“That’s my daughter!” he’d roared across the lawn, his voice carrying over the gunfire. “She’s in there, you fucking coward! Let her go or I’ll burn this place to the ground!”
On some level, I did admire the audacity of him coming to my property, bringing an army and demanding I hand over his daughter like he had any leverage at all.
We’d engaged hard, pushing them back from the house, and forcing them to take cover behind the garden walls and hedges.
My men are better trained than Connor’s.
They’re more disciplined, better equipped, but Connor had numbers on his side.
For every three of ours, he had five of his.
Maybe more.
The battle lasted twenty minutes but it felt like hours. I remember returning fire and watching one of Connor’s men go down with a bullet in his shoulder.
I remember the explosion that took out the southeast corner of the garden wall, thinking that if they got much closer they’d be able to storm the house and I’d have to kill Connor Brennan on my own property, which would really start a war I wasn’t in the mood for.
But they didn’t get closer.
Eventually, when it became clear they couldn’t breach our inner defenses and when too many of Connor’s men were wounded and it was obvious they’d lose if they pushed harder, he called for a retreat.
“This isn’t over, Santoro!” Connor had shouted as his men dragged him back toward their vehicles, his face twisted with rage and desperation. “You hear me? This isn’t fucking over! I will get my daughter back!”
Then they were gone, leaving behind the knowledge that the Lombardos now know exactly where Emma is.
Which brings me back to the traitor question and why I’ve been in this fucking basement for six hours.
“Pull Zima’s file,” I tell Dante, my voice hard. “Everything. Where he lives, family members, financial records, phone history. I want to know everywhere he’s been in the last month.”
“Already done.” Dante pulls out his tablet, his fingers moving quickly across the screen. There’s a stiffness in his shoulders that wasn’t there this morning. “Alexander Zima, twenty-eight, been with us for six months. Came recommended from the Brighton Beach crew. Clean background check, no red flags during his probationary period. Lives alone in a studio apartment in Queens.”
“Lived,” I correct sharply. “Past tense. Because I’m going to kill him when we find him.”
“You’ll have to find him first.” Dante looks up from his tablet and I can see the frustration in his eyes, the barely controlled anger that he’s keeping restrained. “I sent two men to his apartment an hour ago. It’s empty. Looks like he packed in a hurry but took everything important. His phone’s been disconnected and bank account was cleaned out yesterday morning.”
The pieces click into place and I feel rage building in my chest like a physical pressure. “He knew the attack was coming,” I say slowly. “He gave Connor the information then disappeared before the raid so he wouldn’t be here when it happened.”
“That would be my assessment.” Dante’s voice is deceptively light, which means he’s furious. Dante doesn’t do obvious anger—he does cold, controlled rage that’s somehow more terrifying. “He sold us out and ran like the coward he is.”
I want to put my fist through a wall and hunt Zima down and make him suffer.
But rage won’t help right now.
I need to think clearly, to find out who facilitated this betrayal.
“Who paid him?” I demand, looking at Dante. “Connor doesn’t know Zima personally. Someone had to make the introduction and facilitate the betrayal.”
“I’ve got our financial analyst tracing the money trail now.” Dante checks his watch. “Should have preliminary information within the hour.”
The door opens and Harry enters, looking nervous.
I spend the next forty minutes questioning him—where he was during the attack, what he saw, whether he noticed anything unusual about Zima in the days leading up to the breach.
Harry’s clean.
I can tell.
He’s scared and loyal and didn’t know anything was wrong until bullets started flying.