Chapter 6
Some nights were quick. On others, the job dragged on so long it bled into morning.
I’d been sitting, still and silent, in the same place since midnight—a worn leather armchair in the far corner of Joey Bonetti’s living room, my eyes glued to the door, just waiting for him to walk through it. Dawn had broken an hour ago, and daylight now poured through the windows at the back of the apartment. Fortunately, only a hint of that light made it all the way to the front, meaning that I would still be cloaked in shadows no matter when he arrived.
Though something told me, he wouldn’t be long now.
In my experience, men who stayed out all night did so because of a woman. And while they might tire themselves out in their mistress’ bed, they rarely stayed there past dawn, preferring to duck out before the lady woke up and wanted to talk.
It didn’t matter if the guy had just turned twenty or, like Bonetti, was deep into his fifties. Some things were universal.
And sure enough, a little over fifteen minutes later, I heard sleepy footsteps padding down the hall outside, followed by the clumsy scratch of keys against the lock.
I stayed dead still as Bonetti came inside, tossed his keys on a shelf, and kicked the door closed behind him before bolting the series of deadlocks that ran along its edge. After that, he turned and made his way toward the kitchen without bothering to turn on a light.
He didn’t even glance my way.
I waited until I heard the sound of a kitchen cabinet opening and the clink of glass before rising from the chair. The last thing I needed was one creaky spring in this ancient chair to give my presence away and ruin the element of surprise.
Fortunately, that didn’t happen.
Bonetti’s back was to me as I entered the doorway between the front room and the kitchen. I rested my arm against the frame, blocking his only escape route.
“Joey.”
The man might have been an experienced street soldier, but he was also human, and he jumped at the unexpected sound of someone saying his name. But it wasn’t until he swiveled around and saw my face that he dropped the water glass in his hand. It shattered on impact against the linoleum floor.
It was a reaction I was used to. Just about every made man in New York knew what it meant if they found me in their house.
“D-Dorian,” Bonetti sputtered, his hands shaking badly as he reached out an arm to steady his suddenly wobbly legs. “What are you doing here?”
“I think you know.” The man had been with the D’Angelo family for decades; there was no point in bullshitting him. Besides, I needed him to talk, and fear was a powerful motivator.
“Shit,” Bonetti cursed, his lips starting to shake along with his hands. He drew in one deep, steadying breath before locking gazes with me. “Just tell me who put out the hit. Was it one of the twins?”
I shook my head. “Sal.”
“Sal?” Bonetti’s eyes went wide in genuine shock, followed by a flash of pure anger. His hand stopped shaking long enough to ball into a fist that he pounded against the counter. “Fucking Sal? That traitorous son of a bitch. I don’t believe it.”
I arched a brow. Traitor was a strange choice of words for a man accused of being a rat. But at least Bonetti seemed to be in a talkative mood. Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to get information out of him after all.
“I’m guessing you know why,” I said.
“Oh, I know.” Bonetti shot me a look filled with betrayed rage. “I’m curious what he told you.”
Again, I saw no reason to lie. “Sal has pictures of you handing information over to the feds.”
Bonetti ground out another curse and rolled his eyes. “He does? Of course, he fucking does! Who the hell do you think was the one that sent me to hand it over?”
I crossed my arms, pushing my shoulders back so my chest filled nearly all the space in the door frame. “You expect me to believe Sal sent you to rat out his own family.”
“Not the D’Angelos,” Bonetti shook his head. “All the dirt I handed over was about the other New York families. Our rivals—I swear it.”
And I believed him.
I’d heard enough desperate lies to recognize the sound of truth when I heard it. Still, questions remained.
“Why would he do that?” I demanded.
Sure, there was no love lost between crime families, but the only thing we despised more than each other was the feds.
Talking to the cops wasn’t tolerated—not about anything, not by anyone. It was one of the few sacrosanct laws every last one of us lived by.
“You have no idea. That’s the least of the shit Sal’s been up to in the last year.” Bonetti’s gaze slipped to the side. It was easy to see the gears turning in his mind as a crafty look crept into his eyes. “But I could tell you…Better yet, I could tell the twins. If they knew even a sliver of the truth, they’d kill Sal themselves. Not only that, they’d let me live. I know it.”
