Into the Fire (New York Syndicate Book 2)

by Michelle St. James

  They were nowhere in sight, a detail she’d counted on when she realized Damian was making smart use of the guards by stationing them not around the perimeter of the massive property, but around the perimeter of the house and its manicured lawn.

  Anyone who made their way through the woods would still have to cross the lawn to get to the house. It made sense to concentrate their firepower there. The guards would easily spot anyone heading to the house from any direction across the wide lawn.

  Lucky for her, she wasn’t heading for the house — she was heading away from it.

  The lawn was sweeping in every direction, punctuated by the swell of small knolls and old trees once used for shade by Victorian women with delicate constitutions looking for a place to read or paint.

  She couldn’t even spot the guards from the carriage house. Making her way around it to the wooded tree line surrounding the property was easy. There hadn’t been any significant snowfall, and the ground was hard but clear as she headed for the trees.

  She entered the woods, calling up her image of the land survey she’d found online when she’d been researching her escape from the house. It was less than a half mile to the road, and she hurried through the forested buffer, grateful for the afternoon sun and the clear ground covered only by dead leaves left behind by autumn.

  She spilled onto the road all at once. It was narrow and winding, and she looked both ways to make sure there was no one coming before opening the maps app on her phone. When she had a handle on her location, she used the app she’d downloaded to schedule a car with the credit card Damian had given her to purchase anything she needed online.

  The app dinged and she looked at the ETA of the car: twenty minutes.

  She ducked back into the cover of the trees to wait.

  31

  Damian paced, eyeing the various targets outlined on the map of New York and its surrounding area. They were at the Tribeca office, the lights mostly off, the conference room lit by the glow of the screen at the front of the room, different targets marked with red (mission complete), yellow (in progress), and green (slated to begin soon).

  The most important targets had been hit the day before — Anastos’s illegal weapons shipment halted by the ATF, seventeen men detained by Customs on their way in from various airports in Eastern Europe, 38 arrests of Fiore and Anastos foot soldiers that the media was calling a “targeted attack on the city’s organized crime element”.

  The hits had been set up through a variety of means that included anonymous tips, favors, and hefty bribes to law enforcement. Damian was under no illusions; the police who were allies in his mission to rid the city of Fiore and Anastos would again be his enemies once he took over the territory for the Syndicate.

  That was another problem for another time. There would always be cops and ATF agents willing to take bribes for favorable treatment, just like there would always be cops and ATF agents willing to use off-the-books methods to rid the world of its most dangerous predators.

  They weren’t unlike Damian that way. He understood them, understood their disillusionment with the process of law and order. When it worked, it worked well. When it didn’t, you only had two choices — accept the flaws in the system and the damage that was done by letting it go unchecked, or exact your own form of justice.

  He didn’t begrudge the men who let the system’s flaws go unchecked, but he wasn’t that kind of man. Someone was going to take out the trash and make money doing it.

  He trusted himself more than most.

  He was surprised to find that he trusted the Syndicate more than most, too.

  “Thoughts?” Cole asked from his chair at the conference table.

  “Everything looks good,” Damian said. “Get me another head count of our men on the ground, then we’ll head out.”

  The offices of his criminal enterprise were mostly empty, most of the men already en route or in place for the day’s operation. They'd assigned the men carefully, according to their strengths and the numbers they estimated would be required for each target.

  But another head count wouldn’t hurt.

  Cole stood. “Will do.”

  He left the room and Damian turned again to the map, his eyes homing in on Primo’s nightclub in Manhattan.

  They had it on good authority that Primo and Malcolm Gatti were holed up at the nightclub. It made sense; it was small, had limited access from the street, and was surrounded by other businesses likely controlled by Primo.

  As strongholds in the city went, it was one of Primo’s only options.

  There was no way of knowing how many men were guarding the club, but he and Cole had made the decision to take the place alone. They were already stretched thin, their men now spread out across the targets of both the Fiore and Anastos operations. Damian and Cole had both been to the club, and Damian had used his cyber operation to gain access to plans submitted to the city during the club’s last renovation. It was all the information they needed.

  His thoughts turned to Aria, sleepy and soft, in the kitchen that morning. He’d wanted to carry her back to bed, tuck the covers around her, tell her to sleep until he came back. He didn’t want her to worry while he was gone, to imagine what was happening to him.

  To Primo.

  But keeping her in the dark would have been pointless. However much she claimed to turn her back on Primo, he was her brother. She had to be worried, and there was nothing he could do about it but hurry back to her and spend the rest of his life giving her the family she deserved, one that would shelter and love her without condition.

  One that would never hurt her like Primo.

  It wasn’t enough to undo the hurt Primo had caused her, but it was all Damian had.

  He turned to his desk, removed his weapons and triple-checked them to make sure they were clean and ready to fire. The plan was simple: at precisely five o’ clock, the teams he and Cole had deployed would start taking out Fiore and Anastos targets while Damian and Cole launched their raid on Velvet.

  In other words: they would cut off the head of the snake while the rest of the operation decimated the body.

