APRIL
I shake my head. “I don’t have to put up with this.”
Before I can stand, he roars, “Sit down.” His hands slam onto my shoulders, forcing me back into the chair. My backside hits the seat hard, my ears ringing from the sound of his voice.
“That’s better,” he says, his tone still sharp, though quieter now. He opens a thick file and slides a photo across the table toward me. “Recognize them?”
I glance at the picture, confused for a moment before my stomach turns. “They’re dead bodies,” I whisper.
He taps the image with one finger. “Twelve members of the Rossi Cartel. Three with fractured skulls, one with a broken neck. The rest strangled with piano wire. His favorite method. Executed late last night. None of them made it to breakfast this morning.”
“Rossi Cartel,” I repeat softly.
