Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
Dominic
The four digits Edwardo gave were a lead, and we made that lead work for us.
First, we limited the field to the city prefixes and the carrier blocks our contact could pull, then we ran that smaller pool against tower activity in the two-block sector where it was assumed Freddy answered the calls.
That winnowed thousands down to a few dozen live numbers.
We fed those into an auto-dialer overnight to clear the noise, and by dawn, Matteo had a scrap of paper with six undialed lines.
The phone’s on speaker. Edwardo’s still strapped to the table, wrists loose enough to gesture. Each time someone picks up, Matteo holds the phone out to him. If it’s the wrong voice, he confirms with a shake of his head, then Matteo kills the line and proceeds to dial the next number.
It’s a wild bet. There’s a high chance it’ll yield nothing, but there’s also no harm in trying, considering I’m out of options already.
My chest feels tighter with every miss. I need fucking answers and I need them now. Whoever is after me is plotting something else and several steps ahead...while I’m still stuck in this fucking maze.
“Four more,” Matteo mutters, voice dry and stripped of sleep. He looks at me once, then dials.
The rings drag for a long time, and I almost lose hope that someone’s going to pick up until it connects.
“Hello?” The voice is deep and flat...with no curiosity in it.
Edwardo’s breath snags in his throat, and then he jerks forward, eyes widening with recognition. He nods hard and fast.
Matteo eases the phone closer. Edwardo wets his lips, clearing his throat before he forces out the words. “It’s Freddy.”
“Freddy? I thought you died…” The words are low, dragged through disbelief.
I watch Edwardo’s face as he slips into his brother’s skin, selling the lie. “Eddie took the hit. I’ve been laying low…pretending to be him. We should meet up. With my cash. I need to leave the city.”
There’s heavy breathing on the line, like the bastard’s right here in the room with us.
My fingers itch against the grip of my gun, desperate with the need to shove the barrel down his throat and ask if Isabella’s blood was worth it.
Finally, the voice speaks up again. “Sure. Meet me at The Sparrow…Midnight.”
The line goes dead. Edwardo sags back against the table, sweat shining on his temple, chest rising and falling like he’d been holding his breath for years.
And for the first time in a long while, I feel so fucking close.
***
If you want to bait a wolf, you give him something he thinks he knows and watch whether he eats it.
“Remember,” I tell Edwardo while Matteo loosens the rope binding his arms, “You walk in there, you play Freddy. You say your lines.”
He rolls his wrists once the rope falls away, flexing his fingers like he’s trying to bring life back into them. He tries to square his shoulders, but it looks wrong...like a kid wearing his father’s suit. He’s about to walk into a part, and I can already smell the ending.
My men are scattered where I need them. Two outside the front, two on the street corner watching the windows, another near the alley, and Matteo’s already inside.
Tugging the brim of the cheap denim baseball cap lower, I walk into the bar.
The place smells like stale hops and frying oil.
A jukebox croaks out some old rock tune that bounces off the wood-paneled walls.
I slide onto a stool and order a whiskey neat, my eyes on the door to track Edwardo’s movement.
He comes in exactly fifteen minutes later, looking small and thin as he crumples his way past people toward the booth at a distant corner.
Rino is already there, his face half-hidden.
They hug, making it seem like some sort of reunion before settling back into their seats.
I watch Edwardo’s hands as he gestures because I can’t hear their conversation over the jukebox and drunken laughter. Rino barely moves, except to signal at the waitress for another round of drinks.
It takes another fifteen minutes before I notice a difference. Edwardo has been in the same position, head slightly tilted to the side, and hands resting limply at his sides. There’s a stillness that tells me more than any blood would. He’s dead.
Rino stands, brushes his hands on his jeans as if wiping crumbs off a table, and moves slowly toward the back door.
I tip the signal to Matteo, and he peels from his spot by the wall, shadowing the bastard as I slide off my stool.
Rino’s steps quicken. He bursts into the alley, hand already diving for the pistol under his jacket...but he freezes the moment he realizes we’ve got him cornered.
Three of my men are waiting, guns raised, forming a half-circle that cuts off every direction he could run.
“Easy,” Matteo warns, stepping forward. He knocks the weapon from Rino’s hand with a brutal kick.
Rino snarls, eyes darting from one barrel to the next. “What the fuck is this? What do you want?”
I move closer, pulling off my baseball cap to let him see me clearly. “Answers.”
***
This is my favorite part of the job—torturing men for answers…
watching them break. It’s a tool in the kit, and like any tool, you use what’s appropriate for the job.
You don’t bring a sledgehammer to pry open a lock; you don’t use soft talk on a man who’s been hardened by bullets and bad business.
I’ve got a handful of approaches I rotate through, and how I work a man depends on how he’s built.
Rino’s chained to the wall, wrists looped through iron that digs into his skin when he moves. A man like him doesn’t break easily. It’s an admirable trait, but right now, it’s a thorn in my flesh.
“You could make this easy on yourself,” he says with a thin voice, grinning at me. “Kill me if you want. I won’t tell.”
If everyone who said that got killed, I’d be burying my way to answers.
“Who sent you?” I ask again.
He laughs. “Names won’t fall out of me, man.” There’s a boldness in him that pisses me off. Pride is a currency most men spend freely, and I don’t like being looked at like I’m doing something theatrical.
I pull the lighter from my pocket, rolling it between my fingers. His gaze flicks down...then back to me. “You wanna roast me like fresh meat?” He laughs again, but it lacks its usual confidence.
I press the flame to his forearm, right along the spot Isabella got shot. He tries to stay silent, biting his lips hard enough to draw blood, but the sound comes out anyway…a raw guttural cry that rips out of him.
“Fucking kill me!” he yells, spitting blood onto the ground. “You’re wasting your time.”
The flame moves again. Each press draws a smaller animal sound; he swallows it down like he’s swallowing shame.
It might take a fucking while, but I swear I’m going to get the answers I need.