Consumed by the Mafia (De Salvo Family #5)

23. Be Okay

twenty-three

Be Okay

There was nothing quiet about the scene in front of the tower. It was a fucking mess, and Ryōma couldn’t help but stare up at the smoke billowing up and out of the burning skyscraper. The sight filled him with more than unease. It pissed him off. It felt like failure. Or maybe that was the scratch in his throat from having inhaled his fair share of that smoke.

“Ryōma.”

He dragged his stare from the chaos of the scene across the road—the firetrucks, the ambulances, the ever-growing crowd of nosy onlookers, the police he sort of felt like pulling aside and questioning with his fists—and found Cris watching him patiently. The man had been a mess when they’d first met up some twenty minutes earlier, not unlike the time Felicity had been abducted. He’d composed himself better, faster, this time. There was no doubt that was thanks to the woman who might have been melting into him, tucked beneath Cris’s arm with her own wedged around his torso.

Cristiano dropped his free hand on Ryōma’s shoulder. “ Arigatou , brother.”

Ryōma managed a strained, but honest, smile. “Whatever other shit’s going on,” he said, “we’re family. I’d never leave you—either of you—hanging.” His eyes shifted back to the tower. The building itself hadn’t collapsed, at least yet, but judging from the thick black smoke and sporadic lick of flame that managed to arc out the window, there was definite structural damage inside. It wouldn’t be livable for a while. “I’m sorry we didn’t figure this out sooner, Cris.”

Cris scoffed, let his hand fall, and glanced over at the chaos. They were close enough to hear a lot of it, but not close enough to be caught up in the madness on site. “I’m the one who took charge of Marchesi, and you warned me he mentioned floor twenty-five. I should have pushed harder to find out what that meant.” He folded both arms around his wife, darkness settling on his face. “If not for you—”

“Stop,” Felicity said, just firmly enough to carry since she hadn’t lifted her head. “I’m fine. We are fine.”

Ryōma looked away as Cris pressed a kiss to her head. He should call Abby, let her know he hadn’t gone up with the fire. But at the same time, reminding his unusually rattled best friend of the strain between them felt wrong. It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t have felt wrong, it shouldn’t have been wrong, or any kind of strain. He drew a breath, thinking to broach the subject, and his gaze snagged on something.

An unremarkable car, driving slowly away from the crowd and in their direction. The road went both ways, though traffic was already being redirected at distant intersections, so occasional vehicles happened. This one wasn’t driving erratically, didn’t have flashers on or any company logo to have earned Ryōma’s attention. It was what Ryōma thought he’d seen through the windshield before the angle of the sunlight had shifted to obscure his view. He would have sworn he saw a male driver with red-tinted hair.

Ryōma scowled and took a step forward, closer to Cris and closer to the edge of the sidewalk, as the car neared. He saw Cris lift his head, but kept his focus outward.

That was the only reason he saw the barrel of the gun, pointing at them—at Cris and Felicity—through the passenger window.

Ryōma spun in place and threw himself bodily at his friends, his family, knowing only that he couldn’t possibly draw, aim, and shoot before the other man pulled the trigger. “ Down !” He didn’t know if he shouted in English or Japanese and he didn’t care. It didn’t matter.

Gunfire erupted behind him.

Felicity screamed.

Hot, searing pain tore into Ryōma as he tumbled to the ground. The impact jarred him, somehow helping to keep him focused as much as it added to whatever damage had been done. He’d taken at least one of those bullets, and in his memory, he counted three shots before the sound of squealing tires took over.

“Son of a fucking bitch,” Cris cursed from somewhere in Ryōma’s periphery.

Ryōma grit his teeth and shoved up to his knees, doing his best to ignore the way his entire body seemed to protest the movement. Fuck. He had not survived an exploding skyscraper just to get shot down in a drive-by.

The breath rushed from his lungs as Abby’s beautiful, heartbroken face popped up in his mind’s eye. The pain he could still see in her eyes when she’d talked about her parents … and how they’d died in a drive-by shooting.

Fuck. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—do that to her.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” Felicity said. “What can I do? What do I do? Why the fuck do I not know what to do?”

Ryōma looked over, seeing Felicity on her knees on the sidewalk and Cris with an arm curled around his own torso. Blood stained the shirt beneath his hand. Cris had taken at least one of those bullets, too.

“I’ll be fine, baby,” Cris said, the beginnings of a strain in his voice. “I’ve taken worse.”

Tears rolled down Felicity’s cheeks. “You got shot . You’re bleeding!”

Ryōma ripped his stare from them, quickly surveying the area around them to take stock.

The thing about a shooting at a loud, disorganized scene? Hardly anybody noticed. If any of the cops across the way who were supposedly facing their direction in order to hold the barricade thought it was odd that they were kneeling on the ground, or happened to have heard the gunshots, they were playing dumb. Which was highly probable and precisely why they couldn’t go running to the nearby ambulance.

