Dirty (RAW Family 2)

It was hard to track down a man who didn’t want to be found.

Most people had somebody they confided in, someone I could break open to reveal every dusty little secret they held in the dark, drafty corners of their mind.

Conti only had one of those, and he was all but untouchable. His name was Emil Barone, and he kept his shit tighter than a virgin asshole. Conti only had one loose end, and it was Emil.

Wherever Emil was spotted, you could be damn sure Claudio Conti would be found close behind.

There was his wife, but I didn’t know her—nobody knew her—and it seemed she was inaccessible. For all intents and purposes, the woman was a ghost.

We arrived in New York some days ago. I asked Happy to contact a few old associates for me who might know of Conti’s current whereabouts, but nobody gave him the time of day. That was the problem with being out of the game. No one considered you part of their world anymore, and Happy’s contacts were dwindling. I could call Nox, but he told me straight up that he was out, and I didn’t want to bring shit to his doorstep, not after all he’d done for me. There was one person I wished I could call, but couldn’t.

Julius was still part of the underground. He and Ling were their badass selves, going from town to town, making judgment on people who had fucked up enough for grown men to have to call a couple of so-green-they-were-barely-sprouting counselors to take care of business.

I was secretly proud of him. I knew he’d make it through after I’d gone. I’d have told him if I didn’t think it was necessary to keep him in the dark.

He and Happy were both my friends, but Julius was my brother. No competing with that. I would do everything in my power to protect him. It was crucial that he believe me dead. Otherwise, no one would. His reaction to finding out I had passed away needed to be genuine.

It fucking blew that I couldn’t contact him. If one person could find out where Conti was, it would have been Julius. Having Happy call him asking about Conti would raise way too much suspicion.

Part of me thought he would be here in New York. It’s where the majority of his properties are, not to mention his place of business. I don’t doubt he has more I don’t know about.

Conti was one of the old-schoolers. Sure, he was only in his thirties, but his pops taught him the lay of the land. The Contis took money from small businesses, and in return offered protection. That didn’t mean they were going to protect anyone from diddlysquat; it merely meant that the small business would be protected from them, the Contis, for a while.

Extortion was a way of life for these guys, but with the bigger, franchised business taking over, the mafia had little pull anymore. There weren’t many “little guys” to extort, which meant less in the pockets of the mob.

Conti branched out into weapons and assassins for hire. The man abhorred drugs. Didn’t want anything to do with them. Thought they brought dirty money. It didn’t matter in the end, because the two forms of business they took on were both in demand, which meant Conti was sitting pretty.

He was somewhat of a precious man. Got overwhelmed easily. Didn’t even keep his own schedule, needed someone to do it for him. And Emil was that person.

Black asked me whether it would be in our best interest to hack Emil Barone’s smartphone. I told him it couldn’t hurt, but I wasn’t fool enough to believe a man like Conti would allow for his schedule to be available digitally. No, these men dealt with pen and paper, and after a while, those papers got burned.

They weren’t stupid. They were brought up better than that. No trace would be left.

Now, having ran surveillance for four days straight, we set ourselves up across the street from a popular nightspot Conti is said to frequent. Some burlesque joint called Bleeding Hearts. It’s a Friday night, and I’m feeling lucky.

Black wasn’t happy with my lack of knowledge on this guy.

I told him to fuck himself. What, did the asshole think I was holding out? If I had anything more, believe me, I’d be using it to find Claudio.

As we sit at a rickety table under the dim lights of the café, biding our time and sipping on our third coffee of the night, Black and I watch carefully through the window. Even though you can’t see inside very well due to the glare from the neon lights beaming across the way, you can see out just fine. This spot was chosen well and is very much to our advantage. We move to seat ourselves in a secluded corner of the joint. Black pulls out his binoculars and peers over the way.

Hours pass, and the line to this Bleeding Hearts place ends up going for miles. And we have nothing to show for our time.

Black sighs. “We’re literally acting on nothing more than a whim here.”