There was the desperation I was used to hearing. Bonetti might have taken the long way around, but he’d ended up in the same spot as everyone else—trying to make a deal to save his life.
The only difference was that this time, I was actually interested in hearing what the man had to say.
“What can you tell me?” I asked.
“Lots of things,” Bonetti rushed to say before rattling off a list of Sal’s sins. “His connection with the feds. All the accounting errors in the ledgers. Who was behind Giuseppe’s murder.”
“Wait.” My chest clenched at that last one, my blood running cold. “You know who was behind my papà’s death? And you didn’t say anything until now?”
For the first time, shame flashed over Bonetti’s face. “You don’t stay alive in this business as long as I have by talking. Information is always valuable, and I was keeping it in my back pocket until I needed it for protection…like I do now.”
“Right,” I said, shooting him a hard look. “Then tell me who killed him.”
Bonetti shook his head. “Take me to the twins first. I want their promise of protection before I say a word.”
Nice try, but I wasn’t about to get my brothers’ hopes up on a condemned man’s desperate lies. “This isn’t a negotiation,” I informed him. “Either tell me now or make peace with God.”
Bonetti’s face went white. His lips trembled for just a second before saying, “I don’t blame you for not trusting, Dorian. I wouldn’t believe an old thug like me either…but you don’t have to take my word for it. I have proof.”
“What proof?” I asked, eyeing him skeptically. But I couldn’t resist giving him a chance if it meant finding Giuseppe’s killer.
“I’ll show you. I got it right here.” Bonetti turned around. I stepped forward, stopping right behind him as he slid open one of the kitchen drawers and started rooting around. “Got it!”
Too late, I caught the flash of metal as he spun back around.
Searing pain pierced my right side even as I attempted to lunge out of the way, my reflexes turning what would have been a lethally deep puncture into a long superficial slash instead. Blood poured out, instantly soaking my shirt and dripping onto the floor.
Son of a bitch.
I silently cursed myself for the rookie mistake. I was the Angel of Death, for fuck’s sake. I knew better than to threaten a man and then give him the time and opportunity to arm himself.
But Bonetti had known my weakness. All he had to do was mention Giuseppe, and suddenly, he was playing me like a damned fiddle.
But no more.
Pushing back the shock of surprise and pain, I instantly snaked out my arm, grabbing Bonetti by the wrist. One quick twist and the long butcher knife he’d attacked me with fell into the small puddle of blood at our feet.
He didn’t have a chance to cry out before I swiveled him around and hooked my arms around his neck, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure to knock him out but not irrevocably crush his windpipe.
The moment he was out, I went to work.
A tightly folded dish towel made a decent makeshift bandage, ensuring I didn’t leave behind any more drops of blood while I dragged Bonetti into the bathroom. Once there, I turned on the shower, stripped off his clothes, and placed him in the tub.
Then I bashed the back of the bastard’s head against the edge of the tub.
His blood washed down and circled the drain as I waited for his already weak pulse to stop completely. It took less than a minute and a half.
Once that was taken care of, it was back into the kitchen to clean every last drop of blood off the cracked linoleum floor, scrub the butcher knife, and wipe down any possible trace of my presence.
Just in case the bastard hadn’t been completely bullshitting me, I checked every drawer in the house for any proof of Sal’s wrongdoing. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t find anything.
But just to be safe, I copied all the contacts from his phone onto mine in case I needed to question them later.
It was just past nine in the morning when I finally stepped out of Bonetti’s apartment, locking the door with a spare key behind me. Hiding my blood-stained shirt and bulky pressure bandage underneath my black jacket, I headed for the subway.
It had been a long night, and the moment I stepped into the shelter of my apartment, all I wanted was to patch myself up properly and then get some sleep.
But fate had other plans.
I hadn’t made it halfway to my bedroom or managed to fully peel off my jacket before the doorbell sounded.
Shit.
It had been a long night.
And now it was Tuesday morning.