Ryōma shoved to his feet, ignoring the protest that burned hot through his thigh. “We gotta go.” He was at least pretty sure Felicity’s worst injury was a bruise, presuming he’d counted right, because he was definitely sure he’d taken two hits. Driving was going to be a bitch. He’d manage.

Felicity swung her head around to look up at him. “Cris is—oh shit.” Her eyes got bigger as they traveled down, undoubtedly following whatever blood trail was already running down his arm.

“The sooner we go,” Ryōma said, striding over to help Cris stand, “the sooner we’ll all be okay. We need to get the hell out of here.”

Cris grunted but allowed Ryōma to take some of his weight, until he had his legs properly under him. “Did you see who fucking shot at us?” he asked with a groan. Once he was fully upright, he stepped forward and reached for his wife, who practically hopped to her feet to take his hand.

Ryōma dared another look around. He was pretty sure there were a couple guys in mildly conspicuous coats who hadn’t been standing so comparatively close before he’d turned his attention away last. What a fucking day. “Yeah,” he said to Cris, physically urging the couple in the direction of the parked SUV. Cris’s car was just behind it, but they couldn’t drive both in their current state. The SUV was better. “Looked a whole fuck of a lot like Brendan Coughlan himself.”

Cris growled low. “Motherfucker. ”

“Felicity,” Ryōma said as he beeped the SUV unlocked, “can you help keep pressure on his wound? I’ll figure out where to take us, but I can’t do both.”

“Yes, absolutely, I can do that. Can you drive with that arm?” She hovered at Cris’s side as he mostly hauled himself into the backseat of the SUV.

“I’ve done it before,” Ryōma replied.

“Mikey’s,” Cris grunted. “Just go there. He’ll have everything we need.”

Ryōma nodded, waited until Felicity had scrambled in and yanked the door shut behind herself, then jumped into the driver’s seat. His muscles protested, but it wasn’t his driving leg that had been hit and he’d be out already if either bullet had hit an artery. That was going to have to be good enough for the next ten to twenty minutes. “Both of you hang on.”

“Here’s that list,” the man Iris had introduced as Norberto said, holding a plain folder out for Abigail to take.

Abigail stared at it for a single second before accepting the folder and flipping it open. Inside was a multipage printout of every named Ink Blot, known member of the Irish mob, and other similarly inclined associate of Brendan Coughlan that Chief Silva had given up. He’d learned a lot in the seven months he’d been spying for the man, it seemed .

Silva claimed he had been helping keep Ink Blots on the streets and out of jail, that he’d been keeping watch for any useful information the De Salvos might drop. Things that could lead to vulnerabilities, in any aspect of their lives. He’d worked to slow police response if the De Salvos should actually reach out—which they had, a couple of times, indirectly. He’d pressured men he had no justification to pressure and he went easy on men he shouldn’t. He’d spilled it all in exchange for his own protection.

He’d also spilled how he had met Brendan Coughlan, close to two years prior, and how the man had made an effort to strike up a camaraderie with him. He’d thought it strange, because Coughlan had immediately reminded him of Dante. But he’d liked having a man like that as an ally, a confidant, so he’d embraced it, and it was a while before he’d realized he was being manipulated. It was longer before he considered that he should be gathering information to save his own skin.

Even with all of that, and considering that Coughlan must have kept certain things from the police chief, Silva had given them a list of names that was practically three pages long. It would take a long time or a lot of people to round up and arrest this many.

“And here’s the recorder,” Norberto said, setting a recording device on top of the open file.

Abigail pulled herself back into the moment. “You finished already?” She knew what was stored on her phone was automatically uploaded onto Mikey’s network, and it didn’t surprise her that Mikey’s trusted team had access to that content. Today that was working in her favor. In all of their favor .

Iris had brought them to Mikey’s company, DS Security Solutions, and taken her to the underground headquarters Abigail had never known existed. The over-the-top space he used to monitor and secure the digital end of the De Salvo empire. It was equal parts beautiful and daunting, like something out of a movie.

And the small handful of men allowed to work in that space were, apparently, geniuses capable of doing speed-runs on long interrogation recordings in order to edit out the bits that might incriminate the De Salvo family. In such a way as to assure the end result sounded and tested like an authentic original recording of its own.

Definitely terrifying.

“Triple-checked to make sure we covered the critical stuff,” Norberto said, nodding to the woman standing a few feet to Abigail’s side. “As it reads, Coughlan’s a dangerous, violent, and deranged bastard looking to destroy anyone powerful enough to challenge him. And maybe everyone else just for fun. Boss is a powerful figure around here publicly, so Coughlan hates his success—there’s something like that in there, and we left it. But we left a bunch of little things about him wanting control and mayhem, so it’ll blend.”