  They couldn’t be sure that Anastos would be with Primo and Malcolm, but Damian was less concerned about the Greek boss at the moment. His army had been severely incapacitated by the problem with Customs, and he wouldn’t stand a chance in hell in New York without Fiore. Damian would regroup after today and eliminate the remaining targets — including Anastos, if necessary — in the coming days.

  It would be clean up, nothing more.

  Cole returned to the conference room. “Sent the head count to your phone.”

  Damian logged into the encrypted email they used to transfer confidential data. The numbers looked good. If his calculations about the Fiore and Anastos army were correct, they had a good shot at taking out the targets with minimal losses of their own.

  Damian shrugged on his jacket, pocketed the extra ammo he’d removed from his desk, and headed for the door.

  “Let’s get these motherfuckers.”

  32

  Aria stood in the shadow of a building on the corner, watching the nondescript door that led to Velvet. Night was falling, the winter twilight gray and muddy as people hurried home from work. Now that she was here, a lead boulder sat in her stomach, her boots frozen to the pavement.

  The car had been five minutes late but it hadn’t mattered. The road behind the Cavallo estate was barren; not a single car had passed before the Prius that had finally arrived to pick her up.

  Her driver had been an Iranian man named Farhad with kind eyes and a fascinating story. She’d been relieved to sit in the back and listen to the tale of his life in Iran, the advanced engineering degree that had done him no good in America, his love of a new country he wasn’t sure loved him back.

  She’d had him drop her uptown and gave him a big tip with the credit card, her heart heavy as she’d made her way to the subway. Why did life have to be so hard? It was impossible to ignore
the fact that she had been luckier than most and she let her mind wander the possibilities of making it easier for others when this was all over.

  Maybe she could band together with Angel and contribute to important causes or get involved at the shelter to help women and children like Damian and his mother. Or maybe she could start something of her own, find a way to leave the world a better place for the people like Farhad who couldn't seem to catch a break.

  Whatever she did, it would be good, she promised herself. She wouldn’t take without giving anymore. It was a violation of the human contract. She saw that now.

  But that was for later. She still had to get through today. Had to make sure she and Damian would be safe in order to do any good.

  She forced herself to focus on the task at hand, her gaze resting on the two guards in front of Velvet. She didn’t recognize them and she wondered if they were new, if they were Anastos’s men.

  Fear fought its way up her throat. She’d been dealing with her trauma from the kidnapping in Greece, opening up to Damian when it came back to haunt her, but the thought of being in close proximity to the people responsible for her imprisonment was still terrifying.

  She’d planned to stay outside, to watch from afar, but now she couldn’t help but debate the merit of trying to get into the club. How could she see anything from the street? How could she know for sure that Malcolm Gatti was dead?

  She didn’t think about Primo. She knew he would probably die with Malcolm, but actually thinking about it was too much to bear.

  One step at a time.

  She was still debating the merit of trying to talk her way into the club when she spotted two men approaching from the corner.

  She recognized Damian immediately.

  It wasn’t his face, which she couldn’t see clearly in the twilight. It was the way he walked, the combination of raw magnetism and confidence that had first drawn her to him.

  Cole kept stride next to him. They both had their hands in their pockets, their footsteps fast and sure as they approached the guards in front of Velvet, not a moment’s hesitation as they came upon the two men and removed their hands from their jackets.

  She barely had time to register that the guards were reaching for their weapons when Damian and Cole shot them point blank in the head. There was no sound and Aria assumed the guns were outfitted with silencers as the bodies dropped to the pavement.

  Cole kicked open the door to the club and he and Damian dragged the guards into the stairwell’s vestibule. The door shut behind them, leaving the pavement clear except for two smudges of blood that would easily pass for typical city grime to anyone passing by.

  The whole thing had taken less than thirty seconds.

  She looked around, noticing that the street was eerily empty, the earlier crowd suddenly gone. A plastic shopping bag rolled down the sidewalk in front of the club, a modern tumbleweed on the concrete.

  She was still pondering the strange circumstance when she felt a hand come around her mouth from behind, a strong arm lifting her off the ground, pulling her farther back into the shadows.

  Then she was back in the apartment in Athens, trying desperately to be heard and knowing no one could hear her scream.

  33

  Damian rushed down the stairs after Cole, their guns drawn. They’d paid off one of their sources at the NYPD to clear the street for five minutes. It had been more than enough time to take out the guards and they had left the dead men at the top of the staircase and closed the door behind them.

  His men were fanned out all over the city, Brooklyn, and the surrounding areas, hitting the Fiore and Anastos targets.

  Now it was Damian’s turn.

  He was surprised to hear the music thumping from the ground floor. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought it was a Friday or Saturday night. Instead they emerged from the staircase to an empty room, the purple, blue, and white lights criss-crossing the space as the music blared from speakers around the room.

  He ignored it, letting his eyes travel one side of the room, his back to Cole while Cole checked the other side. He’d just spotted Primo, sitting alone on one of the velvet sofas, when the muffled woosh of Cole’s silenced gun traveled through the air.

