Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Nicolò
The door to the penthouse is already open when I arrive at Benito’s club, which isn’t a good sign. The room is full of Italian suits, sweat and cigarette smoke—also not a good sign.
Cristiano catches my eye. He has a phone glued to the side of his face but a jerk of his head signals me over.
He hangs up when I reach him.
“Cugini’s deli in Queens.” He doesn’t need to say any more but he does. “It’s gone. Burned to the ground.”
A slow, cold crawl of darkness moves under my skin.
Cugini’s, and every other shop on that block, has been a Di Santo business for thirty years.
What began as a tense exchange based on the condition of pay or bust evolved over time into a mutually respectful relationship that brought us a steady stream of income, new associates and a solid reputation.
It had become a source of pride and a mark of our honor in building long strong relationships with the people who pay us.
And it was a personal favorite of Augie’s crew—the soldiers who ran the district.
Whoever torched it didn’t just burn down bread and salami, they burned the promises we make to the people who trust us.
“Is anyone down there?”
Cristiano glances at his phone. “Dario.”
My lip curls. Dario is an arrogant, lazy son of a bitch.
Only a few months ago, he was tasked with manning a warehouse while our guys cleared it out, but the fucker fell asleep and the guys were caught.
Luckily, the assistant prosecutor was deep in our pocket so he dropped the case, but still.
It would never have gotten that far if Dario-fucking-Vincenzo hadn’t fallen asleep. “He’s just a soldier.”
“Not anymore. Augie lost a couple of capos last week…”
Last week? Where the fuck have I been?
“That part of the city looks weak—we needed another capo to show strength.”
“I could have found you a better one down at the docks.”
Cristiano settles a dark look on me. “Now isn’t the time for personal preferences, Nicolò. The Bratva are closing in. Faster than any of us expected.”
I’ve never met anyone more gifted at poker than Cristiano, but right now I can almost detect a crack in his facade. He’s getting worried.
He glances about then beckons me to the window, away from the sounds of other men barking down phones and strategizing. Then he leans in toward my ear. “It isn’t just Cugini’s.”
I pretend to scroll through my phone. “Go on.”
“Two more businesses went up in East Flatbush tonight. One of Benito’s men is down there now. They’re two of our biggest grossing shops in Brooklyn. Three bodies found with double taps to the back of their heads.”
My phone screen flickers in the smoky atmosphere but I focus instead on Cristiano’s words as he continues. “How did they know those were our most lucrative shops? One’s a warehouse, one’s an apparel store—absolutely nothing about them screams mafia money.”
I look up and assess the question. “You think they were actively targeted?”
“They had to have been,” Cristiano mutters quietly.
Watching the lines form around Cristiano’s mouth as he chews on his bottom lip leads me to his point. “You think we have a mole?”
He gives a brief nod, watching for my reaction.
“And you think he’s in this room?”
“It’s possible.” Cristiano glances about, one hand now in his pocket, one wrapped around a dark whisky. He lets out a smooth breath. It’s the sound of a man coming into his own. Cristiano was the second son, but as Augie always says, he was born for this role.
“I need you to do something for me.” His gaze lifts beyond me as he speaks.
I nod in response. The fewer words the better in a room where one of our men is possibly hiding something.
“I need trackers putting on everyone’s car.”
“Everyone?” I lift a brow. We have some tight men in this room and every single one of them swore an oath to this family in blood. It rips me up that one of them could be betraying us right now.
“Except Benito and Andreas.”
So, yeah, everyone.
“Nor Augie.”
“Augie isn’t h—”
Cristiano’s eyes crease at the corners and a dark presence warms my back. I turn round to see our uncle—for all intents and purposes—standing behind me with a grave look on his weathered face.
He nods to me in greeting before darting his piercing gaze to Cristiano. “It’s done.”
“What’s done?” I ask.
“We now have boots on every street, three men on every laundry, tighter security at the port. No deliveries arrive without paperwork and at least two pairs of eyes on it.”
Cristiano’s knuckles crack. “Any sign of the Russians?”
Augie shakes his head. “We’re reviewing all the CCTV footage but I think they ran as soon as the damage was done. It’s a message, not a stand-off.”
A sinister thought scratches at the back of my mind. “Are they hitting anywhere else?”
“What do you mean?” Augie asks.
“Are they hitting Jersey? Philly? Upstate? Or just New York?”
“Atlantic City has already been taken, if that’s what you mean?”
