Four in One

  Four in One

  Escaping the Mafia, 4

  Sophia Peony

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 Sophia J. Brown. All rights reserved. Published by SJ Brown Publishing.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews

  The following story is for entertainment purposes only. This book may contain strong language, sexual, and/or violent scenes. Reader’s discretion is advised.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Escaping the Mafia

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  According to Logan’s father, there were four types of men: King, Warrior, Magician, and Lover. The King was the leader who kept the kingdom together. The Warrior was the King’s soldier, emitting pure masculinity. The Magician, the wise counsel of the King, and the Lover, the King’s loyal follower. According to Luther, in order to become a King, one had to have a Magician, Warrior, and Lover.

  It was Luther Slade’s bootleg version of the masculine archetypes, and Logan thought it was complete bullshit. His father had seen himself as the King. Logan saw him as nothing but a son of a bitch who beat on his wife and kid.

  Logan had a different take. A man couldn’t just be King. He had to be King, Warrior, Magician, and Lover. If a man was just a king, he’d have to depend on his warriors, his counsel, and his people to be complete, but if he were all four types of men, then he’d never depend on anyone to get shit done.

  Which is how he’s able to get this job done. And how he ended up here.

  The warehouse smelled like death, he thought as he climbed up the old staircase to the top floor, gun in hand. The million-dollar job was too good to pass up, even if it meant fucking with the Italians. Money is money, and in the Crime World, money was the very air it breathes. Though the Russian Bratva and the Italian Mafia had a somewhat of a Stay-Out-of-My-Fucking-Business-I’ll-Stay-Out-of-Yours deal, there wasn’t a rule that said they couldn’t do business against each other. The Bratva was less strict on engaging in personal enterprise and conducting personal business as long as the cuts were paid, so Logan had a lot more freedom to do as he pleased. Logan thought the Italians were a little too snobby and stuck in the old ways, but he had to give them respect for making this job a challenge.

  Or rather, she did. From what Logan knew, she was the brains behind the whole operation, not that she had told him much. Fucking mobsters, always underestimate the women.

  His first view of her was exactly what he expected. Smoking, toting a gun, sitting on the floor next to a pile of cash, while listening to music. She had don’t fuck with me written all over her and he believed she could back it up. Blankets and a sleeping bag had been folded neatly, next to some left over food. Two cups. Logan noted and surveyed the open space of the top floor for someone else.

  “Miss Santini,” he greeted.

  At the sight of him and his gun, she plucked one of the earpieces out of her ears and eyed him suspiciously, clutching the gun resting on her knee, a little tighter.

  “Are you alone?” he asked the woman who contracted him and put his gun in his holster. She had specifically said she’d be alone and that the job was simple: escort her to the getaway ride. But Logan knew simple jobs didn’t come with a million-dollar paycheck, especially not ones in cash, so he did his homework. One of his men ran a search on the address she sent for collection and found out two things: one, this shitty place belonged to Beppe Santini, the real estate mogul, but everyone knew him as the Don of Chicago; and two, they were as private as fuck.

  Had he known he’d be helping the rebel princess escape the Mafia he might have turned it down, but Logan had a soft spot for children of assholes, considering he was one himself.

  “Did you expect an army?” She stood up, taller than average height with dark brown hair and eyes he could get lost in, but he wasn’t interested. He preferred his women without a chip on their shoulder, and he could see hers a mile away.

  Plus, he wouldn’t dare touch her, considering who she belonged to. Beppe may be dead, but Tony Astori wouldn’t give up that easily. He’d get his balls chopped off and fed to him. He expected trouble to show up—planned on it, actually— because no man worth his salt would let his woman runaway and make a fool of him. Logan didn’t really care what happened to Isabella Santini, but he hoped she gives them hell.

  She didn’t tell Logan where the getaway was. Cautious, he assumed. The more people who knew the plan, the harder it was to make it successful.

  “Where to?” he asked as she rolled the phones up and tucked them into the pocket of her jacket.

  When she disconnected them from her phone, a narrator filled the space. She didn’t rush to turn the audible book off. “War and Peace,” she said after the man went silent.

  He smirked at Isabella’s nonchalant attitude. “Glad you’ve had time to relax.”

  “Natasha is very inspiring.” Obviously, Logan had no clue who that was. “The main character’s plan to… never mind.” She grabs a duffle bag from the floor and hauls it over her shoulder.

  Logan assumed it was full of his money, or who knew. Maybe she had more money in there. “My condolences,” he tested, his eyes falling on the cups again, on the small makeup bag, and the extra-large sleeping bag.

  “For what?” The sharp edge in her voice would have been enough, but he saw her finger shift to the trigger.

  “…the news” he began, “Your father’s dead. They reported the death of Beppe Santini late last night. At a shithole kind of like this one.”

  “Oh,” she feigned sadness for half a second before she looked over her shoulder, out the large window. “No one will miss him.”

  Cold-hearted, Logan thought as he watched her.

