Playing With Devils

Charles's POV

Lana is gone.

Vanished into thin air, like she never existed. I've turned over every rock, searched every lead, and I still have nothing. It's like she disappeared off the face of the earth.

I lean back in my chair, rubbing my temples. I can't keep obsessing over this. Days have passed, and I'm no closer to finding her. My job, my entire career has been slipping through my fingers while I've been chasing a ghost. My office, once buzzing with fresh cases and new assignments, has gone silent.

Nothing from my superior, Martin. No major investigations landing on my desk. It's as if I don't exist.

Is it because they don't believe in me anymore? Or is it something more sinister? The Borrellis… the Inzaghis…

Those two families have their claws in everything. I wouldn't be surprised if they had a hand in this, keeping me sidelined, making sure I stay out of their business.

That won't happen.

If I can't find Lana, then I'll do the next best thing; I'll bring those bastards down. It's time to remind everyone who the hell I am.

I crack my knuckles and open my laptop. If I'm going to expose Ricardo Borrelli, I need dirt—something undeniable, something no amount of power or money can erase.

So, I start digging.

Click after click, article after article. Most of them are just rumors—small-time busts, failed convictions, witnesses that mysteriously disappeared before they could testify.

Typical mafia bullshit.

But then, I stumble upon something.

An old article, buried deep. The kind of thing that was meant to be forgotten. It is like a work of fiction, but there are truths to it.

A powerful businessman double-crosses a Spanish kingpin, costing him millions. Blood is spilled, but justice is never served.

I scoff, muttering under my breath. "Justice. What a fucking joke."

I scroll down, scanning the details.

A deal gone wrong. Twenty-five million dollars' worth of goods—vanished. Men slaughtered like animals. And the man responsible? Ricardo Borrelli.

Of course.

The other man involved is someone named Davida Gonzales. Spanish, wealthy and ruthless. So the article says. The story paints him as a vengeful kingpin, but I know how these things work. Ricardo's men were better trained, more brutal. Davida took the loss while Ricardo walked away untouched.

I click on another link, finding a leaked transcript of a phone call between him and a woman.

Woman: Señor Gonzales, when will you get the justice you deserve for this?

Señor Gonzales: El diablo camina entre nosotros, pero su tiempo llegará. (The devil walks among us, but his time will come.)

I smirk.

"Looks like this Spanish kingpin needs retribution, and a lot of it."

Now, all I need is a way to reach him. So, I pick up my phone and scroll through my contacts. I need someone with connections. Someone who won't ask too many questions.

I need James. A good cop stuck in a corrupt system. He owes me a favor, and tonight, I'm collecting. I press dial. It rings twice before he picks up.

"Charles," James greets. "Been a while."

"I need a number," I say, skipping the pleasantries.

James exhales. "You're still chasing trouble, huh?"

"You could say that."

There's a pause. Then, "Who?"

"Davida Gonzales."

"Jesus, Charles. You really want to poke that bear?"

"I don't want to. I need to."

James curses under his breath. "You don't know what you're getting into."

"I know exactly what I'm getting into. Now, do you have it or not?"

He sighs, and there was another long pause. Then, finally, a message pings on my phone.

A contact. Davida Gonzales.

I stare at the screen, as my fingers hover over the number. This is it. A way back in. A way to reclaim my name, my reputation. Even if it means playing with devils.

Ricardo's POV

The drive to my father's mansion is quiet. It's been years since anyone stepped foot in that place. It's almost like a mausoleum now. But it's always kept clean, as if Simeone Borrelli himself might walk through the doors at any moment.

Bullshit.

Simeone's dead. And unlike me, my father wasn't the type to rise from the grave. I pull up to the front as the tires crunch against the gravel driveway. Angelo is already there, standing outside, with an envelope in his hand. He's in a dark suit, and his inner shirt is only half-buttoned like he got dressed in a hurry.

Something's wrong.

I step out of the car, adjusting my cuffs. "This better be good, Angelo."

"Brother, I think someone's following me." He says worriedly.

I arch a brow. "You dragged me all the way to Father's mansion to tell me that?"

"That's not all."

He hands me the envelope.

I rip it open and pull out the contents. A stack of photos. The first few are of Enzo. Our loan shark. He's in Vegas. Drinking, laughing, gambling like he doesn't have a fucking care in the world.

I flip through the images. Casino floors and private rooms. Him playing pool with a couple of high-rollers. A mountain of poker chips in front of him one second, gone the next. He's losing. And losing big.

I clench my jaw. We gave that piece of shit five hundred and seventy million dollars to run our loan sharking operations. He was supposed to multiply that, turn it into at least three billion. That was the deal.

But Enzo didn't loan the money out. He fucking spent it. Well, most of it. I keep flipping, until I get to the last few pictures. Enzo isn't gambling anymore. Enzo isn't breathing anymore.

His body is sprawled out in an alleyway, slumped against a dumpster with blood pooled at his feet and a clean bullet hole right between his eyes.

I let out a short laugh, scoffing under my breath. "Five hundred and seventy million dollars."

Angelo nods. "And we were supposed to make three billion from it."

I chuckle briefly. "And now Enzo's dead."

There was silence between us for a while as I stare at the final picture. His dead eyes are still open. Like he didn't see it coming. Like he thought he was untouchable.

A fucking idiot.

I fold the pictures and shove them back into the envelope. Then I look at my brother. "How did you get this?"

"It was delivered to me."

I glance around. The estate is as still as a graveyard, no movement, no sounds. It is almost as if someone was watching us.

I take a deep breath before asking, "Who do you think is responsible for this?"

Angelo rubs his jaw. "Maybe the person following me."

"Did you get a face?"

He shakes his head.

"Then get one. I want to know who sent this, and I want to know why."

"I'll handle it," Angelo says, but I'm already thinking ahead.

This isn't just about Enzo. It's about the money. A lot of money. We lost our investment and our profit. That's a three billion dollar problem. And problems like that don't get solved by sitting around and bitching about it.

I clench my jaw, inhaling deeply before exhaling through my nose. "We're not dwelling on our losses," I say finally. "I'll find a way to make that money back. Every cent. Including the profit."

Angelo studies me for a moment. "And how do you plan to do that?"

I smirk. "By getting my hands dirty."

Very dirty.