Revenge Of The Mafia Heir

The warehouse smelled like rust blades as Santino Leandro stood over the man tied to the chair. Tom's face was a mess of bruises and blood, but his eyes still held that desperate gleam of hope. They always did, until the very end. "Please," Tom wheezed through split lips. "I have got kids, Santino." Two little girls. "I know." Santino pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket, as he lit it with steady hands. "Seven and nine years old. Anna and Sofia." Tom's face went white. "You wouldn't" "Relax." Santino exhaled smoke toward the warehouse rafters. "I'm not my father." The relief in Tom's eyes was pathetic to watch. "But you still have to die." "Wait, wait!" Tom strained against the ropes. "I can fix this." I can make it right. "How?" "The money. I still have half of it. And I can give you names. The Albanians who approached me. Their contacts. Everything." Santino took another drag, considering this. "Go on." "Dragan Petrov. He runs the drug trade through the eastern ports. He offered me triple what El Amore pays. Said he wanted someone inside." "And you said yes." "My daughter needs surgery. The medical bills" "So you sold us out for money." "I was going to pay it back!" Santino flicked ash onto the concrete floor. With what? "More Albanian money?" Tom slumped in the chair. "Please. I made a mistake." "Yes, you did." As Santino crushed the cigarette under his heel. "You got caught," he said as he walked to the workbench where his tools were laid out. Not torture instruments, he wasn't that kind of man. Just what he needed to finish the job. Clean and professional. "Santino, listen to me," Tom said, his voice rising. "El Amore is using you." You know that, right? You're his attack dog. His clean-up crew. When this all goes south, you think he's going to protect you? "Probably not." "Then why" "Because I gave my word," Santino said as he picked up the gun and checked the magazine. "In this business, that's all you have." "Your word?" Tom laughed, bitterly and broken. "Your word to a man who'd kill you without blinking?" "Maybe. "But I'm not him," Santino said as he screwed the silencer onto the barrel. The metal threads caught the light from the single bulb hanging overhead. "You know what the difference is between you and me, Tom?" "What?" "I choose my betrayals carefully." Tom tried to say something else, but Santino was already raising the gun. The shot was barely a whisper in the vast space. Santino stood there for a moment, looking down at the body. No satisfaction. No relief. Just another task completed. Another loose end tied up. He pulled out his phone to call Luca for cleanup as the phone rang before he could dial. Unknown number. He let it ring twice before answering. "Yes?" "Santino Leandro?" The voice was crisp, professional. And Unfamiliar. Depends on who's asking, Santino said. "I have the information you need." "I don't take calls from strangers." "Your supplier in Paris is dead." Santino felt something cold settle in his stomach. "Which supplier?" "Hotel room 420. Very messy." The line went quiet except for the sound of breathing not his own. "Who is this?" "Someone who knows what really happened." "And what's that?" "He didn't slip and fall." Santino walked to the warehouse window, as he peered through the grimy glass at the empty street outside. No cars. No movement. Just Naples sleeping under a blanket of smog and streetlights. "What do you want?" "To meet." "Not interested." "You will be. Your supplier has something that belongs to you. Now it's missing." "Such as?" "A list. Names. Addresses. Bank accounts. The kind of information that could bring down an empire." Santino's grip tightened on the phone. "What list?" "Yours." The line went dead as Santino stared at the phone screen. The number showed as disconnected when he tried to call back. He looked at Tom's body, then back at his phone. His supplier in Paris died. A list of his information. And someone out there knew enough to call him directly. This wasn't random. This was planned. Santino walked back to the workbench, picked up his jacket. Time to go. But first, he needed to make another call. Not to Luca. Not to his crew. To El Amore. His phone buzzed again with a text message. Same disconnected number. The clock is ticking. Santino felt the warehouse walls closing in around him. Someone was playing games. Someone with access to his private number, knowledge of his operations, and information about a dead supplier. He grabbed his keys and headed for the door, leaving Tom's body behind. There would be time to deal with cleanup later.