I call my sniffer, Logan. “I need you to track the GPS on Julia Connors’ phone. Her number is 555-7438.”

Logan is quiet for a moment. “Off route 17, near Century Road.”

“Good. Hold on, I’ll call back in a minute.”

I hang up, calling Vince Citrione next.

“Vince, it’s Leo,” I say into the phone as I speed down the highway, weaving through traffic.

“Leo?” asks Vince. “Christ, man. You haven’t called in years.”

“Yeah, well remember that favor you owe me?”

“No,” says Vince. “If anything, you owe me for not castrating you when you walked away from our family.”

“Vince, I need you to do me a favor. I got tied up in some shit, and the Morettis took my girl. I know where she is, but I need someone I can trust to come pick her up. Can you send anyone?”

“Where is she?” asks Vince, his voice suddenly serious.

“She’s off Route 17, near Century Road.”

“That’s not far at all. I can pick her up in less than thirty minutes.”

“I owe you,” I say, hanging up quickly and concentrating on driving again. I call Logan back. “I need you to run some plate numbers for me,” I say, reading off the numbers.

I hear him typing into a computer, not even bothering to respond until he has what I need.

“The car is registered to Killian Moretti,” he says.

“Killian? You’re sure?”

“Says right here, yeah.”

“Can you get me any home addresses in his name? Any properties?”

“It won’t be in his name,” says Logan doubtfully. “But I can trace his bank accounts and see where the money is flowing, it will just take a minute.”

“Do whatever you have to,” I say.

I listen anxiously as I hear him clacking away at keys in the background. “121 Paterson street and 8860 Linwood. Looks like one might be for storage. A lot of square footage, but no plumbing or ventilation.”

If he’s taking Roman somewhere, it’s there. Still, it’s a stretch, but Killian has a reputation for being the cruelest soldier working for the Morettis. Rumors are that he never carries out a hit without torturing the victim first, even if there’s no information to be gained. The sick fuck just enjoys it, and he has my son. My fucking son. I twist my hands on the steering wheel, pushing the gas even harder.

I make the forty minute drive in fifteen minutes, fishtailing to a stop outside a large square building in the middle of an overgrown field and off a dirt road. Two cars are parked outside, and the plates on one match Killian’s. I pull my .44 free, racking a bullet in the chamber and barely resisting the urge to burst through the front door shouting for him to show himself. My only hope of saving Roman might be in surprising Killian, and I can’t risk letting him know I’m coming.

I move to the side of the building, jumping on a dumpster and using it to look through a window that is nothing more than just a square cut into the steel siding. There’s a tower of pipe and wood scaffolding a few feet from the window and an otherwise open space littered with dangling chains, grisly steel implements, and tall, flat tables stained with red. Fuck. The rumors didn’t even do this creep justice. He has his own personal torture room.

I quickly scan the space and find Killian with his back to me, standing in the corner bending over a table, running his finger along tools. Roman is lying motionless on a table. My stomach clenches when I see him, but I sigh with relief when his stomach rises and falls. Killian must have drugged him. Good. No three year old needs to have a memory of this place.

There are hanging sheets of clear plastic blocking off a section of the building, and I know there might be more Morettis behind them, but I can’t afford to wait. I need to do something and fast. A chain dangles from the ceiling not far from me. I eye it, quickly forming a plan. I could try to take a shot at him, but I can’t risk it. He’s too close to Roman, and even if I did hit him, the bullet could ricochet off one of the steel tables. I grit my teeth, jumping to grab the chain and swinging toward Killian.

The large man jolts, turning toward the sound of the chain. He grabs a cleaver and instead of rushing toward me, he lunges for Roman. I let go of the chain, dropping the few feet to the ground. I grab a steel tray full of tools, pulling it back like a frisbee as the tools slide off. I fling it toward Killian as hard as I can. It streaks toward him and he’s forced to lean back, using his arms to shield his face. It’s all the time I need to cross the distance between us. I jump over Roman tackling Killian to the ground.

