Devil’s Lily: Chapter 29

Those incompetent men at the port managed to lose track of the trafficked kids last week. I couldn’t deal with it then—not with Afrim and Roan Përmeti’s ambush on my penthouse that left Elira bleeding from a bullet wound. But now it’s payback time.

An hour ago, we finally got our break—a tip about where they might be holding the girls. A whole goddamn week later. Seven fucking days of these kids being God knows where, enduring God knows what. The thought sits like acid in my stomach.

“This the place?” I ask through grinding teeth as Dante guides the SUV through the dirty backroads of the Queensbridge projects. The buildings here are desperate things, barely holding themselves together, spaced far enough apart that screams would echo into nothing. Perfect place to hide something you don’t want found.

“Yeah.” Dante turns right down towards the waterfront, where the old, abandoned houses are clustered together, and parks the SUV around a corner—a blind spot from the cameras in the area. Not that it matters; Giorgio’s already scrambling the feeds. Still, I like to cover all bases. Being extra careful never hurts.

Dante and I climb out, and behind us, four of my men exit the second SUV. Together, we head towards the chain-link fence surrounding the abandoned property. I scan the quiet, deserted area while one of my men makes quick work of the padlock—old-school, almost laughably simple.

Within seconds, the lock clicks open, and we slip inside, moving silently towards the buildings.

“They’re in apartment eight,” Dante murmurs beside me. I nod, my eyes fixed on the skeletal structures ahead. Up close, they’re even worse than they seemed from a distance—windows shattered, doors hanging off hinges, walls sagging under years of mold and neglect.

Hiding the girls here was disgustingly clever, really. The place is likely inhabited mostly by rodents and a bunch of homeless people. No one would think to look here. Hell, I wouldn’t have.

“Over here,” one of my men calls in a loud whisper, waving us towards the apartment building off to the left.

I follow, my gaze narrowing on the building’s front door—or what passes for one. It’s held in place by a shiny, high-tech lock panel that looks absurdly out of place on a structure this decrepit. They are definitely in there. But something feels off.

While Dante scans the lock and sends it to Giorgio, I glance around again.

Surely whoever is in charge of this operation didn’t just leave the girls unguarded?

So where are his men? It’s too quiet. Unease creeps up my spine, and I rub an impatient hand over the back of my neck.

Dante’s phone beeps softly, and when I glance at him, he flashes me a thumbs up. “We have the code.” He leans in, typing fast. The lock disengages with a faint click, far too smooth for my liking.

This is too fucking easy, damn it. This might be a trap.

As Dante tugs the door open, I pull my gun from its thigh holster, and my men follow suit. Trap or not, we’re going in.

The interior is dark, and it takes a while for my eyes to adjust. When they do, Dante’s low curse fills the air. “What the fuck…” I don’t need to ask why.

Because there they are. Young girls—younger than I expected based on the feed we got from the port last week.

They’re underaged.

Rage sears through my chest as I take in their flimsy skirts and crop tops that are more like costumes than clothing. They’re all huddled together, likely trying to share what little body heat they can, their wide, terrified dark eyes locked on us like we’re the monsters in this nightmare. And honestly, who could blame them? Drenched in shadows and armed to the teeth, we probably look just like the bastards who dragged them into this hell.

“They’re not Americans,” Dante states in Italian. No shit, Sherlock—my bet is they’re Chinese or Japanese. “Fuck, Maximo, they’re so young. Too young.”

I step deeper into the dusty, crumbling lobby, and the girls flinch, shrinking back with soft, terrified whimpers. My eyes flick to the gun in my hand. Fuck. “Everyone, put your weapons away,” I command as I slide my pistol back into its holster.

Then I raise my hands slowly in what I hope looks like a non-threatening gesture. “Shh, it’s okay. We’re not here to hurt you. Can any of you speak English? Do any of you understand me?”

I keep my voice low and harmless as I glance over them. “We need to get you out of here quickly before the bad men come back.” The irony of me calling someone bad is not lost on me. If these girls knew half the things I’ve done, they’d run screaming. But I really am not going to hurt them. Even monsters have lines they won’t cross.

