10. What did you do to my car?
CORRADO
10
Downstairs, I’m standing in front of my apartment, freshly shaved and dressed in jeans and a casual white button-down shirt under a dark navy-blue jacket, when Hank pulls up.
I get into the limo, and Hank lowers the partition, an unusual move for him.
“Excuse me, sir, the address our guys gave me for the location of your wife’s car takes us to the junkyard in parts of town where we might need extra support, so I brought my accessories. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Where did you store them?”
“In a duffel under your seat.”
As he drives out from the parking spot, I open the compartment under my seat that stores Hank’s accessories, a code word for weapons. Inside the black-and-blue-striped duffel bag, I find complete gear a SWAT team member would envy and, oddly, a tennis ball. I grab the hand grenade, weigh it in my hand, then slip it into the pocket of my jacket.
Next, I take the tennis ball and weigh it. “You play tennis?”
Hank chuckles. “That’s a good-luck ball, sir. Jace dropped it in there.”
“How is he doing?”
“Better after the surgery. Thank you for asking.”
I slip the tennis ball into the other pocket of the suit and slide the compartment back under my seat, then check the news and stocks as well as respond to messages from people who are waiting to make moves based on my decisions. Nobody congratulated me on my marriage. Either they haven’t gotten the news yet, or if they have, they’re waiting for me to confirm. I’ll keep them waiting.
The ride takes a little over an hour and a half, and we’re well out of the city. Just when I start wondering how far they towed her car, Hank starts slowing down beside a massive junkyard.
This time, I lower the partition. “Are you sure this is the right place?”
He recites the address.
“Is this where we normally tow cars to?” I ask.
“We tow to Cane’s Shop, sir. This is a little unusual.”
“Who owns this place?”
Hank scrubs his jaw. “One of the Monellis owns it.”
“Do you happen to know when the car was brought here?”
“Early this morning.”
Last night, Franko Monelli left the party and sent out feelers about my wife. Likely, they found her car by the plates registered to her, and he picked it up from Cane’s without any fuss since Cane’s deal is with all members of my Order.
This is a bold power move on his part, to come after my wife’s car, then have it moved into one of his locations. For what purpose? To draw me out here to the middle of nowhere? Or just to make a statement?
If it’s the latter, then what statement is he making?
I slide out the compartment again and grab the entire duffel bag. “Off I go, then. Watch for the sirens.”
When one of the Order members is in trouble, they can activate a panic button on their phone. If there are any other Order members around, their phones will start displaying wailing sirens on the screen.
The gate’s manned by a pair of leashed Dobermans, my favorite breed of dog. If I didn’t think they’d bite my hand off, I’d pet them. Still, I pause by the smaller one, who I think might be a female.
Underfed and with a dull chocolate-brown coat, her body is still elegant and beautiful, and her brown eyes watch me as if daring me to approach. With a wink, I keep walking along the unpaved gravel road between the towers of steel that make up this car graveyard in search of humans.
I pass by the office with a desk, a lamp, and a little living space complete with a small TV blaring a soccer game and a table full of empty food boxes and beer cans. A red-and-yellow stained couch faces the TV. A pillow and blanket are on the floor.
Someone lives here.
Hopefully, they’re home. In case they’re in the bathroom, which I presume is behind the small door between the office and the living space, I knock on the window. While waiting, I overhear voices. To my right somewhere, a man and woman argue.
While I wouldn’t expect a woman to work or live in such a way, one never knows, so I move toward the noise. As I get nearer, I hear a man respond, and the woman now sounds upset, her voice rising. They’re way in the back of the piled-up junk cars. When I get close enough to them, I recognize Michela’s voice.
What’s she doing out here? Damn it.
Now, from just around the corner, I hear the pair of them clearly.
“Please, sir,” she says. “I’m late for work.”
“Take a bus. Besides, if that’s your car, you can’t drive out of here.”
I remain hidden from their sight, listening.
“It’s not a junk car. If you take it down, I’ll drive it out of here and get out of your hair. Here. I have money. How much do you want?”
When the man doesn’t answer immediately, I take a step forward, then retreat again, wanting to hear what he’ll say to her before I intervene.
“We can talk about payment in my office.” His tone sounds suspiciously like he just sexually proposed to my wife.
“Or we can settle it here,” she says.
That a girl.
The man doesn’t answer, but I hear heavy boots hit the gravel, and they’re coming my way.
I step out from around the corner. The man stops. He wears blue jeans, a baseball team jersey, and a matching hat. He immediately recognizes a threat and tucks a hand under his leather jacket as if reaching for his piece.
I grip his wrist and force him to shake my hand instead. “Corrado Mancini.” I introduce myself and watch for his reaction.
The widening of his eyes tells me this man had no idea who he was dealing with when he junked the car. If I were Franko Monelli, I’d tell nobody whose car that was, for nobody in their right mind would destroy a car that belongs to a founding family.
Actually, if I were Monelli, I wouldn’t mess with my wife’s car at all.
“Mr. Mancini,” the man stammers. “What can I do for you?”
“Corrado,” Michela says from behind the man. I hear her walking over gravel. She reaches us, and I release the man’s hand. My gaze bores a hole in the middle of his forehead. He gets the message that I want him to behave.
“What are you doing here?” she asks as she comes to stand next to me.
“Getting your car as we agreed. Remember our agreement?” When she doesn’t answer, I cut her a gaze. “Well?”
“I remember.”
“So what are you doing here retrieving the car?”
“I didn’t think you’d find it. The towing company moved it here, and this guy”—she pauses and points at the man as if we’re preschoolers on the playground, and she came to me to complain about another boy stealing her doll—“junked it.” She tugs my sleeve, then points at the top of the pile at a white metal mess attached to four wheels.
As we watch, a wheel becomes dislodged and tumbles down the car tower. It rolls away from us, and Michela stares after it, looking defeated.
I turn to the man. “This here is my wife,” I tell him. As his face pales and he swallows, knowing his life hangs in the balance, I continue. “There’s a man in the front waiting for me. On your way out, you will tell him everything you know about how her car arrived on your lot.”
“I can’t say anything.”
I smirk. “I know you can’t.” The price of ratting out Franko is his life, but that’s the price one pays for dealing with men like Franko. The Monellis throw people under the bus and use up their resources like parasites. This is why the Order’s getting rid of them. “Get going.”
The man runs off, and I throw my arm around Michela’s shoulder and squeeze.
“Come on.” I start moving. “You’re a New Yorker. You’ll tough it out.”
She sighs. “I really needed that car.”
“The car is where it belongs.”
“You are such an asshole.”
I throw my head back and laugh. “Baby, that’s my bright side.”