“Yeah, I know. But what about the Shore? What about Bellucci turf? Are we fighting this alone or are they fighting too?”
“It’s a good question.” Cristiano cracks another knuckle and flexes his fingers. “Can you find out?”
I rub my palms together. This is the kind of work I love. I’m not turned on by getting bloody hands and breaking bones like Benito—I prefer to glide around the periphery like a ghost, looking for ways in where no one’s watching.
Sure, I’m capable of embodying violence when necessary, but I’m not wasteful—I use it when nothing else will do. For the most part, I’m the investigator of the family. In another life I’d have made a good cop. I keep that little insight to myself.
I leave the penthouse fired up and bristling. This family is my life. I made it so as soon as Papa inadvertently stepped aside for me. Of course, Mom will always be the center of my world, but my brothers… I would do anything for them. Kill, maim… die.
The thought that one of those brothers is working with the Russians makes me sick. I want to find him, and fast. But only easy is going to do it, so I arrange for my most trusted soldier to put trackers on everyone’s cars. Then, we have to wait.
As calm and collected as I might appear on my surface, I’m a furnace underneath, and patience isn’t something I’ve been gifted a lot of. Thankfully, there’s stuff I can do to keep things moving in the right direction. I can see who else has a Russian target on their back.
The phone ring is tinny and distant and when a voice answers, it sounds muffled against a backdrop of voices, banging doors and slot machines.
“It’s been a while.”
I smile. Dante Gallo was an associate of Gianni’s a decade ago, before leaving to set up an illegal gambling shop in Atlantic City. He has a clean record with the Di Santo’s and given he hasn’t addressed me by name, I know I can still trust him. “It certainly has. How’s business?”
“Ticking over, my friend. You?”
I keep my tone level. “We haven’t been entirely unaffected by the recession, I’ll be honest.”
A door closes in the background, shutting off some of the voices. “What’s been the problem?”
“We’ve had some deliveries from the East we weren’t expecting,” I say, rubbing my jaw.
“The East,” he muses.
“Yeah. Quite a few actually. Wondering if you’ve been getting them too.”
There’s a brief pause, then he replies. “Well, you know, we’ve always had those kind of deliveries. But not thick and fast, you know? Just… steady.”
“Right,” I murmur. “So, what we’re experiencing is… isolated.”
“Maybe. I suggest you try the Shore. They’ve had problems in the past. Might have some advice for you.”
“Yeah.” I run my tongue along my top teeth. “I thought you might say that.”
“Still beef, huh?” Gallo is no stranger to the tension between the Di Santos and the Bellucci’s.
“A little,” I concede. “Not with me personally though.”
“That’ll help. I’ll text you a number.”
I drag in then exhale a long breath. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
I wait for my phone to buzz then slide a burner out of my back pocket. Then I type in the number, fire off a short, coded text, then slide the burner back inside my pocket.
All I can do now is wait.
It’s eight a.m. when I return to the house, still wearing the same suit I left in eighteen hours ago. I head straight upstairs to shower. Just as I’ve stripped off my jacket and shirt, there’s a knock at my bedroom door.
My mind is filled with visions of burned-down delis, manned warehouses and men with bullet holes in their heads, so I open the door without thinking. Then all of that is erased, leaving only a lick of saliva in my mouth and a throbbing pulse in my temple.
A pair of soft brown eyes is staring up at me, unblinking.
“Morning,” she says, in a strangely croaky voice that wakes up the whole lower part of my body.
“Yes it is.” I grunt. I don’t know why I feel suddenly impatient.
“Um, sorry to disturb you, but—” Her lashes flick down over my bare chest and finally she blinks. “Antonia said we should aim to leave around nine.”
“Leave?” I frown. “To go where?”
She glances away and her cheeks flush a rosy pink. The recollection slams into me like a wrecking ball.
“The doctors?” she says, wincing.
Shit. I forgot. And good. I’m pleased to see she’s as uncomfortable about me taking her to get birth control as I am.
“Right. Sure. I’ll be ready for nine.”
Her gaze climbs back up to mine and a sense of relief ghosts over it. “Okay. Great. Thanks.”
As she turns away, my eyes snag on her outfit.
A tight, pale pink dress that hugs her breasts and ass in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination.
I want to ask why the hell she’s wearing that, but I can’t get the words ‘easy access’ out of my head.
For the gynecologist, mind, not me. But, I would only need to drift my fingers a fraction beneath the hem to reach her panties and fuck, fuck, fuck, what is wrong with me?