PB

Killian

The bottle of whiskey sitting across the room on the bar called to me, but I fought the urge, remembering what I’d told Tommaso about sobering up. We needed to have our heads on straight to deal with this. Mindlessly, I drummed my fingers on my desk, staring at the piece of paper we’d found in the warehouse, the one that indicated my worst fear as a mob boss—other than death itself—had become a reality.

We had a fucking rat in our family.

Adrian had been able to work through the encryptions, finding a massive amount of information about not only me, but other bosses, and this particular paper was proof beyond a shadow of a doubt that none of the troubles we’d been experiencing lately were bad luck or coincidence. They were the very intentional attempts at sabotage orchestrated by the lowest scum on the face of the earth, the man who dared to call me his friend, his boss, and then shove a knife in my back.

Cursing under my breath, I lifted the paper to go over it all again, eve