MAFIA'S THORN

CHAPTER TWO

ALTON'S — POV

Bang.

My arm stays extended, the pistol steady in my left hand. Recoil snaps through my wrist. The smell of burnt gunpowder mixed with machine oil heavy in the air.

I take a deep breath and pull the trigger again.

Bang.

The second round lands almost on top of the first, causing the target to sway faintly at the end of the lane. From behind, the holes would look like they came from a single bullet.

I fire again.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Five rounds total, I lower the gun.

Viktor, my right-hand man, stands beside me, a step behind my shoulder while I’m shooting.

I press the small button on the console. The target carrier whirs softly, dragging the paper silhouette back toward us along the metal rail. I set the pistol down on the bench and remove my earmuffs. The sounds of the range rush back in, distant gunshots, magazines snapping into place, the murmur of quiet conversations.

Viktor pulls off his own earmuffs. “The guys are back with their reports,” he says.

I keep my eyes on the target.

“They’ll meet us in the lounge.”

The paper stops in front of us. I remove it from the clip and hold it up for a moment, studying the grouping. Five holes sit clustered close to the center, almost the same spot. Close enough.

“How many?” I ask.

“Two.” he looks at the target.

I fold the paper and set it aside. Sliding a fresh magazine into the pistol, I lift it with my right hand again, the weight settles naturally into my grip. I switch it back into my left hand, testing the balance.

Viktor observes without making a sound. The thing is that I hate unnecessary noise or rambling, and he knows that.

A new target slides down the track, I raise the pistol and shoot.

It lands just inside the center, a fraction off. I eject the magazine, clear the chamber, and place the pistol into its case, snapping the lid shut. I head toward the exit door, and Viktor trails behind me carrying the case.

As we step out of the shooting lane, the heavy soundproof door closes behind us, muting the sharp cracks of gunfire into distant thumps. Viktor's blond hair has grown longer and is tied back into a bun. His blue eyes catch the light from the overhead fluorescent light.

The sky outside has turned dark, and the parking lot is nearly empty except for a few cars. I slide into the back seat of my car parked near the entrance as Viktor opens the door, shuts it behind him and moves to the passenger seat. Mario, my driver, starts the engine and pulls away from the curb.

As we drive through the city, the lights glide past the windows in long reflections. Traffic is light at this hour. By the time we arrive at the club, shadows have overtaken the city. Music seeps faintly into the street even before Mario pulls into the private entrance.

A security guard by the door stands up straight upon recognizing our vehicle. We enter through a side corridor reserved for staff and private guests.

The private lounge is situated above the main club, accessible by a flight of stairs but blocked off by two of my guards who search anyone heading there. We ascend to find ourselves on the lounge floor, walking toward an exclusive closed door that no one else has access to.

The bulky guy that has been around for some time now standing at the entrance of the door gives me a curt nod and opens the door. Stepping inside, Viktor follows, and he shuts the door behind us. Immediately Sergie and Tomas see me, they stand, "Boss," both of them say in greeting.

Amber wall sconces glow along the walls. I take the seat which faces the door with my back to the wall. Lowering my hands, I signaled them to sit.

Viktor sits beside me. Sergei with his buzz cut and tall Tomas then sit across from us in the armchairs. They are my most trusted men responsible for knowing what's going on, on the streets. A floor-to-ceiling glass wall partitions the left side of the room that enables me to oversee what's happening at the main club.

Sergei leans forward resting his elbows on his knees. “One of their men has been at the docks twice this week.” His voice is steady, but his eyes keep shifting between me and Viktor.

“They’ve been meeting new faces,” Tomas says, waiting half a second before adding, “Not locals.”

I study their expressions while they speak. People reveal things in small ways. Hesitation, tone, eye movement and other habits you wouldn't think mattered, most men don’t even realize they’re doing it.

A waitress in a latex costume serves us drinks in an ice bucket, keeping her eyes down until she leaves.

“They’re spending more too, "Sergei relaxes back. “Renting storage space also paying in cash.”

Tomas takes a sip from his glass. "Also, they have more shipments moving through than usual.”

My gaze still fixed on them, “Who confirmed it?” I ask.

“Two separate sources,” Sergei replies.

I nod once.

My territory has been stable and profitable lately.

There is a knock at the door, all eyes shift to it. Viktor looks at me, I give him a slight head tilt. “Come in,” he says.

The door opens, and a server steps inside carrying a tray of drinks.

She’s tall and slender, dressed in the bar’s black uniform, contradicting the latex our first server wore. Dark hair pulled back neatly at the nape of her neck.

Her eyes stay lowered as she moves toward the table and stops beside me first. Up close, I notice her breath is steady, but her hands are trembling.

She leans forward to place a glass on the table, but instead, she's falling.

The tray slides, making the liquid on it splash across my chest, soaking into my shirt. A glass strikes the table with a clink, the room goes silent.

“I’m s–sorry, I’m so sorry, sir," her words tumble out in a rush. She sets the tray down and grabs a napkin, leaning toward me to clean the spill, her hands still unstable.

Viktor moves instantly, grabbing her arm, he yanks her away from me. He twists her wrist behind her back while his other hand presses between her shoulder blades, forcing her to bend forward.

“Who are you?” Viktor demands. His voice is dangerous.

“I—I’m just a server,” she stammers. “I work here.”

The other two men rise from their seats, ready to intervene. Finally, she raises her head and looks at me with those green mixed with amber eyes that are glossy. “Please,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

For a moment, I look at her. “Let her go,” My voice cuts through the room. Viktor doesn’t hesitate, his grip releases instantly. Surprise flickers across his face.

She stumbles forward, “I’m sorry,” she says again, fast and shaking. Clutching her arm, breathing shallowly, “I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry.”

I jerk my head a little to the side, signaling Viktor.

He understands. “Leave,” he tells her.

She turns and darts out of the room immediately. I watch the door close, “Get me another shirt,” I tell Viktor.

“Yes boss,” he replies, rushing toward the door.

I sit back down Sergie and Tomas follow, regaining their previous positions.

Shortly after, Viktor returns with the replacement. I stand removing the ruined shirt and handing it over to him. Shrugging on the fresh one, I slowly begin to button it, then after I sit down, "Continue," I order. Viktor returns to his seat beside me.

Sergei clears his throat,"We think the new men they are meeting are suppliers. Possibly weapons.”

“And they’re using the docks outside their usual lanes," Tomas adds.

I look at Sergei, "you need to confirm, I don't want guessing, I want facts."

They both nod. I speak without turning my head, “Have someone follow her,” I lean in to whisper in Viktor's ear. “Discreetly, I want to know what she does, who she is with. Everything."

“Okay, boss,” he says.

Something has already been set in motion, and when it happens no one walks away from my world untouched.