The night stretched into dawn, bodies dropping down, drenched with blood in the darkest, quietest places. Shadows moved fast, growling, screaming filled the air. One by one, names were crossed off a list that kept growing longer the more Manuel's contacts talked.
By the time the sun came up, Salvatore had ordered more executions in a single night than in the entire month leading up to it. Men tied to Macron's shipping routes, men tied to Jonathan Mallika. Salvatore didn't give them a chance.
He had to know where Macron was.
Then, just before eight in the morning, Mike, one of the last men, gasped out a location between broken breaths, blood bubbling at his lips.
Macron was hiding at Merciano's place.
Salvatore stared at the man for a long moment after that, waiting for the words to rearrange themselves into something that made sense.
He couldn't believe it.
Merciano.
