"Twenty percent," Capri repeated, his voice a serrated edge. Moonlight sliced through broken windows, carving his silhouette into something monstrous. "Not a decimal less."
The warehouse reeked of diesel and desperation. Omar Salvatore stood motionless in the rafters, a shadow among shadows, his leather gloves silent against the rusted steel beam as he watched his father pace below. Capri's polished loafers clicked like a metronome against the concrete, each step echoing through the hollow belly of the abandoned textile mill. The Redneck Syndicate's emblem—a coiled rattlesnake stenciled in blood-red paint—glowered from the walls, a silent reminder of who owned this rotting husk of a textile mill.
Jed Carson, one of Capri's longest-standing lieutenants, leaned against a rusted forklift, his knuckles tattooed with the Syndicate's creed: LOYALTY on the left hand, ORBLEED on the right. The irony wasn't lost on Omar.
Jed spat a stream of tobacco onto the floor, the brown sludge pooling near Capri's boot. "The Cobras'll see it as weakness. Handin' over territory like tribute."
Omar's jaw tightened. Weakness. The word hung in the air like a challenge. Below him, Leo shifted near the exit, his hand resting on the Glock tucked into his waistband. His brother's leg still bore the hitch from the bullet he'd taken protecting Theo weeks ago—a hit ordered by the Cobras. But tonight, the enemy wasn't here. Tonight, the enemy was doubt.
Capri stopped pacing. "You questionin' me, Jed?"
The lieutenant stiffened. "No s_sir. Just sayin' the boys're restless. They don't like bowin' to Omri's demands, even if it's temporary."
"Temporary." Capri's laugh was a dry crack. "Omri thinks he's playin' chess. But the board's on fire." He stepped closer, the heel of his boot crushing Jed's spit. "Twenty percent keeps Gia alive in that viper's nest. You wanna explain to the men why we let their princess die?"
Jed's throat bobbed. "Ain't about that, Capo. It's about respect."
"Respect?" Capri's hand shot out, gripping Jed's collar. "Respect's what we carve outta their ribs when this is done. You forget who put you here?"
Omar's fingers flexed, phantom pain from old fractures twinging in his knuckles. Five years ago, he'd stood in another warehouse, begging the same question: Who put you here? The men who'd taken Gia hadn't worn Cobra colors. They'd been ghosts. Bubba Jenkins's grin in the dark. A cattle prod's spark. A voice that wasn't his. A voice that still gave him nightmares.
"Ain't forgot," Jed muttered, eyes downcast.
Capri released him with a shove. "Then act like it."
The brothers waited until the Syndicate's trucks rumbled out of the lot before descending. Leo kicked a discarded beer can, the sound clattering through the empty space. "That went well."
Omar lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the scar that split his left eyebrow—a gift from a Cobra enforcer last summer. "He'll fold. They always fold."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then we take the railroads anyway." Omar exhaled smoke, watching it curl toward the flickering light. "Theo's cast comes off tomorrow. He'll want in."
Leo grimaced. "Theo's always wanted in. Doesn't mean he's ready."
Omar studied his brother—the new streaks of gray at his temples, the way he favored his right leg. The ambush had aged him. "You think I don't know that?"
Before Leo could reply, Omar's phone buzzed. A text lit up the screen:
Theo: Doc moved the appointment to 7 AM. You owe me coffee.*
He snorted. "He's awake."
"Of course he is." Leo pulled his keys from his pocket, the jingle too loud in the silence. "You tell Gia about this?"
Omar crushed the cigarette under his boot. "She's got enough to handle."
And so do we, he didn't add.
The drive back to the Salvatore compound was silent. Leo cracked the window, letting the stink of the river cut through the tension. "Jed's got a point," he said finally. "The men won't stomach concessions forever."
Capri stared ahead, his profile unreadable. "They'll stomach what I tell 'em to."
In the rearview mirror, Omar caught his father's gaze. The same blue-grey eyes as Gia. The same unspoken fear: We still don't know who took her.
Everything about the family had changed since the incident and even worse since her marriage. They all blamed themselves for failing her.
The Salvatore estate loomed like a tombstone in the moonless dark. Omar followed Capri and Leo inside, his father's gravelly voice still echoing the threats he'd spat at Jed. Twenty percent or bleed. The words coiled in Omar's gut like barbed wire. He climbed the stairs to his room, each step heavier than the last, his brother's shadow trailing silently behind.