  “We should go,” she rushed out.

  Right. He asked again, “Are you going to tell me where to drop you off, or should I just leave you here to face whatever the hell you just got worried about?”

  “Tell me your plan first.”

  “Three SUVS. All of us going in a different location in case someone is tracking us.”

  “I thought we would have more time,” she mumbled. “Private Jet. I’ll tell you the directions on the way.”

  He indicated toward the exit. “Where’s the money?”

  She opens the bag and pulls out a stack of cash, handing it to me. Then pulls out another with a dye pack. “I have ten dye packs in here, all activated by distance. I have the set off strip. If this is more than one foot away from me, it will go off.”

  She steps backward toward the door that led to the fire escape and opened it. Before Logan realized it, she announced, “Ten seconds.”

  He threw the pack and joined her at the door just before it exploded, sending a billowing cloud of red smoke in the air, permanent red ink staining his clothes. The breeze from outside carried the smoke over to them, and Logan closed the door shut before it got all over them. With pursed lips and arched brows, Logan glared in her direction while inspecting the 20k stack in his hand. Wasted money. The red stain on her je
ans looked like blood.

  “Demonstrations weren’t necessary,” he growled.

  “Once I’m safely in the jet I will turn them off, and you can use your money. It’s been washed and untraceable.” Logan took to the stairs first, checking on his crew, waiting for them in the courtyard. This place only had one entrance or exit, something Logan didn’t like very much. He could see why Isabella chose the top floor, she had a clear view of anyone who entered, which meant she must have seen them coming.

  Down on the broken-up concrete of the courtyard, Frank, whom Logan had served with, took point. They met during their deployment to Afghanistan, saved each other’s ass too many times to keep count, and kept each other alive in hell. Logan trusted Frank with his life, which was why he had planned to send Frank with the money, while Logan did the client delivery.

  But—

  “Boss, we got movements,” Damon’s low warning came in the earpiece his team wore for communication. He had remained on the outside to monitor. Logan reached for his gun, safely tucked in his holster.

  He didn’t have to tell his men to move. They simply did, working together like a well-oiled machine. Logan took a hold of Isabella’s arm, leading her, keeping her protected. They needed to get out of this property before they were trapped inside the compound. As planned, his men split into three groups. Isabella and the money, secured at the center of his group.

  A shot had him ducking, taking Isabella down with him. The bag nearly landing a foot away. “You did not plan this well,” Logan announced, still shielding her from bullets. “Come on.” Logan got up and shoved Isabella to her feet, holding her close to him. “I’m guessing your fiancé is looking for you.” Logan grabbed Isabella and pushed her toward their planned exit.

  She rolled her eyes, annoying Logan.

  “Don’t ruin my money,” he said when he shoved her in the back seat. Damn, Mafiosa. Almost getting us killed.

  “Lay down cover on Logan,” Frank ordered.

  Logan’s sure they’d realized which group had Isabella because they were focusing their fires high to keep from hitting anyone. Them not wanting to hit Isabella was in their favor.

  “Change of plans,” Logan said. “Damon, do the delivery.” Logan’s team would provide the cover to give the other two teams enough time to get out of the compound. Tony and his men were outside the walls, but by the number of shots, Logan’s crew outnumbered them. He had to be cautious. Men like him always had tricks up their sleeves.

  Logan opted to stay, realizing it’s the more dangerous job right now. Logan wouldn’t ask his men to do anything he wasn’t willing to do himself. The switch happened quickly.

  “What are you doing?” Isabella growled, as if bullets weren’t flying around everywhere. “The plan was for you to escort me.”

  “Is dying part of your plan?” he reminded her. “Because I can just shoot you and take the money.” Logan didn’t mean it, at least he didn’t think so, but he’d had about enough of Isabella’s lip.

  “You can try.” She smiled as she reached for her own gun.

  “Deactivate the dye packs, and give me the money. Now!”

  An ambush changed her plans. And though she wasn’t afraid of Logan, she was afraid of the person on the other side of that gate. “Maybe I should just trade you in to Tony?”

  Without hesitation, she opened the bag and shoved it at him. “There are no dye packs.”

  “What?” Logan grabbed the shoulder strap and slid it across the seat toward him. Using the door as cover, he checked the bag, feeling in the center of the rubber band stacks for a hard layer. Normally, packs are hidden in newer bills, and he didn’t see any.

  She lied? There was just one? He called over one of his men. “Walk a foot away.” He held the gun to Isabella, watching if she flinched. “If they go off and I lose the money, you’ll pay for it.”

  She cocked her head to the side, unflinching, and giving the answer Logan needed: she wasn’t lying. Resilient little princess.

  “Take it! Get out of here.” Logan’s team provided the distraction they needed to get the money and the client out—Damon with Isabella to the jet, and Frank on his way home with the money.

  “Out,” Frank announced through the earpiece, meaning they’ve made it out of the factory.

  Damon’s voice followed a minute after. “Out.” The second SUV drove off.

