Cat and Mouse (New York Mafia Syndicate #1)

Chapter 10 - Leo

I'm sitting in the dimly lit office, the late-night calm interrupted only by the steady hum of the air conditioner. My fingers drum impatiently on the armrest of my chair. The phone buzzes, pulling me from my thoughts. Matteo's name flashes on the screen.

"Matteo," I answer, my voice clipped.

"Leonardo, they bought it. They're digging into Luca now," Matteo says, sounding both relieved and wary.

"Good," I say, leaning back in my chair. "I'm disappointed she hasn't made the connection yet. DeLuca? I expected better from her."

"Give her time," Matteo suggests, though his tone betrays his own frustration. "She's smart."

"Maybe," I murmur, though I'm not so sure. "Just keep me updated."

"Will do," Matteo replies, and we hang up.

My father's office door creaks open, and he steps in, a stern look on his face. "You're still working, Leonardo?"

"I have things to handle," I reply, eyeing him. "What's up?"

"I've received news from the Mexicans. They want to meet and discuss business."

I raise an eyebrow. "The Mexicans? What do they want?"

"It seems they have some matters they wish to discuss," he says, his tone dismissive. "I'll be meeting with them."

"You and whom?" I ask, not entirely trusting the situation.

"I'll go with you," he says, seeing the doubt in my eyes. "I have a long-standing relationship with Don Alejandro. This is not something I want to miss."

"Don Alejandro?" I repeat. "The leader of the Cartel de la Sangre? I don't trust them. They've been known to double-cross."

"Ah, you don't trust anyone," he counters, his eyes narrowing. "Remember that accountant you just killed? He was working for the Mexicans before we hijacked his operation."

I chuckle. "Well, that's a point in my favor. But still, I don't like it."

"Don't worry so much," my father says, shaking his head. "You're too paranoid. I'll handle it. Just take care of your business."

"You'll go alone?" I ask, my voice tinged with skepticism.

"No," he replies. "I'll take a few men with me. You're always so cautious. Relax. I'll leave you to your cat-and-mouse game, and we can discuss more business in the morning."

"Fine," I say, knowing it's pointless to argue. "Just be careful."

"Of course," he says, patting me on the shoulder before turning to leave. "I'll see you later."

Two hours later, I receive the call that my father is dead.

"What did you just say to me?" I ask again.

"He's dead Leo. He was ambushed and shot. They didn't even get a chance to call a doctor," Matteo says solemnly.

I swallow the bile climbing up my throat. "Where is he?"

"Lee Funeral Home. I think his body just arrived. Are you going to see him?"

I shake my head before realizing that he can't see me. I slam the desk once. "Who?"

"Leonardo?"

"What bastard did this?"

"It was Jose Herrera."

"The Mexicans?" I ask.

"Yes, boss."

"Mobilize the men. They won't see their beds tonight."

Matteo's response is quick. "On it. What's the plan?"

"Kill them all," I snap. "I want every single one of those cartel bastards dead. We're taking back what's ours and making sure they never forget who they fucked with."

"Understood," Matteo says.

I hang up, my mind already racing through the details. The Mexicans have crossed a line. They've taken someone from me, and they're going to pay. I storm out of my office, my men already assembling.

"Get your gear. We're hitting the cartel's hideout. Leave no survivors."

The night air is cold, but it feels like fire in my veins. We drive to the cartel's location, my anger fueling every step. The compound comes into view, a fortress of despair. I nod to my men, signaling them to move in.

The assault is swift and brutal. Gunfire erupts, and the air fills with the sounds of violence. I'm in the thick of it, moving with purpose, dispatching anyone who stands in my way. I'm a whirlwind of rage, taking out the cartel members one by one.

After hours of carnage, I don't feel any better, and the weight of my father's death sinks in. I clench my jaw, fighting back the surge of grief and fury. I order his body to be taken back to our headquarters.

As dawn breaks, the compound is in ruins, and my father's body is returned. I oversee the cleanup, making sure every detail is handled. I'm cold, detached, but underneath it all, I'm seething.

Later, in my office, I sit at the desk, staring at the piles of paperwork. The weight of my father's death is still heavy on my shoulders, but I can't afford to mourn. Not yet. I need to consolidate power, secure our position.

Matteo bursts in, looking grim. "We've got news. Marco Rossiani was working with the Mexicans. He's planning something big against us."

"Rossiani," I snarl. "Of course he was. The bastard's always been a snake."

"We need to act fast," Matteo continues. "He's got allies, and he's making moves."

