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Friday Night Lights

Tommaso

I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel of one of the many vans positioned a couple of blocks away from the Mansion on Friday night. Stan sat in the passenger seat next to me, and a team of hand-picked men occupied the back. Over an earpiece Lyle had given me, I listened to what Killian was hearing on the inside through a call he had open in his pocket.

“Yeah,” he murmured to one of his allies. “We’ve got the numbers. You’ll know when it’s going down.”

“Long live the new king,” the man replied.

I took a deep breath. Killian had smuggled in more of his men than Marino would normally allow in other crews, and all of his allies had been willing to appear. I’d brought a fairly small strike team—for the balls of what we were about to do—counting on support once we made it inside.

Room noise filled the speaker for a long moment. I only caught snippets of conversation, low music. I could picture the whole setup. The low lighting, the quiet music, everyone in masks. With that anonym
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