Their fearful eyes stare back at me, unblinking. My jaw tightens. This has to move faster.

“If you can speak English and you understand me, you need to signify. Now.” I infuse my voice with urgency as I glance back at the entrance. The unease crawls deeper up my spine with each passing second. Something is coming—I can feel it in my bones. I tilt my head at my men, silently ordering them to go outside and keep watch.

When I turn back to the girls, one has separated herself from the group. She looks so thin, I swear a gust of wind could knock her off her feet. Tangled dark hair falls in greasy waves down her back, and her bare arms are wrapped tightly around her trembling frame. She looks like she hasn’t had a proper meal in days, let alone a shower, fresh clothes, or a good night’s sleep. Hell, they all do.

“A–are you–are you really here to save us?” Her English comes out broken but clear enough, weighted with an accent and far too much fear.

I drop to my haunches, and she flinches back. Every muscle in my body goes still, like approaching a wounded animal. “Yes. We’re here to rescue you and send you home safely. But we need to leave here as soon as possible.”

Her eyes bore into mine, filled with a weariness that makes my stomach turn. No child should have eyes that old. I work to arrange my features into something trustworthy, something gentle—expressions that feel foreign on my face. What she sees must satisfy her because she finally nods and turns back to the group. Then she starts speaking in her native tongue, and I recognize it instantly. Japanese.

They’re Japanese.

The tension bleeds out of the room as she speaks, and suddenly all their eyes are on me. Not with fear now, but with something dangerously close to hope.

“I’m Maximo, what’s your name?” I ask the young girl when she turns back to me.

“I’m Sachiko.”

“How old are you, Sachiko?”

“Twelve,” she answers, biting her chapped lip.

Twelve. Twelve fucking years old. I swallow my burst of anger, trying not to let it show on my face. I’ll unleash it later, when I find whoever’s responsible for this.

“Okay, Sachiko. Is anyone here injured?” I wait for her response. When she shakes her head, I continue. “Good. We need to leave now. I want you all to follow me and walk as quickly as your legs can carry you. Can you explain that to them?” I nod at the girls behind her.

She turns back to the group, Japanese flowing faster now, ending on what must be a question because when she finishes, they all look at me and nod in unison.

Just then, Dante appears at my shoulder, phone in hand. “We just detected movement from the south entrance. About half a dozen men, laughing and talking loudly. I think they might be drunk.”

Figures. A week of nothing happening made them sloppy. Fools. The unease in my spine eases slightly—better a straightforward fight than an ambush. “Can we take them?”

Dante nods. “I think so. But we need to get the girls away first so they’re not caught in the crossfire. I have a motorhome arriving in about five minutes, so we should be able to get them out on time.”

Good. I glance back at the girls and tell Sachiko. “It’s time to go.”

Dante stays behind with three men while I lead the girls towards the entrance. Perro brings up the rear, scanning the area like a hawk. As we walk through the chain-link door, a dirty RV that looks like it crawled out of a junkyard pulls up. But actually, it’s the perfect cover. No one would look twice at rust and dented metal in this neighborhood.

The driver’s window rolls down, and I recognize the man who peeps out as one of my own. He pales when he sees me, eyes widening, and quickly jumps out of the vehicle. “Boss, I didn’t expect to see you, I⁠—”

I raise a hand impatiently. “It’s fine. We need to transport them to one of our safe houses.” I motion to the girls behind me as I walk towards the RV’s side door and pull it open. The inside looks surprisingly decent—roomy too. That’ll do.

I turn to Sachiko again. “This man works for me. He’s going to take you to one of my houses where a doctor and cook will be waiting for you. You’ll all be safe there until I can take you back home.”

Sachiko’s little lips tremble, then she does something unexpected. She walks straight into me and wraps her tiny arms around my legs. “Thank you,” she whispers while I just stand there frozen.

After what feels like a long moment, she joins the girls, and one by one, they all file into the RV. I give Sachiko one last look before closing the door behind them. “Follow the driver,” I tell Perro, who nods and circles to the passenger side.