"Then we'll make our own," I say, my voice cold. "I want Rossiani's head on a plate. Find out everything he's planning and crush it. Leave no room for error."

Matteo nods. "I'll get on it."

I look at the wreckage of my father's desk, the papers scattered like confetti. "We're going to show everyone what happens when they cross the DeLuca family. No more games."

As Matteo leaves, I feel the enormity of what's ahead. My father's death has lit a fire in me, a fire that won't be extinguished until every last threat is dealt with. I'm not just seeking revenge—I'm consolidating power, ensuring that anyone who dares challenge us will regret it.

I grab a glass of whiskey from the minibar, taking a long swig. The burn of the alcohol matches the rage in my chest. I'm ready to do whatever it takes to secure our place, to honor my father's memory with a reign of iron.

The war is just beginning, and I'm ready for it.

The next morning, I'm up early, standing in front of the room where everything changes. The air is thick with the kind of tension that always comes when power shifts hands. My men are gathered, some of them still shaking off the bloodshed from the night before, but they know what's coming. Hell, we all do.

I step into the middle of the room, letting the weight of my presence do the talking for a second. There's a murmur, low and anxious, like they're waiting for a storm to hit. And they're right.

I raise my hand. Silence.

"My father," I say, my voice hard as steel, "is dead."

There's a beat, a collective breath held in the room. Then whispers. Shock. Anger. I slam my hand down on the table, rattling the whiskey glasses.

"He was pragmatic," I continue, my eyes sweeping across the room. "Careful. Calculated." I pause, letting the tension build. "But I'm not."

The room stays quiet, every set of eyes on me. They know what's coming. They can feel it, just like I can, the anger bubbling beneath the surface.

"I'm not going to run things like my father did. We're not playing chess anymore. We're not negotiating. From now on, we do things my way."

I take a step forward, locking eyes with Matteo. His face is unreadable, but I know he's ready. He's always been ready for this day.

"The streets will flow with Rossiani blood," I say, my voice low but deadly. "I'm done playing games. They took something from me, and now I'm going to take everything from them."

A few nods, some murmurs of approval. I can see the hunger for violence, for revenge, rising in the room.

"Marco Rossiani thought he could fuck with us," I continue. "He thought killing my father would make us weak. But all he did was give me a reason to wipe his entire fucking family off the map."

I look around the room, seeing the fire in their eyes now. They're with me. They want this as much as I do.

"We start today," I say, grabbing the bottle of whiskey off the table. I pour a shot into my glass, the amber liquid catching the light. "To my father. The king. The man who built this empire. But now…" I raise the glass, smirking. "Now it's my fucking empire."

There's a pause, and then everyone's reaching for their glasses, pouring whiskey like it's water.

"To the king," Matteo says, lifting his glass.

"To the fucking king," I echo, and we all drink, the whiskey burning down my throat like the fire I feel in my chest.

The clinking of glasses and the low hum of voices fill the room, but my mind's already moving on. My father's death is just the beginning. There's work to do.

"Matteo," I say, pulling him aside. "Get the funeral processions started. I want my father buried properly. Tonight. No delays."

He nods, not needing to ask any questions. "It'll be done."

"Good." I look around the room, at the men who are ready to go to war for me. "After the funeral, we strike. I want every one of those Rossiani bastards dead by the end of the week."

Matteo smirks. "You've got it."

I drain the rest of my whiskey and slam the glass down on the table. The room is alive with the buzz of revenge, of the blood that's about to be spilled.

Tonight, my father will be laid to rest, and then… Then, it's war.

***

That evening, the funeral processions begin. It's a quiet, somber affair, but there's an undercurrent of something darker. Everyone here knows this isn't just about mourning. It's about power, control, revenge. The DeLuca family doesn't forget. We don't forgive.

I stand at the front, watching as my father's casket is lowered into the ground. My face is a mask of stone, hiding the torrent of emotions swirling inside me. But this isn't the time for grief. It's the time for action.

Matteo is beside me, his arms crossed, his face grim.

"It's done," he says quietly. "He's buried."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. There's no time for sentimentality. My father's death is the catalyst, not the end.

"Gather the men," I say after a moment. "We strike tonight."

Matteo doesn't hesitate. He moves quickly, disappearing into the crowd, organizing the next steps. The funeral fades into the background as my mind focuses on the task ahead.

The Rossiani family is about to learn what happens when you mess with the DeLucas. We don't play nice. We don't give warnings.

We kill.

Then maybe after, I'll let the grief and gravity of what I lost consume me.