Chapter 4 - The Clean Sweep
Paulie collapsed out of the chair onto the sawdust floor, clutching his crushed wrist while Bruno stood over him, a heavy paw pressed against Paulie's chest, a warning growl vibrating deep in his throat.
Tony stepped forward, swiftly kicking Paulie's concealed weapon across the room. He grabbed the dropped leather briefcase, unlatched it, and dumped its contents onto my desk.
It wasn't shipping manifests.
Rolled up inside were satellite maps of our primary weapons depot in New Jersey, along with a thick stack of bearer bonds stamped with the seal of a bank in Moscow.
"You stupid bastard," Tony spat, turning his gun on Paulie. "You were selling our warehouse coordinates to Volkov."
"Wait! Wait, please!" Paulie wept, blood pooling beneath his shattered wrist. Bruno growled louder, increasing the pressure of his paw just enough to make Paulie gasp for air. "It wasn't my idea! Marco told me you were soft! He said Volkov was taking over the borough by the end of the month anyway, and if we didn't get on board, we'd be buried with you!"
I leaned forward over the desk, looking down at the traitor on the floor. "How many others?"
"I don't know! I swear to God I don't know!" Paulie sobbed. "Marco handled the higher-ups! I just gave him the dock schedules and the warehouse maps!"
"Bruno," I called out softly.
The dog eased his weight off Paulie's chest, stepping back to my side, though his eyes remained locked on the bleeding man.
"Tony," I said, rising from my chair and buttoning my suit jacket. "Take Paulie to the basement. Keep him breathing until he gives up every name he knows. Then dispose of him."
"Right away, Boss. What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to take Bruno for a walk," I said, pulling my dark trench coat from the coat rack. "It's time to visit the Red Star."
Twenty minutes later, a convoy of three blacked-out SUVs pulled into the rain-slicked alley behind the Red Star nightclub in Greenpoint. The heavy bass from the club's sound system vibrated through the damp brick walls. Neon lights flickered in red and purple through the haze.
I didn't bring twenty men. I brought four—my core, men whose loyalty had been tested in the fires of actual war. And, of course, Bruno.
We bypassed the main entrance, walking straight up to the heavy steel door reserved for VIPs and private meetings. Two massive Russian bouncers in tactical vests stood guard outside the entrance.
When they saw us approaching, one of them reached for his earpiece. "Private club, my friends. You need to turn around—"
Bruno didn't wait for a command. He recognized the smell of the men who had paid for Elena's death.
With a ferocious, guttural roar, the dog launched himself through the rain. He hit the first bouncer at chest height, knocking the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man clean off his feet and crashing into the brick wall. The second bouncer reached for a sidearm, but Tony stepped up, driving a suppressed pistol barrel into the man's throat.
Thwack.
The second guard dropped into the wet gravel. Bruno had the first guard pinned, his jaws hovering inches from the man's throat, waiting for my signal.
"Good boy, Brun," I murmured, patting his wet head. "Hold."
I kicked open the steel VIP door.
The hallway inside was dimly lit, smelling of expensive vodka, stale cigars, and perfume. We moved quickly down the corridor, passing private rooms until we reached the double oak doors leading to Volkov's personal office.
I didn't knock.
Tony drove his boot into the lock, blowing the doors inward with a loud bang.
Inside, Nikolai Volkov—a broad-shouldered man with a scarred face, tailored suit, and a glass of amber liquor in his hand—snapped his head up from a table stacked with ledger books and stacks of cash. Four armed guards standing around the room immediately drew their weapons.
Before a trigger could be pulled, my men opened fire with suppressed submachine guns. The room filled with the muted tap-tap-tap of gunfire, glass shattering, and bodies hitting the plush oriental rug.
Within four seconds, all four of Volkov's guards were dead on the floor.
Volkov stood alone behind his mahogany desk, his glass frozen halfway to his mouth, his eyes wide with shock.
"Salvatore," Volkov whispered, his accent thick and raspy. "You're... you're not supposed to be here."
I walked into the room, my shoes stepping through the pool of spilled vodka on the carpet. Bruno walked right beside me, his coat dripping wet, his teeth bared in a silent, terrifying display of hatred.
"You made a mistake, Nikolai," I said quietly, leaning both hands on his desk.
"If this is about the dock space—"
"It's not about the dock space," I interrupted. "It's about a seven-year-old girl named Elena."
Volkov’s eyes flickered. He tried to maintain a stone face, but a subtle twitch in his jaw gave him away. "I don't know any girl."
Bruno let out a vicious growl, stepping up onto his hind legs, slamming his heavy front paws onto the mahogany desk, bringing his massive, snapping jaw within six inches of Volkov's nose.
May you like
Volkov flinched back, nearly losing his balance.
"My dog knows who she was," I said, my voice dropping to an icy whisper. "And he knows what you did."