We land hard, but he’s not phased. He frees an arm and tries to bring the cleaver down on my back, but I’m able to use my leverage to pin him down. I slam his hand hard on the ground, knocking a cleaver free, but the fucker is strong as a mule and he manages to flip me, getting on top of me and dropping a cleaver to clutch at my throat. I reach blindly, hoping to find the dropped cleaver.

My fingertips brush a handle just out of reach, jumping it further. My vision is going black and my throat is on fire. I feel my strength draining with every second he cuts off my air. I free my knee, bringing it up and into his crotch. He bucks, giving me the chance to smash my elbow into his nose and roll out from under him.

I stumble to my feet, coughing and sucking in a breath that burns. Killian stands, reaching to the table and grabbing another cleaver. His face is a mess, covered in dark red blood that streams freely from his nose, dripping from his chin. He runs toward me and I grab the heavy iron hook dangling from a chain beside me, pushing it into him. He dodges, but not fast enough. The hook catches in the black apron he wears, yanking him backwards.

I run into him, using my shoulder like a battering ram. I feel a slight resistance as the strap of his apron rips free from the hook. I slam him into the corner of a metal table, bending him backwards. He tries to swing one of the cleavers at me, but I catch his forearm, using his momentum to slam the blade down on his chest. His eyes widen and he gasps, breath bubbling as his lungs fill with blood.

I leave him to die, turning my back on him and finding Roman, who looks like he’s just laying down for a nap. I pick him up, cradling him against my chest and hugging him tight. My chest swells with emotion. My son. He’s okay. He made it. I still don’t know if Julia and I will be able to work things out, but whether she accepts me or not, I’m going to make sure my son never has to worry about getting food on his plate, and I’m going to make sure his grandma lives a long, long time.

I’m about to leave when I hear a groan. I turn, still holding Roman and looking toward the source of the sound. It is coming from the sheets of plastic. I turn slightly, putting my body between Roman and the plastic sheets, in case someone is waiting for me. I move one aside and have to do a double take when I see Ted. He’s bruised, bloody, and missing a finger. One of his eyes is swollen shut and his nose is crooked and bloody.

There’s a man who looks very dead in the chair next to him, bleeding on the concrete floor. I notice a long hose attached to the wall and a drain in the middle of the floor.

“Please,” says Ted, voice muffled through his swollen lips. “Help me.”

I step toward him, thinking about how much this asshole has impacted Julia’s life, how long he’s blackmailed her, and how much he deserves to be left here to die. A few months ago, I would’ve killed him myself, and I would’ve taken special pleasure in it. Now, I just feel the weight of my son in my arms and the soft movements of his chest. I look down at his face, marveling at how peaceful it is.

I’ve had enough killing. I’ve killed enough for a hundred lifetimes, and now I’m ready to be done. I don’t know if Julia would make an exception to her no violence rule for this prick, but I’m not going to. No more exceptions. No more violence. Well, at least less violence. I’ll still crack anybody’s jaw who threatens my family, but I’m going to find a line of work that lets me keep it to that. I’m going to do it for Julia and for Roman. My son. I still can’t get used to how good that thought feels. He’s my son, and I’m going to raise him to be a better man than I am.

I pull my phone from my pocket and dial 911. “You’re going to need an ambulance at 8860 Linwood, fast.” I kneel in front of Ted.

“Today’s your lucky day, Ted. I’m turning over a new leaf. But you owe me now. And you can bet your ass I will take personal offense if you make me break my new rules to find you and kill you.”

Ted stares, his one eye wide and watering.

“In fact, I think you need to go ahead and sign over the practice to Julia. You can file for bankruptcy after you do and move out of town to get away from the Morettis. They might not follow you.” I lower my voice, leaning closer. “But I will, if you make me. You have one week.”

He nods, whimpering.

“Good talk,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder and making him wince in pain.