitates in the doorway.
I step around him.
