My Mafia Alpha’s Deception

My lungs burn as I sprint down Bourbon Street, weaving through clusters of drunken tourists and neon reflections on wet pavement.

“Romano, hold up! Backup’s two blocks out,” a voice crackles over my radio.

I press the earpiece tighter. “He’s heading south on Dauphine! Suspect is armed,” I shout, dodging a man in a Mardi Gras mask who stumbles into my path.

Up ahead, the lanky silhouette of my suspect darts into a narrow alley lit by a flickering gas lamp. Damn it. I vault over a fallen trash can and skid around the corner after him. The stench of garbage and stale beer assaults my nose as I draw my Glock.

“Freeze! NOPD!” I yell. My shoes splash through a puddle as the suspect—some lowlife drug runner—knocks over boxes behind him to slow me down.

He doesn’t freeze. Instead, he whips around, gun in hand. A muzzle flash. Wood explodes next to my head as a bullet splinters a crate. I drop behind a dumpster, heart hammering.

“Drop your weapon and come out slowly!” I command, trying to keep my voice steady. Over the pounding in my ears, I can hear him panting.

“You drop yours, bitch,” he shouts back, voice echoing in the confined alley.

I grit my teeth. So that’s how it’s gonna be. “Listen—” I inch out, eyes sweeping for an angle.

Suddenly, heavy footfalls thunder behind me. Too late, I spin. Two men, accomplices, rush me from the alley’s entrance. One barrels into me, slamming my back against the brick wall. The impact knocks my Glock from my grasp; it clatters to the ground.

I snarl and drive my knee up into his mid-section, feeling the crunch between his legs. He grunts. The second thug grabs at my arms. I twist free and jam my elbow into his jaw. Cartilage cracks; he howls.

“Stupid cop!” the first thug spits, recovering enough to wrestle me. He’s big, sweat-soaked, breath reeking of bourbon. He pins me against the wall, forearm across my throat.

I choke, struggling. “Get off me!” My voice comes out strangled.

“Crazy bitch!” he yells.

I drop to a crouch and snatch up my fallen knife. Before either can react, I slash in a wide arc. The blade slices the second guy’s thigh deep. He shrieks, collapsing. The first one lunges at me in blind fury. I spin aside and hammer my fist—knife handle and all—into the base of his skull. He crumples face-first onto the concrete with a thud.

Chest heaving, I train my recovered knife on the two groaning figures. Every muscle in me is primed to keep fighting. My cheek is wet—I realize one of them got a swipe in with something; blood drips down my face.

Sirens wail in the distance. At last, blue lights strobe at the alley’s mouth.

“Police! Don’t move!” Finally, uniforms pour in. Two officers rush to cuff the downed thugs. Another officer, Roy, jogs up to me, breathing hard.

“Ivy! Jesus, you okay?” Roy’s eyes widen at the blood on my face and my bruised throat.

I brush him off, swallowing raw pain. “I’m fine,” I snap, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Took you all long enough.”

Roy has the decency to look ashamed. “We lost you for a minute there. Radio said Dauphine, we—”

“Save it.” I sheath my knife and walk over to retrieve my Glock. My hands are shaking slightly. I’m furious—mostly at them, but part of me at myself. I let them corner me. Almost overpowered me. Almost... I clench my jaw and force that thought away.

“Detective Romano!” one of the younger cops calls after me as I push past the crime scene tape now going up. I don’t slow down. I can’t right now. I’ll do the damn paperwork later.

Minutes later, I step into my small shotgun house at the edge of the Quarter. It’s a modest, one-story home painted blue-gray, tucked between a voodoo shop and a boarded-up building. Just another piece of New Orleans charm. The moment I shut the door behind me, silence engulfs the space.

Alone. Always alone. Usually I take solace in that, but tonight it feels suffocating.

I run a hand over my face. Exhaustion tugs at me, but my mind is too wired. The bar—maybe I should still head to that bar and leave the rest for the police. O’Malley’s isn’t far. Besides, I realize, I have a meeting there. Shit, what time is it?

I check my phone. Almost 1 AM. Everything had blurred together so fast. Late, but my contact said he’d be there all night. I had arranged to meet an informant at O’Malley’s after my chase, some low-level crook with intel on the Devereaux mafia operations at the docks. Nearly forgot in the chaos.

I can’t afford to blow this meeting, not if Matteo Devereaux’s crew might be behind what just happened. If someone targeted me, perhaps I’m onto something big.

Ten minutes later, I step out a block from O’Malley’s Bar. Scanning the room, I spot my contact, Eddie, in a booth at the back, wearing a Saints cap as we agreed.

I slide into the booth across from him. “Rough night?” Eddie eyes the bruises on my neck with a smirk.

“You could say that,” I reply. I don’t bother with pleasantries. “Talk. What’ve you got for me?”

Eddie glances around, then leans in. “Your hunch was right. Matteo Devereaux’s been moving something through the port. Not just guns—we’re talking bigger. People. Trafficking, I think. Shipments leave on trucks from Pier 27 every few weeks. Next one’s due soon.”

I nod, my pulse quickening. “Dates, times? Who’s running the operation on the ground?”

“Hang on.” Eddie holds up a hand. “We agreed on compensation, Detective...”

I slide a folded $100 bill from my pocket, subtly passing it over. “This stays between us, Eddie. If Matteo hears you’re snitching—”

He snorts nervously. “Please, I value my life, thanks. Okay, listen. The next shipment’s in three nights. Around 2 AM. I don’t know where the people are coming from, but Matteo’s men take custody at the docks and drive ’em somewhere out of state, I guess. The one running things at the pier is some ex-military guy—calls himself Viper. Nasty piece of work.”

Just as Eddie finishes giving me a description of this Viper, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. That instinct again.

Something’s wrong.

I shift in the booth, casually scanning the bar. A couple on stools at the far end, the bartender drying a glass, two old drunks in a corner muttering to each other. The front door is closed. All seems calm. Yet... I feel eyes on me.

“Eddie,” I murmur, “when you came in, notice anyone follow you?”

He frowns. “No. Why?”

My right hand finds the grip of my holstered gun under my jacket. “Because I think—”

I didn’t finish before I heard the bang and felt the heat of Eddie’s blood all over my face.