My uncle told me I was being shipped off to New Jersey to serve a mandatory alliance contract with a veteran syndicate partner named Gabe DeLuca.
Frank Bruno stepped forward, his heavy boots echoing on the concrete. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed, casting harsh shadows on his face.
“Three hundred thousand dollars,” he growled, his gaze fixed on Julian. “Cash. Now. Or we start clearing this place out.”
Julian’s jaw tightened. He glanced at me, a silent question in his eyes.
“No, Julian,” I said, my voice steady. “We don’t pay them a thing.”
Frank scoffed, a deep rumble in his chest. “Kid, you got no idea how this works.”
“Actually, I do,” I replied, meeting his stare. “And so does Vic, apparently, if he thinks sending you here changes anything.”
Julian looked confused, a flicker of something close to alarm in his worn eyes. “Leo, what are you talking about?”
“This whole setup,” I explained, turning slightly to Julian but keeping Frank in my peripheral vision. “Vic paying you to lure me, the ‘accident’ at the docks. I knew about it three days ago.”
Julian’s face went still. His hand instinctively went to the hidden briefcase at his feet, the one with the $50,000.
“I intercepted Vic’s wire communications,” I clarified. “The ones he thought were secure. He was discussing the details of your ‘reintegration’ into the syndicate. The false identity, the parole, the money.”
Frank’s face twisted. “You’re calling my boss a liar?”
“I’m calling him predictable,” I said. “And I’m calling him a fool for thinking I didn’t learn a thing about his business while living in his house.”
Julian took a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing marginally. The initial shock began to give way to a grim understanding.
“This is why you came, isn’t it?” Julian said quietly. “You picked this warehouse, this destination.”
“It wasn’t just a random bus ticket to New Jersey,” I confirmed. “Stepping onto New Jersey soil under the pretense of a syndicate alliance contract, specifically to a location tied to the Ross Syndicate’s operational history, activated a very particular clause.”
Frank shifted his weight. “What clause, smartass?”
“The one in the Ross Syndicate charter,” I told him, “that prevents any single capo from liquidating family assets without a unanimous board vote, especially if that capo is attempting to use a family heir as an unwitting pawn.”
A low whistle escaped Frank’s lips. He clearly hadn’t heard that one before. The usual mob enforcers weren’t usually versed in the nuances of archaic syndicate law.
“That’s why he wanted my ‘accident’ to happen before I ever officially arrived,” I added, looking at Julian. “If I was dead, the clause wouldn’t activate. The contract would be null and void.”
Frank pulled out his phone, already dialing. He held it to his ear, his eyes narrowed at me. “Vic’s not gonna like this, kid.”
“He won’t,” I agreed. “But he also won’t like this.”
I reached into my backpack, pulling out a crisp, folded piece of paper. It was a bank receipt, printed just twenty minutes prior from an ATM I’d passed on the bus ride in.
“The loan balance,” I said, handing it to Frank. “For the warehouse. It was updated twenty minutes ago.”
Frank snatched the paper. His gaze dropped to the numbers, then shot back up to me. The paper crumpled slightly in his grip. The receipt clearly showed a zero balance, stamped and dated. His face, usually a mask of brutal indifference, now held a flicker of genuine bewilderment.
“This is impossible,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “We just put this into foreclosure.”
“Yes,” I said. “And I just paid it off.”
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