Chapter Thirteen
GIANNI
I feel two sets of eyes drill into my back as I drag a half empty bottle of whiskey from the cabinet under the sink.
I’m not sure if the silent staring is stemming from disapproval or anticipation, and I don’t care.
After ten rounds with Becca’s father ended in a stonewall, I’m drowning my rage in eighty-proof waters, and they can stay righteous and thirsty.
My phone sparks to life with another ring, the second since walking through the door. I silence it without bothering to look at who’s calling. It’s the same impatient asshole who has been lighting it up all day, demanding updates I don’t have.
Toscano is like a clingy girlfriend who needs constant validation. One who has me running an entire fucking mafia while playing a killer’s version of Where’s Waldo .
Anton has an unreadable expression on his face as I tip the bottle back and drop into the last of the three folding metal chairs.
The mood in the upstairs level of the Chop House is substantially more subdued than the last time I was here.
To be fair, that night, the whole place reeked of blood, sharp metal objects, and the disemboweled carcass of a former U.S. Marshal.
Tonight, the only thing stinking up the place is the raw stench of apprehension.
“So you got nothing else out of him, huh?”
“Nope,” I mutter, taking another drink.
“So that’s it?” He lifts his thick gray eyebrows toward his hairline. “Two decades of threats, blackmail, and coercion, and Reese has no first name, no license plate, no address?”
“No.” My grip tightens around the bottle. “Just Dagger.”
“Well, that gets us fucking nowhere.”
No shit . It’s half the reason I didn’t push back when Becca kicked me out of my own house. Well, that, and thirty more seconds of enduring poorly crafted “kettle” insults at the hand of a very black “pot” would’ve earned me a night behind bars.
I haven’t told Anton about my wife’s little field trip to Hackensack.
I prefer slamming into one brick wall at a time.
I turn to Owen. “Any movement on Saddler’s phone?”
“Afraid not. If this Dagger is the one who called it, I’m guessing not getting an answer spooked him enough to turn his burner off and go silent. He’s most likely sticking to the shadows and biding his time.”
“Which leaves us idling on defense.” A weak position that sets us up for an ambush. “What about the deeper dive into Saddler’s background I told you to do? Did you find anything?”
He shakes his head. “I hit one dead end after another.”
I rise to my feet, this cornered feeling stirring something volatile in me.
“I’m telling you, the key to this guy’s identity lies with Saddler.
There’s no way my father would send a government turncoat to a Rogue scab and trust them to keep their eyes on their own paper.
There’s a connection between these two we’re not seeing. ”
“I’ve run multiple background checks. There’s nothing there.”
Taking one last long pull from the bottle, I hitch my arm back and send it hurling across the room into the wall. “Then fucking look again.”
Owen winces as shards of glass scatter across the floor. “I was going to tell you something, but maybe now isn’t the time.”
On edge and half drunk, I close the space between us. “Let me clue you in on something, Henley… If you think this is angry, try withholding something that pertains to my wife’s safety. You’ll find out very quickly how wrong you are.”
I have to admit, watching him struggle to swallow mellows my mood a little, and I return to my seat much calmer.
“Right,” he says, his knees bouncing under his forearms. “The thing is, I’m sort of being tailed by your favorite FBI agents.” He holds up his hand before I can open my mouth. “But I’ve got it under control.”
“Under control?” I fold my arms across my chest, my low laugh not at all humorous. “Owen, you’re sitting in a condemned meat packing plant with the two highest-ranking members of the New Jersey mob. Those two agents aren’t the sharpest tools, but even they know a two-sided coin when they see one.”
He lifts his chin with conviction I’m not used to seeing from him. “The car I drove here has plates that trace to a dead farmer in Pennsylvania.” He holds up his hand. “Don’t ask.”
I shrug. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Besides, I put a tracker on their sedan two days ago while they were inside Louie’s Deli drowning their sorrows in pastrami.
” He dips his hand into his pocket, returning with his phone, already cued up to a GPS app.
“I know all their moves in real time. If they get within a mile radius, an alarm goes off.”
“I’m impressed.” I truly am. I didn’t think Owen’s starched collar loosened up that much. There may be hope for him yet. “I’m going to need that downloaded to my phone.”
“Great,” Anton grumbles. “Badge boy is running around sticking trackers on people without their knowledge. That won’t backfire.” His narrowed stare shifts from Owen back to me. “Can we get back to discussing the issue at hand?”
