Gino and Brandon Cassini exchanged looks and adjusted their respective grips on their firearms, a Glock for the wiry Gino and an Uzi submachine gun for the bulky Brandon. Their heads swiveled back to the door and, by unspoken agreement, the younger Brandon reached for the handle. He glanced at his brother and, receiving a nod, opened the door quickly, bringing his weapon to bear.

For a moment his mind couldn’t process the scene. The lot outside the warehouse door was smoky. Two of the other men were down, groaning. Brandon didn’t pay them any mind; they were piciotto, button-men, and therefore expendable. Willy the Pick was holding his face and whimpering, his clothes smoldering. There was evidence of a small blast on the asphalt nearby.

He opened his eyes slowly, blinking away his grogginess. The light hurt.

“About time, hoss.”

Squinting, Luke tried to focus on the figure before him. It seemed indistinct. Opaque. Slowly the haze cleared.

“You done napping?”

Luke tried to laugh, coughed instead. Everything hurt.

“Quite a mess you got yourself into, hoss.”

“I know,” Luke croaked. He was still tied to a chair. Tightly. “I know,” he said again.

“Any ideas how you’re going to get yourself out of it?”

Luke sighed. Wheezed, actually, but it amounted to the same thing.

“I’ll figure it out, Dad.”

The slap of the gloved fist against skin was like a whip in the room. Luke’s head rocked with the blow but he maintained control and only allowed the barest of grunts to escape. He turned his head slowly to regard the man in front of him and spit a glob of blood to the side. One eye was swollen nearly shut, the skin split across the cheekbone. His nose and lips both bled, and when he smiled—a humorless smile full of anger and promise—pink tainted his teeth and gums.

The man before him seemed unphazed by the glare, if indeed he even noticed. He simply stepped back and looked over his shoulder as two men entered the room. Black Mike Calvone and his lieutenant Willy the Pick were smiling.