23

ROCELLO

“Don’t speak ill of the dead, child.” An old granny at one of my short-lived stays with a foster family had said that. She’d been an ornery old bitch, but she had a point. The dead were somehow blameless. It was the living that caused all the problems. Few of them were decent, and even fewer gave a crap about anyone else.

I’d thought that Emilio was one of the good ones. After we ran away from our final group home, we’d lived on the streets. Begged in the park. Robbed rich kids in their prep school uniforms. Emilio had taken us in. He had put a roof over our heads. The man filled our stomachs with food and gave us purpose. He’s saved us. He’d saved me. By teaching me about my heritage. And about the kind of man I wanted to be.

But you know who else had a crappy childhood? Margo. And he’d left her and her mother to fend for themselves.

I couldn’t get past that part of it.

During our time at Connors’ house, it crossed my mind to ask him to show me that will. I just couldn’t believe what I’d been hearing. I couldn’t wrap my mind around Emilio’s selfishness.

In the end, I didn’t do it. There was no reason for me to see that piece of paper. Roscano’s actions alone had proved its existence.

He was determined to put Margo in the ground, so he could keep his father’s fortune. He had attempted to do that once already. The second time, it was up to me and my boys. And, although we had to have a little chat with her, going after that woman was not an option.

If I hadn’t stepped in when Keeler and Portis held up her bar, I wouldn’t be in this position. I would’ve gotten to know her—and she likely wouldn’t even be here. That thought stopped me in my tracks for a moment. Roscano sent those assholes to take Margo out. But it didn’t play out, in my opinion. Nick was an idiot and a cheap bastard, but even he knew better than to entrust those morons with an important job.

To my mind, that was just a weird twist of fate that started us down this path. Now she was my friend. My boy liked her. My friends did, too.

Which meant we had one hell of a problem on our hands.

To me, it was important that we stuck to our everyday routine. I didn’t want to make Roscano suspicious. For the moment, he had to believe we were actually going to carry out his orders. The following day, this routine included collecting from Bob Myers, owner of Napolitana, a restaurant in Manhattan.

Myers was a typical degenerate gambler. Nine times out of ten, he would lose money. The one time he’d win, he’d brag about it for a week, before gambling some more. He’d been repeating this cycle for the past couple of years. That was when he borrowed money from Roscano for the first time. I liked his restaurant—his chefs could do amazing things with hand-rolled pasta. Whenever I walked into that place, the smells alone were enough to make me want to eat about half its menu. It was too bad Myers was in charge of that otherwise decent restaurant.

Cars speeding down the road behind us, Jumaine, Slade and I went down the stairs to Napolitana’s basement. Being the first to enter, I swept the large area spreading out in front of me. About two dozen people in white uniforms and big hats were standing near the kitchen counters. Using their knives, they were chopping vegetables, fish, and meat. Some waiters were coming in and getting out, with huge trays in their hands. In the upper left corner, smoke was pouring from the rotisserie. Myers was on the far side, talking to one of his cooks.

Our gazes meeting, I read fear in his face. His Mediterranean complexion turning pale, he had a hollow gaze in his gray eyes.

“Hey, Bob.” I slowly closing the gap between us. “How’s business?”

“Not great,” he spoke in a weak voice and folded his arms across his chest. “I’ve been struggling around here.”

“I’m curious,” I addressed him in an ironic tone. “If business sucks so bad, what do you pay these people in? Tablecloths? Or is it wine?”

“Look, guys,” he requested, his gaze traveling from me to Slade and Jumaine on either of my flanks. “I know I’ve missed a payment or two, but I’ve got a lot of expenses these days. My son’s getting married in a couple of weeks; you know how expensive weddings are. Also, my daughter’s graduating from…”

“Yeah, yeah…” I interrupted, my imposing stature dwarfing his tiny 5’7” figure. “Come on, Myers. You know the drill. Give us the money, so we can get the fuck out of here.”

“I don’t have it, I’m afraid,” he claimed, the beads of sweat under his hairline betraying his tension.