I wait until the RV is out of sight, then make my way back to the development area, my blood already heating for the fight. To my disappointment, it’s already over by the time I return, and the drunk men are tied up.

“They’re mercenaries,” Dante tells me as I come to a stop in front of him. “Hired by someone they never met. Instructions came through a burner phone that’s untraceable. They know nothing.”

“Fuck.” I curse, shoving a hand through my hair angrily. “Kill them and dispose of their bodies. Keep the burner. Whoever’s running this will try to make contact eventually. We’ll have the bastard then.”

We collect the phone and watch the executions before walking back to the entrance, leaving the men to handle the disposal. But I can’t shake the feeling of being one step behind.

First it was the shipment a couple of weeks ago—still no leads—and now the trafficking of Japanese girls? The fucker pulling the strings is too smart, too damn evasive. Could both culprits be the same person?

Only one thing is certain at this moment: Someone is moving pieces on the board. Maybe more than one someone. And I hate not knowing who the fuck is playing the game.

On the drive back home, I dial the number of the kumicho, the head of the ninkyō dantai.

“Leonotti. What is it?” Yuto Hayashi asks dispassionately as he answers the phone. I lean back in my seat with a sigh.

We’re not enemies, per se, but we’re not allies either. Still, I calmly run him through the trafficking I witnessed last week and tonight’s discovery that they’re Japanese. “I have them in a safe house and will take care of them until they leave American soil.” I finish.

Silence hums on the line, and I can practically feel Yuto grinding his teeth. “And the culprit?”

“Still working on it.” I hate admitting it, but I hate loose ends even more. “We’ll find out who’s behind it soon.”

His anger simmers for a moment, but when he speaks again, it’s quieter. “See that you do. I’ll arrange for a jet to retrieve the girls within the week. And Leonotti…”

“Yes?”

“I’m grateful for this. I owe you a favor.”

The weight in his words isn’t lost on me as the call ends. I didn’t help the girls for his favor, of course, but it doesn’t hurt having it.

“I’m wiped,” Dante announces as he pulls up into my building’s garage. He rubs a hand over his face, exhaustion clear in his eyes. “I think I’ll skip heading up with you tonight.”

“That’s fine.” We exit the car together, and I adjust my jacket as we head for the elevator together. I own the entire building, and Dante and my other men live on the different floors.

Having them stationed throughout it isn’t just convenient—it’s strategic. No outsiders snooping where they don’t belong, no pesky questions regarding some of the activities we have to carry out here.

He gets off on the 15th floor, the one directly beneath my penthouse, and gives me a brief nod before the doors slide shut.

As I ascend alone, I roll my neck, leaning back on the railing, just as the elevator reaches my floor. I get out quickly—and stop. My eyes narrow at the sight of my men casually munching on some snacks on a plate. My jaw tightens. Fucking Elira.

“I told her to stay on the fucking bed,” I growl under my breath, and the men shift awkwardly, avoiding my glare like guilty kids caught raiding the cookie jar. Dragging the front door open, I stride inside, my irritation already bubbling over.

I find my wife in the kitchen, moving something from the oven rack to the countertop, laughing at whatever bullshit Marco is saying to her.

My heart quickens as I stare at her glistening lips, curled up in a pleased smile. So fucking tempting. So fucking out of reach. All my anger and frustrations boil to a peak at the reminder that I can’t kiss her.

“I thought I told you to stay in bed,” I snap, and she jolts mid-laugh, staring up at me with the same guilty expression as my men.

“Maximo. You’re home.”

“Obviously.” I stalk towards her, eyes locked on hers.

She quickly takes off her mittens and raises her hands defensively. “I can explain! I’m feeling better now, and it makes no sense to just lie back on the bed when that’s what I’ve been doing all week—I’m not an invalid. My arm is almost healed, and I—” Whatever else she’s saying turns into a startled squeal when I scoop her up, one arm under her knees and the other cradling her back.

Marco wisely avoids my gaze, chewing his snack silently as I carry my wife out of the kitchen.