Chapter 9
Enzo
Shower follows sex with Flora.
We’re having a breakfast of bacon and eggs when my phone begins to ring. It’s Alessandro. I pick up at once.
“Good morning, boss,” he says.
“Good morning, Sandro.”
“CCTV from two places in the vicinity puts the car close to the warehouse within the two-hour time frame,” he reports.
“a shop within the block and another warehouse across from it. I’ve sent over copies of the footage from them.
A maintenance man from that warehouse also claims to remember the car.
He said the driver almost clipped him on their way in. ” His tone is low with fatigue.
He and the crew must have been out all night while I was cooped in here having the time of my life with Flora. Only the memory of my near-death encounter with Jacob and his musketeers at the motel last night keeps guilt from ravaging my mind.
“Good job,” I say. “I’m sending you an address now. That’s where we’ll pick them up, 9-ish this morning.”
“Okay, boss.” Now his voice is suddenly upbeat.
With the end of this brief saga in sight, he and the crew can go back to regular business.
But more importantly, in the family, forgiveness is a sin.
Every slight from our rivals or even friends must be repaid in double.
It’s a duty every made man understands and revels in discharging, for it is only when the odds are evened that he can reclaim his dignity.
When I end the call, Flora stares at me. There’s a silent question in her eyes.
“My men have found CCTV footage putting the car in the neighborhood of the warehouse,” I tell her. “They also found someone who saw the car. Do you want to see them?”
“Yes, please,” she replies.
We move over to the computer, and I fire it up.
The footage is waiting in the WhatsApp application installed on the system.
I pull it up, and Flora and I watch. In each of them, the car rolls by the cameras twice, once while coming in and once while leaving.
There’s more than a one-hour time lapse between their coming and going.
“It’s the Chevy alright,” she says. “See there, the same license plates.”
I nod in agreement. “Check the time stamp.”
“It fits right in,” she says. “This is enough for my story. I just need to interview the man who said he saw the car.”
“We’ll get you to him.”
“When did your… friends dig up all these?” she asks.
“Last night probably,” I reply, “or early this morning.”
She plops her ass down on the desk beside the computer and stares at me with wonder in her eyes.
“What?” I ask.
“If you had men who are capable of digging up information this quickly, why did you drag me into it?”
“Because I didn’t know exactly what they had to look for or where to look for it. Bringing you in helped me find that.”
“But I’m not the only investigative journalist in the city,” she says. “Why me?”
I rise from the swivel chair and move closer to her.
Now she’s forced to look up at me.
“You’re the best,” I say.
A small smile starts to form on her lips.
I arrest it with a kiss.
“Thank you,” she says.
I pull away before the urge to go further than a kiss grips me. “I have to leave now.”
A shadow steals into her face. It stays there only for the briefest of moments, but I catch it before it leaves. “Oh…”
“I’ll be back soon,” I assure her. “Then I’ll take you to see the man.”
“How soon?”
“Two hours,” I tell her. “Maybe three.”
“Okay. Can I use your computer? I want to start putting my story together.”
“Sure. Just remember I wasn’t at the motel.”
“Who saved me then?”
“Nobody. You ran away.” I throw on the suit and holster my gun beneath it.
Flora’s eyes narrow, and she opens her mouth, as if to ask a question.
“See you in a bit,” I tell her and walk out of the apartment. Outside, I hail a cab and give the driver Flora’s house address. As I settle into the backseat, I text the same address to Alessandro.
Jacob and the others are going to be watching the house for Flora. When they see me instead, they’ll assume I’ve come to pick clothes for her. They’ll tail me from the house under the assumption that I’ll lead them to her. But I’ll be luring them into a trap.
I’ve requested Alessandro and the crew’s presence just in the event things go wrong.
As the cab pulls away from the curb, I send out another text. This one is to Jack Cartagna, the Don’s son: Set the table. We’re having a feast at heaven’s gate.
Heaven’s gate is an old farmhouse out on the interstate outside the city. That’s where I’m going to lure Jacob and his musketeers. They’ll have two different caporegimes to deal with. There’s no chance in hell that they’re coming out alive.