Chapter 23
Tristano
The floodgates are fucking open. I can’t stop thinking about her since last night. I’ve never had to work for it like that before, ever . What’s it been, a month? Jesus .
It came so natural too. She bends right into the submissive role, then swaps to dominant. Every night is something different. Both sides drive me crazy.
Problem is… it’s not just that. I fucking held her in my arms this morning, just enjoying her body pressed against mine.
Even though I’m a rolling ball of testosterone, these moments we share keep sticking in my head too.
Her stupid quips, the fun we have throwing jabs at each other before bed. She’s a good woman.
And I want to protect her…
Shit .
Was Pop right?
It’s eleven p.m. on a Saturday night.
Just dropped Capri off an hour ago and now I’m speeding down the Garden State Parkway, where I heard Nicky Frits might be hiding out.
I’m anxious about the whole situation, because silence is usually code for a plan in the works.
I need to confront this piece of shit, now , before things get out of hand.
I have a feeling their search for my father is a high priority. Consulting with Bruno, Snaps, and Mikey told me that the Barones have feelers out for him in particular, and that no one is to be touched until he’s apprehended.
Enough time has gone by for them to rule Sonny dead. He had no reason to be in hiding. None at all. He wasn’t connected to his brother’s crime, and has no current heat on him. Flashbacks of killing the piece of shit makes me remember his smug face even as a corpse.
The fucker’s haunting me from the grave.
I pull up to Razzle Tano’s in south Jersey – a gambling joint doubled as a hardware store. I can almost smell the booze from the parking lot. The concrete is all torn up and uneven. Four of the eleven letter lights are out. His crew is sloppy. Nothing like mine.
I nod at Snaps as he pulls up across the street. Just in case something happens, or if they try to fuck with my car while I’m inside, I have back up.
The door in front of me is still dented from the first time SWAT raided five years ago. Rumor has it, ever since, they’ve been greased. I swing open the door to a chubby six-foot-tall Sicilian-looking guy who’s too low rank for me to give a shit about.
“Whoa, whoa .” He puts his hand up. “No one’s expecting you, Knots.” He puckers his lips to hide a grin, which makes me think they very much were expecting me.
That’s the problem with Nicky Frits … he’s got good intel.
“Hands off, prick.” I push him hard, then grab his wrist before he can pull for something in his jacket. “ Slow,” I warn him, eyes locked with his. It’s a cell phone, so I let go and fix my collar. “Go ahead. I’m here for Nicky. We have business to discuss.”
There’s that smirk again.
“Yeah , Knots DeMatteo is here,” the chubby guy speaks into his phone. “Seems harmless enough. How much can a prick carry wearing a polo and slacks? Ain’t like he got a trench coat on.”
Laughter rings on the other end. “Send ’em in .”
The voice isn’t Nicky’s. But it does sound close enough to be his right-hand – Frankie Laundry . Don’t look into it. He owns a few laundromats and stuffed a guy inside a dryer once… in pieces.
“Go right ahead. Hope you brought cash. Buy in’s high.” The man snickers at me.
Can’t stand these pricks not treating me with respect just because I don’t have the title. I’ll remember all you fucks.
This store is a mess. As I make my way down the dingy row of tools with torn up boxes – mildew seeping through the walls – I’m tempted to call my cleaning crew just to lend them a hand. It’s embarrassing that we’re loosely associated.
I jiggle the handle to the back room. Locked. It’s pitch-black all around me, but no one would be dumb enough to start a war.
As I speak the words to myself… I’m not so sure.
Crckk.
The door unlocks and I was right – Frankie Laundry’s clean-shaven face peeks out.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the Glove’s boy. If it doesn’t fit, he must acquit.” Frankie cackles to himself as he extends an arm over my shoulder to drag me in.
Another no-name big man locks us into the well-lit card playing area. It’s like a Vegas casino inside. They spent all their dough waxing the marble floors and installing professional grade craps tables, while leaving the tool shop a wreck. The balls on these guys.
“Going to need to frisk you,” Frankie says.
Everyone sitting at a thick eight-person poker table stops to look as I spread my arms out.
I’m clean, so I’m not worried, but when he yanks my cell phone out of my pocket, things get tense.
“The fuck, Frankie?” I eye him.
“We gotta talk, bud.” He wiggles the phone, then tosses it to one of the men at the table.
My blood is boiling – killer mind cranked into high gear.
The big man is carrying on his hip, and Frankie has a pistol strapped to his back.
The eight men… safe to say they’re all packing too.
My best bet is to take the big man hostage as a meat shield and get the fuck out of here, if it comes to that.
“Nicky obviously ain’t here, so this meeting is over,” I say matter-of-factly. As I turn to the door, the big man folds his arms and shakes his head.
The idiot doesn’t realize one quick strike to the throat and he’ll be my fucking puppet.
“Wait,” Frankie says. “I think you’re going to want to hear what I have to say.”
No guns are drawn yet, but the whole room is tense like in one of those old westerns. I’m half expecting a fucking tumbleweed to fly across the marble.
“Word on the street is, you been busy.”
“Cut the shit, Laundry. I’m always busy. The fuck are you getting at?”
“ Whoa horsy!” The card dealer shuffles the deck over the table to break some of the tension. I know him. Steve Double Down . Went to gamblers anonymous and now torture’s himself as the dealer. “Hear ’em out, kid. You might be in over your head a little, huh?”
“Why don’t you have a seat?” Frankie motions me away from the door.
“I’m staying right where I am.” I shrug Frankie back, daring him to try me.
That’s when I notice Steve nod to the guy next to him, who probably has a pistol trained on me under the table.
“Have it your way. But, you’re making a friendly game uncomfortable. Ton Ton is hitting his stride. Two flushes in a row.”
I’m losing my patience.
“Anyway, you’re not here for any of that.”
“Certainly not,” I growl.
Frankie paces casually, confident that he’d get the jump on me if I decided to act. I have half a mind to use him as the meat shield as soon as he steps in front of the table. But he doesn’t. He’s too smart for that.
“So, something interesting popped up recently. Nicky has been carefully peeling back the onion to Sonny’s disappearance. Jay Rockstar turned out to be a dead end. But your father… mm. Why would he be off grid? Why, oh why, little Knots?”
I don’t flinch, or react at all.
“Well, Nicky got fed up with that, you see. So he took matters into his own hands. Started bugging and following anyone close to Rocco Dotelli, including his daughter’s friends.”
My heart starts to race. That’s a lot of fucking resources to expend on a crapshoot.
“Yeah, I know.” Frankie pretends like I just reacted, but I didn’t. “Nicky really does go the extra mile, doesn’t he?”
The table snickers at that.
“The thing is, one of Capri Dotelli’s friends – Gil, I think his name was – went on a rant about this woman at a certain strip club who looks remarkably like her. Hm.” Frankie taps his chin.
This fucking prick.
“What are the chances, am I right? She went into hiding, right? Yeah, she disappeared from her job, her home. And what are the chances she pops up in the most unlikely places? At a club… owned by the son of Sonny’s suspected killer.”
She’s in danger. My woman is in danger. And I’m stuck here, surrounded with guns on me.
Frankie sighs. “So you see, Nicky needed to wait for your next stupid move in trying to track him down, so he could take a look for himself.”
I ball my fists.
No…