  The music went quiet — Cole had obviously taken out the sound system — and a moment later, he too turned his weapon on Primo.

  Damian wasn’t entirely surprised to find him without significant security. It was possible there were other men in the building somewhere — and probably Gatti — but his army was small compared to Damian’s. They would be stretched thin trying to defend Primo’s business interests.

  “Come in, come in!” Primo said magnanimously. “Have a drink. It’s on me.”

  Damian moved closer, his weapon still on Primo, his gaze pulled to the handgun sitting on the bar.

  “I’ll pass,” Damian said. “Where’s Gatti?”

  Primo took a drink from the glass in front of him. “Bring my sister to me and maybe I’ll tell you.”

  “Search the place,” Damian said without looking at Cole.

  He kept his eyes on Primo as Cole moved out of his peripheral vision.

  “He’s not here,” Primo said. “That would be stupid.”

  “Not as stupid as leaving yourself unguarded,” Damian said.

  Primo took another drink. “That’s your problem,” he said. “You think you’re so much smarter than everyone else.”

  “Not everyone,” Damian said. “Just you.”

  “Says you!” Primo shouted, his face suddenly contorted in rage.

  Damian fought the urge to put a bullet in Primo here and now. And why shouldn't he? His hesitation didn’t make sense. He should have walked in and put a bullet in the bastard’s head like he and Cole had done to the guards outside.

  It’s what he’d planned to do, but fuck him if he didn’t keep seeing Aria’s face.

  It defied logic, and logic was what had built Damian’s empire. What had saved him during his childhood with his father, throughout the lonely years after his mother’s death.

  Now he saw what Aria had been dealing with. Primo had turned on a dime, had gone from calm to red-faced and shaking in a matter of seconds.

  Primo took a deep breath, trying to collect himself. “You took her,” Primo said. “And all of this,” he waved a hand around the club, “means nothing without my family.”

  “Anastos took her — you took her — from Italy,” Damian said. “She came with me of her own accord.”

  “Liar!” Primo shouted, picking up the gun and standing. He shuddered as he took a deep breath. “You turned her against me. It’s your fault, all of it.”

  “Don’t raise that gun, Primo,” Damian said, his voice low.

  Primo ignored the warning, began to raise the weapon in Damian’s direction.

  Damian started to squeeze the trigger, pointed it at Primo’s head. He would make it quick. He would do that much for Aria.

  He would make no such promise for Malcolm Gatti and Stefano Anastos.

  He was waiting for the explosion to ring through the room when a voice sounded behind him that stopped him in his tracks.

  “It’s not his fault, Primo.” Damian watched Primo’s eyes slide over Damian’s shoulder — watched as Aria was shoved toward the bar, her arms twisted behind her back by Malcolm Gatti. “I’m just not your family anymore.”

  34

  Aria looked at Damian. “I’m sorry.”

  He shook his head and she wanted to weep for the fear on his face. She had done that. She had made him afraid by putting herself in a position to be used by Malcolm.

  By Primo.

  Primo walked over to her, smoothed her hair, cupped her face in his hand. She couldn’t prevent the grimace from twisting her mouth. She didn’t want Primo touching her, didn’t want him anywhere near her.

  He rested a hand gently on her shoulder, looking into her eyes. Then he backhanded her hard enough to split her lip.

  Damian fire
d a shot into his leg.

  Primo screamed, but Aria didn’t even flinch. She’d grown used to the sound of guns being fired.

  She’d grown used to a lot of things.

  Primo stumbled, pointed his weapon at Damian, then seemed to think better of it. He turned it on Aria, holding it to her temple. The barrel was smooth and cold.

  “This isn’t my sister,” he said, his mouth close to her ear. “This is some traitorous bitch. I don’t even know her.”

  She hated herself for the tears that leaked from her eyes.

  Malcolm was still behind her, holding her wrists in the iron grip of his hands, his scent sour, his breathing heavy. He was too close, the meat of his body pressed against hers from behind. She was trying to keep her body away from his, twisting her arms to the point of pain to keep whatever distance she could between them.

  Damian was so close. So close and so far away.

  If she was going to die, she just wanted to feel his arms around her one more time.

  Just one more time.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Primo screamed at Malcolm. “End this asshole!”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  Aria looked up to the second floor loft where Cole stood, his weapon aimed in her direction — or more specifically, at Malcolm.

  Damian was surprised his hand was steady. There was nothing but rage washing through his brain, behind his eyes. He wanted to burn this fucking place to the ground. Wanted to kill Primo slowly now for hitting Aria, wanted to tear Malcolm limb from limb for daring to touch her.

  He had no idea how Aria had come to be at the club. It was hard to imagine Primo — or even Malcolm — breaking the security he’d put in place at the Westchester estate, but it didn’t matter.

  She was here now.

  The love of his life. His greatest weakness.

  They were at a standoff, Cole’s weapon pointed at Malcolm, Primo’s pointed at Aria, Damian’s pointed at Primo.