“Yeah,” I respond sourly, because it sucks balls.

Black nudges my shoulder lightly, moves to stand, and states, “This is a waste of time. C’mon. We’re out of here.”

We walk out of the café, and I reach up to adjust my hoodie. Having done another laser session to remove the tattoo on my cheek, I make a subtle effort to cover my scab with a Band-Aid. I run a hand over the stubble on my chin that I’m dying to shave.

Something in my gut makes me turn. Lazily looking up at the club from under my hood, I pause midstep.

Emil fucking Barone.

He walks out of Bleeding Hearts close to a familiar face, speaking animatedly to a man I used to know.

Sasha Leokov.

A good man, Sasha is. He’s Russian, built like a brick shithouse. Stylish. Not much of a talker. He used to be a runner for a firm that called themselves Chaos. I only dealt with him a few times on business, but from the looks of Sasha, he’s irate. And my curiosity spikes.

Black notices my stillness and turns to look at the man himself. Under his breath, he hisses, “Gotcha.”

Sasha was always so cool, calm and collected that my head tells me it would take a lot to make a man with his emotional composure angry.

What is Emil saying to him to make him so mad?

So when Sasha quits his tirade and sees Emil out of the club with nothing more than a turn of his back, prying minds inquire, “Black, who owns that club?”

He blows out a long breath, his features bunching in thought. “Some kid called Leokov. Keeps to himself. Lays low. Pays his taxes.”

Of course he does.

I chuckle to myself, keeping a close eye on Emil. “Do you know who Leokov’s closest friend is?”

Black shrugs and throws me a look that says he really couldn’t give a shit.

I will make him give a shit. This is fucking important.

Emil curses, shaking his head, then shoves his hands into his pants pockets before heading down the street.

Black’s on it, watching Emil with a hawk’s eye. “Follow the white rabbit.”

When Emil is approached by another man, I let out a low, “Well, fuck me dead.” I grin and mutter to the man beside me, “You sure you don’t want to know who Leokov’s right-hand man is?”

Black, knowing when he’s fucked up, shakes his head. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt after all.”

As Emil looks around, I lower my face, and reveal, “Viktor Nikulin. You know who that is, right?”

Black’s response comes in the form of a silent nod.

Emil Barone keeps walking as Maxim Nikulin seeps out from the shadows to join him. They walk in time without speaking a word. When they both get into a fancy-looking sports car and move to drive away, I panic. “Fuck. Black, follow ‘em.” I rush toward the white-guy sedan, throwing the passenger door open, and shouting, “We’re gonna lose ‘em!”

Black gets in, starts the car and we’re off, following far behind enough that neither man would notice.

This could be my lucky night.

If number four and five on my list are in business together, I won’t just kill both birds with a single stone.

I’ll collapse a fucking mountain on their heads.

“You’re losing them,” I grunt, and Black flips me the bird. I let out a low growl. “Ge

t closer. You’re losing them.”

“I’m not losing them,” Black states confidently, but I see otherwise.

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

My temper rises. “Yes, you fucking are.”

Black glances at me before returning his eyes to the road. “Trust me, Falco. I’m not.” He pauses a moment, before confessing quietly, “I know where they’re going.”

Huh?

“So,” I begin carefully, not sure what to make of Black’s tone. “Where are they going?”

From way back, we watch the expensive sports car turn into a closed off property, rich-looking. The whole place yells wealth. Big and daunting, it’s somewhere I would choose to reside.

“Who lives there?”

Ethan Black jerks his chin toward the property. “That’s the home of Evander MacDiarmid. Originally from Glasgow, he immigrated as a teenager with his father. They started the street gang, Highland Steel. Gained a somewhat cult following around these parts. Their crimes were the stuff of legends. They got serious, became one of the biggest firms in New York.” Black looks to me with a dark expression. “We need to back off. We know where this place is now, but MacDiarmid is not on the list. I can’t very well call in my men because one of your guys and another’s lap dog are in there.”