"You good?" Leo asked, lingering in the doorway.
Omar didn't answer. He didn't trust his voice.
Five years. Five years since the night masked men snatched Gia from a dimly lit parking garage. Five years since he'd stood in this same room, staring at the same cracked ceiling, listening to her scream through a static-filled phone call. Her voice panicked and quivering. She was a crying mess.
"Omar, they're—!"
The line had gone dead.
Her voice haunted him. It still gave him terrors at night and he couldn't forgive himself.
He'd only heard from her eight days later, found her in an abandoned slaughterhouse, her wrists raw from zip ties, her left eye swollen shut. Bubba Jenkins's sneering face had flashed in the police report photos—his knuckles tattooed with snake scales, his alibi airtight. But they all knew Bubba was just a blade for hire. The hand holding it? Still a ghost.
---
11:47 PM
The nightmare came in fragments, sharp as shattered glass.
Rain slashing his face as he sprinted through the warehouse district. Gia's voice, fractured and tinny, bled through his phone: "Omar, they're—!"
Then silence.
He'd kicked in doors, overturned trucks, pistol-whipped a dealer until blood speckled his knuckles.
"Where is she?!"
The ER waiting room. Cold. Sterile. His father's hand like a vise on his shoulder. "Breathe, boy."
But Omar couldn't. Not until he saw her—alive, breathing, broken. His body trembled and his head felt like it would explode. He was at the verge of breaking down.
The hospital bed. Gia's skin waxy under fluorescent lights. A machine's rhythmic beep. Her fingers twitched. Omar lunged, but Capri held him back. "Let them work."
"What did they do to her?!"
The doctor's voice, clipped: "Defensive wounds. Sedatives. No IDs."
Then, in the shadows of the hallway, Bubba's laugh—a low, wet chuckle. Omar lunged, but the nurses held him. "That's him! That's the bastard!"
Capri's grip tightened. "Not here. Not now."
She was his to protect and he failed her.
---
2:13 AM
Omar jolted awake, sheets drenched in sweat. The house creaked, a mournful sound as if mocking him of his past mistakes. He stumbled to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and stared at his reflection—the scar on his brow, the shadows under his eyes.
You failed her.
The hallway floorboards groaned. Leo stood in the doorway, a glass of bourbon in hand. "Same dream?"
"How did you get in?" Omar asked instead.
"I couldn't sleep either," Leo shrugged his shoulders like his statement answered the question.
Omar gripped the sink and after a while, he finally spoke. "Bubba's face. Every time."
"Bubba's a cockroach. But he's not the queen."
"Then who is?" Omar's voice cracked. "Five years, Leo. Five years, and we still don't know who paid him."
Leo's reflection hardened in the mirror. "Capri's got enemies. The Mexicans. The Irish. The Russians. Could've been anyone."
"It was someone who wanted her alive," Omar said bitterly. "Bubba doesn't take jobs where the target walks out."
Alive but not whole. The unspoken truth hung between them. Gia had escaped, but the why gnawed at Omar like rot. A message? A warning?
And she was never the same after the incident. She was broken but she was strong. But she had scars that would never heal.
Leo set the bourbon down. "Sleep. Theo's appointment's at seven."
But sleep didn't come.
---
3:02 AM
The slaughterhouse.
Omar's nightmare dragged him back. Gia's wrists bound. A masked figure circling her, a cattle prod sparking in his grip. "Beg," the man taunted.
Gia spat blood. "Go to hell."
She was weak, haggard and drowsy. They had pumped her blood up with drugs that made her feel numb and sick all at once.
The prod struck her ribs. Omar screamed, but his voice dissolved into static.
"You're too late," thefiguresneered. "She's ours now."
Then, behind the mask—Bubba's eyes. But the voice wasn't his.
Omar woke with a gasp, his throat raw. Dawn bled through the curtains. Somewhere downstairs, Theo laughed—a sharp, reckless sound.
He dressed in the dark, fingers brushing the pistol in his nightstand. His eyes had a far away look.
Not again.
Never again.
He was not going to fail her again. He would protect her with his life and make it up to her anyway he could. And that was when his plan wheeled into motion.