Page 10 of Ruthless Savior
I press my lips together around my cigarette, sucking in a drag of the nicotine. A habit I’ll break again, I promise myself. “Fucking Sicilians,” I mutter. Like the council in Ireland, that gaggle of old men ultimately holds the power over every boss in the States, the final word on marriages, on inheritance, on life and death itself. I’ve never questioned the authority of the council or chafed at my place, but I’ve also never understood how being allowed to inherit can give a man a sense of arrogance he doesn’t deserve. Like, in this case, Rocco De Luca.
His father, Giuseppe, wasn’t an ally of ours. But he obeyed the lines of territory, stayed on his side of the city while we stayed on ours. There was no alliance, no friendship, but there was peace. Giuseppe was pragmatic. Calm. Easy to work with, if not friendly.
And now, his son has thrown away decades of fragile, hard-won peace for reasons I can’t begin to fathom.
“He’s getting into trafficking,” Padraigh says, as if reading my thoughts. “The Russians aren’t pleased with it either—at least not the Petrovs. And they’re the ones that matter. They might be allies in this.”
“Trafficking women?” I feel a thread of anger run through my veins as my father nods.
“Young ones, especially. It wouldn’t have been our business, but he made it ours, with his attack on your wife.”
I feel that anger build.Like hell it isn’t our business. My desire to kill Rocco De Luca magnifies with that knowledge, a feeling that I’m no longer taking him out only for my own revenge. There’s justification beyond that, and it makes my trigger finger itch even more than it already did.
I look down at the grave, seeing Siobhan’s body laid out in front of me all over again. Two bullets to the chest and one to the head. Clean, professional, and a message that couldn’t be misinterpreted.
“I’ll make De Luca pay,” I say flatly, flicking my cigarette into the slush. “I’ll make all of them pay. And then we’ll decide what comes next.”
3
RONAN
Three hours later, I'm standing in the back room of the Way Out—an old Irish dive where we’re known to conduct our business. It’s where I’d like my wake to be held, when that day comes around, although we picked somewhere nicer for Siobhan’s. If I’d held her wake here, I’d have been haunted for sure.
My crew is gathered around the table: Finn Donovan, my right hand and the closest thing to a best friend I've ever had; Owen Byrne, who handles weapon stock and trains our new recruits; Danny Malley, who handles intelligence and has contacts throughout the Boston PD; and six others, each handpicked for this operation.
"What do we know?" I ask, settling into the chair at the head of the table. My father isn’t here, unsurprisingly, and I’m glad. He said it would undermine me to have him heading up this operation, to have him be a part of vengeance for my wife and a stand against De Luca for my grip on Boston’s Irish territory, and I agree with him on that. Tristan had wanted to be here, but I told him to go back to Miami. His wife is on bed rest for herpregnancy, and the last thing I want is my brother in danger, by my side, and distracted. I’d rather know he’s safe back in Miami.
He was pissed about it, but ultimately, I outrank him. I rarely remind him of that, but tonight I did, and I don’t feel bad about it.
Danny opens a manila folder and spreads photographs across the scarred wood. "De Luca's got a meeting tonight at eleven. Warehouse near the Navy Yard. Word is he's finalizing some kind of deal with buyers from New York."
I take in the photographs—layouts of the docks, a floor plan of the interior of the warehouse. "What kind of deal?"
“The kind we didn’t want any part of.” Danny's voice is carefully neutral, but I can hear the disgust underneath. "Young girls, teens to early twenties. There’s a ship due to come in under a furniture import manifest. Some might be local, too. I don’t know if there will be any girls there when they meet, unless he’s letting them sample…" Danny clears his throat. “The merchandise. But De Luca will be there, and that’s what matters.” He looks at me cautiously. “We’re not running a rescue operation here, boss. This is a revenge mission. Get in, pop Rocco and as many of his men as we need to in order to make a statement, and get out. We gotta remember that, no matter what else is going on. There’s some shit we don’t need to involve ourselves in.”
Some bosses wouldn’t take kindly to being spoken to so frankly, but I don’t mind it, and my trusted men know that. My father feels differently, but it’s one of the ways in which we differ. I don’t think being a monolith makes me a better leader, or a more capable one.
A cold knot forms in my stomach. “If we take Rocco out, maybe there won’t be any need for rescues anyway. Maybe the deal will fall apart without him. He doesn’t have an heir. There will be a power vacuum after he’s dead. By the time the Sicilianssort it out, whatever business dealings Rocco had will have moved on.”
"How many men will he have with him?" Finn asks.
"At least ten, maybe more. Plus whatever security the warehouse normally runs." Danny slides another photograph across the table—a grainy surveillance shot of Rocco entering a black SUV. "He's been paranoid since the hit on Siobhan. Knows we'll be coming for him."
"Good." I study the warehouse layout, memorizing entrances and exits, sight lines, and cover. "Let him be paranoid. Paranoid men make mistakes."
Owen leans forward, his scarred hands folded on the table. "What's the play here, Ronan? We going in loud or quiet?"
It's a good question. A quiet approach would be smarter—slip in, take out the guards, corner Rocco, and finish him off. Loud means more chance for him to escape, more opportunity for something to go wrong. The chaos might alert him, might give him a chance to slip out while we’re taking out his men.
But there’s something restless in my blood, something that pushes me past the idea of what’s smart. I know better. I’ve proved myself again and again over the years, but I’m not in my father’s good graces right now, and fucking anything up tonight will only make that worse.
I'm not in the mood to be smart tonight. I want Rocco dead.
"Loud," I say flatly. "He wants to send messages? Let's send one back. I want everyone in Boston to know what happens when you cross the O'Malleys. We go in hard and fast, and we wipe him and his men out. No questions, no survivors.”
Finn nods approvingly. He's always preferred the direct approach, and he’s never shied away from violence. "What about witnesses?"
"Depends on what we find when we get there." I meet each man's eyes in turn. "Anyone who's not involved, we let walk. Anyone who is..." I shrug. "Collateral damage."
