Page 110 of I Would Beg For You
Don Giorgio comes to see me directly after leaving the meeting with his peer in the Albanian mob. Apparently, they also don’t want to see a war erupt, much less with us Italian-Americans, whom they still respect as allies, even though we don’t do business together.
The mention of the name Berisha rang a few alarm bells on the other side, it seems. They weren’t aware he’d taken Naomi, much less the wife of a Don. For the sake of their honor alone, they would’ve handed him over on a silver platter. But it also turns out Berisha is a bit of a loose cannon in their ranks—if they can have him out, they’ll take the deal.
This is how I and my crews end up with everything they have on this guy. Short of painting a target on his building from space, there’s no stone they left unturned.
Pesci starts surveillance on said building within an hour of us landing this intel. Reconnaissance goes in next—one of ours posing as a pizza delivery guy, claiming he got the wrong address. Fuckers inside still took the entire stack of ten extra-large pizzas despite it not being their order. And that’s how we found the cazzo was well-surrounded.
The Albanians, in their report to Don Giorgio, warned him Berisha has a bit of a charismatic yet violent gang leader side to him. Men, especially younger ones, follow him like a pied piper. He walks a fine line between letting them loose as Americanized youngsters while also holding on to respect of the ways of the old world amid some religious drivel thrown in for good measure.
In short, their own mob doesn’t want this kind of daredevil borderline radicalized elements upsetting the natural order ofthings, and we have their blessing to take these gangster-wannabes down. If we show them it’s a bad idea to mess with our mob in the process, all the better.
Me? I’m just concerned with getting Naomi back, safe and hopefully sound. I have no idea what these figlios di puttana have done to her, and I pray they all die quickly, otherwise they’ll regret the day they were born.
Chapter 34 Valentino
I’m in the carstaring at the picture of Jasir Berisha that came with the file. He’s about my age, I’d say. Big, unkempt in his tracksuit ensemble, no class at all if one were to judge by the heavy, gaudy bling hanging from his meaty neck. This isn’t a man concerned with manners and propriety. In a way, it’s a good thing—it’s the very civil ones that are the most dangerous, oftentimes cold sociopaths if not outright psycho as they go about exacting their well-thought-out ploys and plans. This guy? He’s a butcher.
I can only pray that Naomi’s still holding on inside there. It’s not been twenty-four hours yet since she was taken, but she shouldn’t have had to endure one minute of such an ordeal. To think it’s Joel Smith behind all this! I’ll kill the bastard when I get my hands on him. All this has been happening because of him. As long as he’s alive, Naomi will never be safe. We still haven’t found him, but I have more important matters on my mind right now. He’ll get his turn.
A hand drops onto my shoulder. I look up into Victor’s face next to me. In the driver’s seat, Marco turns my way.
It’s almost go time. I glance at my watch, waiting for the second hand to hit twelve, then I nod at Marco. He gives the signal into the comms unit, and Pesci’s men are moving outside, circling the building where Berisha is holing up and where we believe Naomi is being held. It’s his stronghold but also the only property he owns outright, and specs from this location, which used to belong to a small-time criminal Italian family in the 1950s, show a reinforced steel door was added to the basement level, in provision for storing the loot from a bank heist that never happened.
That basement will make a great holding cell.
My stomach threatens to overturn when I think why the space would be perfect—no external access, no lights, terrible ventilation, inescapable…
What’s the state of Naomi down there?
No, I can’t think of that. Right now, I have some motherfuckers to kill.
“Give me a gun,” I say to Marco when we alight from the car.
He exchanges a glance with Victor. I curse them both out.
“You’re going to listen to Don Giorgio?” I burst out.
“He knows why you shouldn’t get your hands dirty in this, Val,” Marco says.
I huff, my nostrils flaring with rage. “It’s my wife inside!”
“We got you,” Victor grumbles, pulling an automatic rifle from the trunk and handing it to Marco. For himself, he palms a few knives and sheathes them at various locations across his massive body.
“I’m walking in there empty-handed?”
If this is what it means to be a Don, I want none of it. Next, they’ll make me a glorified desk jockey in my own home.
“You’re walking out of there with your wife,” Victor grits out.
The sheer amount of words strung in a complete sentence works to shut me off. Not only that, but he does have a point.
We wait for the first of Pesci’s men to breach the front door. Half of the crew’s at the back door already. When the ram batters the panel, Marco steps in front, Victor slips behind him, and I follow with a soldier closing the line and covering my six.
Gunshots can be heard inside, mostly the muffled ones from the silencers my men have all been told to use. There’s hardly any salvo in return, young men going down in quick succession. Watching it all happen is like being in a video game likeCall of Dutyin VR minus the military special ops uniforms. From time to time, Victor will place himself in front of me as we halt. He hasn’t had to use his blades, and I can’t help but think my brother isn’t too happy about this state of affairs.
The crew clears the first floor, about two-thirds of them moving upstairs to clear out the other levels of this townhouse.
There’s been no sign of a prisoner on this level, and knowing what’s in the basement, we all know we’re not going to find Naomi in the upstairs bedrooms. Unless these guys are gentlemen and not messed up assholes. But we know their type—they have no respect for women, starting with their own. In Europe, everyone knows what their sex trafficking rings are like. To say the most depraved go to them is not an understatement for what they expect of their ‘girls.’
