That had been the case until about two years ago.
Over the course of two years, our profits had slowly been decreasing down to a profit of ten grand per kilo. The drop of revenue had happened gradually in the first year, starting with us losing a thousand, then two, three, until we'd reached an even ten thousand lost per kilo. The ten thousand had been a consistent loss for the past eight months.
Stefan was right. And it was slightly insulting that Samuel thought he wouldn’t be caught. When we'd reached this point in our research, I'd had Vincent dig up all he could on Samuel, Dylan, and every man that worked under them. I'd wanted pictures, backgrounds, bank accounts, anything that was tied to their name and fingerprints.
Everything we could find on Samuel and Dylan had come up as Stefan had stated. There had been no extra money in their accounts, which just meant they had it hidden under different aliases. Vincent had worked his ass off to find out what they were. I'd learned a lot that I hadn't wanted to know about my uncle and cousin. Samuel constantly cheated on my aunt with high end prostitutes, which I'd already known, but what I hadn't known was he liked them young—eighteen, to be exact. Dylan watched too much anal porn. I could have gone my whole life without knowing that.
Hours of research and I'd known pretty much everything about Samuel’s men. It had been information overload, but it had been worth it when Mark Ferguson’s file had been the next one for me to go through. He was our lead. Mark was Dylan’s head enforcer.
Two years ago, Mark’s brother had opened a new bank account. Mark’s brother who had been deceased for five years. How did a dead guy open a bank account with routine deposits of large sums of money for the last two years? I had no idea, but I was going to find out.
The amount of money being deposited into this dead man’s account wasn’t enough to cover all our losses, not even close, but it was enough to be suspicious. Mark was the key.
CHAPTER 29
Showing off the platinum wig, I twirled around in the costume shop. “What do you think?”
Dressed casually in a T-shirt, denim jeans, and the ball cap I'd bought him at the sporting goods store we'd just left, Dean looked positively bored out of his mind as he watched me.
Last night, I'd realized I wasn’t equipped to spy on someone. That someone being Mark Ferguson. The first thing on my list of spy supplies had been binoculars because…come on? Who spies on people without binoculars? I'd gotten a pair at the sporting goods store along with Dean’s hat. Next on my list was a disguise. “The black wig or the blonde?” Putting my hands on my hips, I stared at my fellow sleuth expectantly.
Dean eyed the platinum blonde wig I was wearing. This morning, before we'd left, I'd gone over the plan with Vincent and Dean. Vincent’s job was to track Mark’s phone and give me updates on his whereabouts. As of right now, he was at McLoughlin’s, a bar owned by the family and one of the many fronts Samuel and Dylan used to conduct business, I'd recently learned. Dean and I were headed there next.
“The blonde,” he answered. Without taking the wig off, I ripped off the price tag and paid for it at the register.
Sitting in my parked car at an unnoticeable distance down the street, I peered through my new binoculars at McLoughlin’s.
“I don’t know what you think you’re going to gain from doing this,” Dean grumbled from the passenger’s seat while scrolling through his phone.
“I already told you. We’re going to follow him until something happens.”
He sighed. “Whatever you say, Nancy Drew.”
“None of Stefan’s personal security are mouthy,” I murmured under my breath.
Out of my peripheral, I caught Dean’s head lift from his phone. “Then you should have picked one of them to babysit you.”
Well, there went my good mood.
“Do you think I like having a ball and chain all the time? At the end of the day you get to go home, enjoy your independence of running errands, have the privacy of going on a date, feel the freedom of just walking out your front door without having to ask someone to accompany you.” I squeezed the curved sides of the binoculars. Envy was a bitter bitch. “I’m sorry you don’t like being stuck with me. Just remember your agony is only nine-to-five. You get to clock out. As for me, I’ll be shackled to someone else.”
He didn’t respond to my spew fest. For the longest time, the only noise was the cool air being pushed through the car’s vents until he quietly asked, “Why did you choose me?”
I lowered my binoculars to meet his eyes. He was staring at me intently, waiting. “I have many reasons,” I said with a smirk. “Mainly, I don’t like ass kissers. But most of all, you surprised me. Underneath that surly personality of yours, you have a moral sensibility I find refreshing.”
He scoffed. “Just because I didn’t tell Jameson how much you had to drink at Anarchy doesn’t—”
“Then explain why you did it?”
He looked away to stare out his window. “Do you want something from this coffee shop? A drink or a cookie?”
Is he deflecting? I wondered as I eyed him. Regardless, he'd surprised me yet again by the kind offer. “A cookie.”
He nodded and climbed out of the car. “Do not go anywhere,” he ordered just before shutting the car door.
Hours passed by at an agonizingly slow rate. Temptation to give up was poking at me like a woodpecker, but I imagined shooting that annoying bird. Dean, on the other hand, was completely relaxed, not bothered in the slightest by being cramped in my small car. Fidgeting in my seat for the thousandth time, I caught the corner of his mouth lifting. The jerk was laughing at my discomfort and probably assumed I was getting ready to cave soon. Unbeknownst to him, I was too stubborn to quit.
Both Stefan and Jamie had texted, checking on me. I hadn't been entirely forthcoming as to what I was doing today. Stefan had said he trusted me to handle this. I wasn’t convinced. My gut had told me he would still meddle. So I'd lied by omission and said I was out doing a little shopping.
“Isn’t that your guy?” Dean asked, nodding in McLoughlin’s direction as I paused in the middle of rubbing my stiff neck. Forgetting about the binoculars in my hand, I squinted in that direction. Sure enough, there was Mark Ferguson crossing the damn street toward his gold '67 El Camino.
I made quick work of starting my car, shifted it out of park, and pulled out into traffic the same time Mark did. We followed him through the city.
“He’s getting on the interstate,” Dean said, eyes glued to the El Camino three cars ahead of us.
Mark took the ramp heading south on I-95. We passed exit after exit and as we got closer to the Housatonic River, a knot started to form in the pit of my stomach.
“He’s heading into De Luca territory,” Dean voiced what I had already concluded.
Quinn territory took up most of the New England area. We had family and businesses spread out across the states from New Haven to the top of Main. Within our territory, there were gangs like the Aryans and other smaller crime families like the Bratva who coexisted alongside us but still paid homage to Stefan. The Italians ruled over New York, New Jersey, and a small corner of Connecticut. The Housatonic River was the line drawn in the earth that separated our two territories and we were about to cross it.