Owen glares at him. “What’s your problem with me?”
“How much time do you have?”
This pissing contest between them is pushing the limits of tolerable.
Anton was fine when it was just us here, but the moment he clocked Owen’s blond head coming through the door, his demeanor flipped a switch.
He’s made no secret of the fact he doesn’t trust our double agent, but Henley has put his freedom on the line for Becca twice now. That’s good enough for me.
“Enough!” I shout, my temples throbbing as my phone erupts with another incoming call.
Once again, I ignore it, Toscano’s relentless bullshit, coupled with the fact I’m sitting here with these idiots, darkening my already shitty mood.
“I have no intention of spending the night here with you two, so let’s focus and get back on track.
” Or at least find the fucking track. “Seventy-two hours ago, we know this bastard was somewhere near Teaneck. Any thoughts on what could’ve triggered his movement? ”
The lines on Anton’s forehead deepen. “The news story?”
Owen shakes his head. “Too short of a window. It’s a four-hour drive from Providence to Teaneck. For Saddler’s phone to ping an hour after the broadcast, this guy would’ve had to have been in the vicinity before it broke.”
“Then where is he getting his information? With Henry and Marcello dead…”
Anton shrugs. “Maybe he assumed no contact meant shit had gone south, and he decided to go full throttle.”
“Why take the risk? Why not fade into obscurity and resurface when the dust settles?”
“I said he was an impulsive criminal, not a smart one.” The room stills, and I’m about to suggest shelving this discussion until tomorrow, when he glances up, darkness flaring in his eyes. “Unless he knows there’s someone else desperate to erase their connection to Providence.”
The lingering taste of whiskey sours. “I thought you said, ‘Toscano bleeds red, white, and green, and once he makes a decision, it’s set in stone.’”
His stare sharpens. “I’m not talking about Toscano.”
Once I read between the lines, I want to put my fist through them.
“Are you thinking Carmine could be a wild card?” I ask, silencing another incoming call.
“It’s possible,” he says, way more calmly than any of us have a right to be.
“You said yourself it seems like he has Cathalina acting as a buffer, interrupting your wedding night and ambushing Becca at the memorial service with random and invasive questions. If anyone got suspicious, he could easily blame it on her lingering scorned feelings from being rejected.”
Owen clasps his hands. “You did say Cathalina told Becca that, ‘They should watch out for each other because none of the men were going to do it, especially Carmine.’”
Which is all I said. Anton doesn’t need to know there’s talk of him circulating.
“But how and why?” I press, agitated at the possibility of another convoluted web of deceit. “My father wasn’t the type to share glory, plus Carmine seemed genuinely shocked in Staten Island when we pulled back the curtain on his side hustle.”
“Was he shocked at the reveal or that we’d found out about it?
” Anton arches an eyebrow, padding his delivery with a hit of silence.
For his safety, I’ll assume that’s a rhetorical question and wait out the unnecessary theatrics.
Realizing his reveal fell flat, he tightens his tone.
“He’s an Italian mob boss controlling a heavily Irish-populated city.
We’d be idiots not to assume there’d be some overlap. ”
Translation… I’d be an idiot.
I grit my teeth against the doubt that’s slipping through the cracks.
Goddamn it, there are too many fingers pointing in too many directions.
The scars that litter my back make me wary of sudden blame shifts, especially from my underboss.
While I can’t discount the possibility of Carmine being a traitor, it’s a stretch that’d require a lot of lines to intersect and loop.
“You think he’s double dipping, too?” Owen interjects, drawing me from my thoughts.
“I think he could’ve used it as leverage.
I always found the timing of Marcello’s failed, forced union between Gianni and Cathalina odd.
” Anton turns to me with a blunt stare. “Mafia marriages are contracted at birth and fulfilled when the bride turns eighteen, not on a random Tuesday in her thirties.”
The silence in the room sharpens to a razor-thin point.
“Are you insinuating Damiano could’ve gotten wind of what was going on in Providence and used his silence as a bargaining chip?”
“Damiano has one daughter and no sons. There’s been a lot of power-hungry unrest in his chain of command.” He offers an idle shrug. “If I had to guess, I’d say he knew he was risking the end of his bloodline, and Marcello’s betrayal carved out a solution.”