  “Let’s wrap this up,” Logan ordered his team. Gun fire increased as his team made their meticulous exit.

  “We have a tail,” Frank announced.

  “Clear,” Damon added, indicating they weren’t being pursued.

  Logan could see his men making it through their exit route. He’d taken head position which meant he was last. He realized too late he’d gotten cut off from his route when he was surprised by a man crossing his path.

  Logan shot the man on the shoulder, wounding him rather than killing him. At the end of the day, they were all just doing a job, just different sides, there was no point in killing the man.

  “Pick me up on the east exit.” He moved quietly but quickly, back into the factory. The gun fire faded as men searched for targets. He moved parallel to the Santini men until he could get up to the fire escape. He almost made it when he heard movement. The sound of fabric brushing against fabric alarmed him of the oncoming attack. That’s why he hated wearing suits; it made movements easier to hear.

  He ducked the punch, rolling at the same time he swiped his leg to take the man down. He recognized the man as they fought. Vinnie, military-trained and one of Chicago’s best fighters. From what he knew of the Santinis, this was Tony’s right hand man.

  He might be good, but Logan didn’t spend his life being a punching bag. Logan had trained himself not to feel the hits he took. They were pretty even in the fight, but Logan was starting to feel them.

  A chance opening gave Logan an escape, he kicked the man, sending him down to the floor. Logan didn’t wait around, running for the exit and jumping over the rail. He landed on a roll to cushion his landing. He didn’t look back, his pick-up rounding the corner.

  “Boss, you look like shit.” He felt like shit, he thought as he laid in the back seat of the SUV. He’d feel every single hit he took by tomorrow.

  He checked in with Frank first, they had a tail, last he heard. “Frank?” No answer. “Track them,” he ordered the others.

  “They’re home.” Home being the brick stone building he owned. On the outside, it was a townhome next to an ally. He rented the downstairs to a restaurant owned by a friend, while the second and third floor served as his home; he and his men often hung out there.

  He called Frank’s cell again. Then dialed Matt’s next, which went straight to voicemail. Fuck. “Get us home,” he ordered as he called Damon.

  “We’re clear, Boss. No one following.”

  “No answer from Frank. Make sure you’re clear.” He didn’t need to remind Damon, but Logan needed him to be on the lookout and not get too comfortable. The four men with him didn’t speak. He had the whole middle row to himself since he’d dove into the car.

  “Frank’s down,” Dane, the driver, announced. He’d been the one to get a clear view first. Logan didn’t wait for the car to stop as he jumped out to run to his friend, who lay face down in the dark alley.

  “Car’s gone, Boss,” he heard someone say as he checked on Frank. He didn’t see blood. He checked his breathing. He’d been knocked out. “Money’s gone.”

  “Matt?”

  “Gone.”

  Logan didn’t want to believe Matt would take the money and run. They went back years. Then again, a million dollars was a shit ton of money. Any man would be tempted, but Matt had to know Logan would go after him—not just him. Matt wouldn’t just leave his younger sister to fend for herself, he’d take her on the run.

  Matt was pretty fucking sure he’d die tonight. If not in the hand of Joel Clarion, then by Logan. He didn’t have a fucking choice. He and Frank had just shaken off their tail
when he received a text from an unknown number.

  Bring the money. Followed by an address and a picture of Makayla. His sister was the last of his family, and he’d do anything to protect her. He should have told Frank and Logan, but there was no time. As soon as he arrived, he recognized one of the men waiting for him.

  He sent a text to Logan, a single word knowing this wasn’t going to end well. He deleted the message before stepping out of the car. The only regret was leaving his sister alone, but he knew Logan would take care of her.

  Chapter Two

  The overbearing sound of bass gave Mia a headache. A waitress in a night club should enjoy the blaring hip hop music, but she actually hated it. She liked it before…back when she was just a troubled teenager trying to find a place for herself. She’d gotten the short end of the stick from the very beginning, but she hadn’t let that stop her. At least not back then.

  Now, it was different. She had a seven-year-old daughter depending on her. Every pulse of the boisterous music matched her pulsating headache, reminding her that this sacrifice was all for Paige.

  Sacrifice. Torture. Same thing when her world revolved around Joel Clarion, the owner of Club Miles and her baby daddy. She was a lonely eighteen-year-old, straight out of her last foster home when he’d swooped into her life. He’d been thirty-six, twice her age, but he had money and a place for her. They never dated. She broke down and offered herself to him for a little bit of money.

  Eight years ago, he had been her savior for taking her in. It hadn’t taken long for her to learn how wrong she was, but the realization that Joel was the bad guy came too late. By then, she was pregnant and stuck with him. When she tried to break it off with him, he beat her, and she’d had no one to turn to but him. Without Joel, she wouldn’t have a roof over their head. He paid for the apartment she lived in with Paige, and anything she made as a waitress went to the rest of her bills. So, no matter how abusive he got, there was nowhere else for her to turn.