Abigail nodded. If he’d done what he said, it would definitely sound like a madman aiming for maximum carnage. Especially with a list that included far too many corrupt law officials to easily swallow. There was just one thing still gnawing at her. One thing that felt forgotten.

She pulled the recorder out, flipped the folder closed, and tucked everything against her chest in order to keep herself from staring uselessly at it all. “I didn’t recognize any of Silva’s leaked names as FBI,” she said, “but there has to be someone with federal access involved somehow. My identity wasn’t widely known, even in the bureau.”

Norberto shrugged. “We’re good, but we can’t read minds. We need more than that.”

Abigail chewed the inside of her cheek for a second, arguing with herself.

Iris spoke up, her voice a quiet calm. “Wasn’t it your instinct that led you to decide to bring in Silva? We might have lost people we love very much today if not for that voice.”

Abigail glanced over at the other woman, briefly surprised. She’d had the distinct impression Iris hadn’t yet decided to trust her. Not that that was a unique opinion. She’s also right. Silva had given them their only warning, no matter how reluctantly. So Abigail gave herself a shake and looked forward again. “Can you please look into Special Agent Paige Mercer? She’s my supervisor, and one of a small number of people who’s had access to most of my basic information from the start. But I don’t trust her.”

Norberto glanced toward Iris for a beat, then nodded. “Yep, we can do that. Gonna take us some time, though.”

“Time we don’t have,” Iris said.

“I understand.” Abigail indicated her armload. “If I could borrow an SUV, or any other legal vehicle, it would be best if I arrive solo. I’ll get started on the takedown. If you find anything about Mercer, I have my phone, and if you can’t safely reach me that way—” She turned enough to meet Iris’s stare. “I’ll trust you to make the judgment call.” It was the only way. The larger operation was more important than one individual, no matter how much that individual got on her nerves.

Iris inclined her head and said, “Someone get Agent Fitzgerald a vehicle.”

Abigail offered a twitch of her lips in gratitude before following one of the men in suits into the elevator and up to the parking lot, where he handed her keys and actually bid her good luck. The fact that he sounded entirely serious made her both nervous and optimistic. She dragged in a breath, marched to the SUV that responded to the click of the fob, and settled behind the wheel. Only then did she roll the engine over and pull up a conference call with Mercer and Albert—just to be safe.

Granted, conference calling the head of the Newark FBI without notice required luck all its own. So she was more than a little surprised when he answered first. “Fitzgerald, please tell me you know something that will let us get involved with this—”

“Why are you calling, Fitzgerald?” Mercer snapped as her line connected.

Both paused, realizing they’d heard unexpected voices.

Abigail felt the odd urge to laugh nervously and shoved it down. “Sorry, I thought a joint call would be easiest. You’re both aware I was chatting with Silva today, and he had more information than I expected. I’m coming in with a list of names pulled from his confession, as well as the recorded confession itself. This is going to be a headache, but if we pull it off, it will be a very, very good day for us. ”

“Do you even understand how outrageous that sounds?” Mercer said sharply.

“I want to see what you have,” Albert said. “Get to my office as soon as you can. And what about Silva?”

Abigail clicked her seatbelt into place and threw the SUV into motion. “He has asked to remain in hiding until the arrests are complete, if possible. He’s willing to testify in exchange for protection, which I promised to bring to you. He wouldn’t even talk until I agreed to that much.”

“So you don’t have Chief Silva,” Mercer said.

“Not physically in my company, no,” Abigail said.

“Why are you hiding him from us, Fitzgerald?” Mercer demanded.

Abigail opened her mouth, but Albert beat her to it. “Let’s let that go for the time being, Agent Mercer,” he said. “Both of you get here immediately.” He disconnected.

Abigail reached out to do the same before she realized that Mercer hadn’t .

“You really think you have what we need to clean up this mess, Fitzgerald?”

Abigail’s stomach twisted, but for once it wasn’t with guilt. It was anxiety. She was highly uncomfortable having this conversation with Paige Mercer, because she was highly uncomfortable with Paige Mercer herself. “If even half of his information pans out, and we put as many of these people away, the city—the county—will be better for it. I couldn’t imagine this list he gave me, let alone the story that came with it. You’ll see. ”

Mercer made a sound that might have been thoughtful, might have been disapproving, but said nothing more before hanging up.

Abigail exhaled heavily and focused for a moment on the road.

It wasn’t long before she noticed the unusual density of traffic and the thick plume of smoke in her periphery. No…! That was the direction of the high-rise where Cristiano and Felicity lived. Where she’d last known Ryōma to be.

Her hands tightened on the wheel and Abigail had to fight to keep them there. She wanted so badly to call and check on him. To slide into the other lane, flip around, and go over that way to see for herself if he was all right. Tears sprang to her eyes as she considered that he might not be. She hadn’t heard from him since she’d told him to evacuate. How long ago had that been?

He had to be okay. He had to have gotten out in time. Hopefully with Felicity, of course. She didn’t wish ill on Felicity, and she knew it would crush Ryōma to lose any of them. They were his family. Hadn’t he said he’d take a bullet for any of them?

Not a bomb! He’d used a stupid train as his big ultimate example, never a bomb. He wasn’t supposed to get hit with one of those. The very idea made her whole body want to constrict and her head start to spin. It was like she couldn’t breathe.

Desperate to distract herself, Abigail fumbled the buttons on the dash until she got the radio on. Turn of the century country strummed out at her, some smooth male vocal crooning about love to the tune of an acoustic guitar. She listened for all of thirty seconds in stunned silence before turning the whole thing off and laughing to herself. Big, scary mafia guy likes his croony country, huh? It was almost cute. Too bad she wasn’t sure which mafia guy it was or she’d probably have to tease them about it.

The thought distracted her long enough for her to turn onto the street she needed, which put the smoke plum and most of the diverted traffic nonsense into her rearview. By the time she was parking she had sobered again, fresh nerves dancing across her skin. She scooped her precious cargo into her lap and glanced up, as if she could see through the SUV’s roof and into the surely hazy sky overhead. Please let this go smoothly. With Mercer involved, that wasn’t likely. Please let Ryōma be okay.

Abigail shoved from the SUV, locked it behind her, and strode into the building as if it were totally normal. As if this was where she worked on a regular basis. Which was laughable no matter how she looked at it.

She nodded and smiled as necessary, pretended to be patient as she went through the security checkpoints, and eventually made her way all the way to Special Agent in Charge Julian Albert’s office on the top floor. The entire process took far too long and she found only one opportunity during which to check her phone. No new messages, of course.

That’s okay, Abigail. You were always doing this part on your own. She squared her shoulders and pushed into the office, unsurprised to find she was the last to arrive. As far as she knew, Mercer worked in the building.

Mercer didn’t bother standing from the chair she was seated in, merely lowered her phone to her lap and furrowed her brow. “Eighteen minutes. Do you know how busy I am? ”

Albert stepped around his desk, a practiced smile teasing his lips and crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Traffic’s still pretty backed up from that building fire, I imagine. No way around it.” That building fire. He said it so casually, yet his words knocked the air from her lungs.

Abigail offered her own professional smile, stopping a respectful distance away, and said, “Yeah, traffic was bad. Sorry.” She raised the items in her hands. “Why don’t we get right to it? I’d hate to keep Agent Mercer waiting any longer than necessary.” The jab may have been juvenile, but dammit, so was Mercer’s attitude.

The other woman only scowled.

Albert pulled the folder from her hands. “What’s in here?” He flipped it open and his brows arched up to his receding hairline. “This is a lot of names, Abigail.”

“Yes,” she said, holding still as Mercer finally stood and walked around to peer over Albert’s shoulder. “That list is all the named criminal associates, broken into categories of affiliation, as Rodrigo Silva knew them. As you can see, the organized crime that’s moving into our area has been setting down roots for some time. It sounds like a slow-play, but its core is Irish mob, headed by Brendan Coughlan.” She paused, remembering the other thing in the folder. “At the back is a printed photo I took, the one that prompted me to go after Silva. The other man is Coughlan himself.”

“There’s over half a page of police and fire on this list!” Mercer exclaimed, as if she were appalled.

“Silva was extra-positive of those,” Abigail said firmly.

Mercer pursed her lips. “And not a single De Salvo? ”

“It turns out my so-called informant was a plant, sent to us when Coughlan learned the FBI was investigating the idea of local organized crime, with the intention of purposely misleading the investigation.” Abigail took a calculated breath. “I made sure to include his name on there as well. Peter Marchesi.” She knew they wouldn’t find him, so including him made the entire thing appear more genuine. “Marchesi was a former employee of Dante De Salvo’s, who had been let go and was resentful of it apparently. So since his only instruction was to aim us at someone else who held power and influence, that was his choice.”

Mercer arched a brow.

Albert flipped the page, humming low. “I never did like them for that,” he said, almost to himself. “That Dante does fantastic charity work every year.” He barely paused, obviously still reading. “This list is terrifying. You believe it?” His gaze finally lifted back to hers.

Abigail nodded. “Yes, sir. As daunting as it is, I believe, if nothing else, that Silva believes everything he told me. And in this case, that wouldn’t line up with him making up these names, so there has to be some degree of criminal element attached to them.”

Mercer folded her arms across her chest. “Why the hell would the Irish mob just suddenly want to invade Newark?”

At the predictable question, Abigail held up the recorder. “Silva’s answer to that is on here. Everything is on here.”