“Don’t make it more complicated than it has to be, Myers,” Slade spoke in a calm but chilling voice—a special talent of his. “You know how this goes. You pay on time? Everybody’s happy. You don’t? Roscano’s pissed and he sends us to collect, one way or another. You said your son’s getting married soon. You don’t want to miss your boy’s wedding, do you?”

At that point, a thud from behind me drew my attention. I whipped my head around, and spotted two men just past the entrance, holding rifles. That stupid prick.

The first bullet crackled through the air. One of them whistled past me and got lodged in the wall in front of me, Myers whirling around to flee. I lunged to the right, not in the mood to take a bullet today.

I landed hard on my chest and rolled across the floor as every chef in the place screamed and ran around like idiots. Slade had a good position behind a stainless-steel refrigerator, but he held his fire, not wanting to hit one of the cooks.

Good. Decent Italian food was really hard to come by.

A spray of bullets hit a counter near me and suddenly, I was covered in bits of carrots and cucumbers. A bullet ricocheted off the edge of a pillar on my left with a deafening bang. I looked over and my heart sank. Jumaine hadn’t been able to find cover, so he was crouched behind that pillar, and it was too small to shield much of him. Fuck.

Bullets rained over his head, ripping off chunks of paint and concrete. His hair was full of plaster. Slade was the only one of us not covered in debris from the shoot-out.

One of the gunmen was sneaking toward me from my right. He stepped in some alfredo sauce and slipped, giving me a chance to take the shot. The man’s yelp distracted his accomplice, and Slade fired. A moment later, there was a thud as the man hit the deck.

Jumaine jumped up, training his gun on the injured man. “Talk, motherfucker,” he snarled, kicking him in the side. “Who sent you?”

I strode over, swearing internally. I’d just assumed that these two goons were here to protect Myers. Until Jumaine’s question, I hadn’t thought they might be here to target us.

The injured man moaned. “Fuck off!” Pain was written all over his face as he coughed out blood.

Slade, who’d taken care of the other man, appeared, his gun also drawn. “Can I end this motherfucker?” Knowing my friend, it could have been a bluff to get the guy to talk—or it could’ve been a genuine question.

I was torn. It would be nice to blow his fucking head off. He wasn’t an innocent like Margo. He’d shot at us first. But Jumaine was right. If there was more to this than met the eye, we needed to know. And the cops already had to be on their way, so we didn’t have much time.

Just as I was about to beat the crap out of him, a buzzing sound came from nearby him. Slade shoved him out of the way and searched the mess of pots, pans, and ingredients until he pulled out the killer’s phone.

His face darkened as he looked at the lock screen. A preview of the text he’d just received showed there.

A text from Roscano.

It read, “Are they gone?”

Son of a bitch.

Jumaine looked murderous. “Unlock your phone,” he demanded to the guy on the ground.

The asshole looked up at us defiantly.

I pushed aside the rage in my head and spoke in a steady voice. “It’s simple. You unlock your phone, and you go to a hospital where they’ll fix you up. Some pretty nurse with big tits will bring you your meal. Sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?”

Slade delivered the alternative. “Or your family can hold your funeral services on the edge of the river after we dump your body.” He delivered another kick to the guy’s ribs.

After a moment of deliberation that was clearly for show, the man groaned, holding out his hand for the phone. Slade didn’t give it to him but allowed him to use the keypad to unlock it. “Should I just say it’s done?”

“Yeah,” Jumaine said, looking grim.

Slade and I turned back to the dumb fuck on the ground. Knowing what had to be done next, I shoved the barrel of my gun into his mouth. His eyes widened, but I didn’t allow him to complain.

One more squeeze of the trigger brought the matter to a close. Roscano, that little prick, had double-crossed us. We’d followed his orders. We hadn’t liked it, but we’d done it, and he’d had the nerve to pay someone to take us out. That’s how grateful he’d been to my boys and me. Two seasoned shooters, armed to the teeth were our reward for more than a decade of service to the Roscano family.

“Myers could have been part of this,” Slade commented. “I’ll go get him.”

“You saw him, Slade,” I reminded him. “He was scared shitless when we walked in. Not to mention he wouldn’t let his kitchen turn into a fucking warzone.”

“Shit!” Jumaine swore, giving the dead man one more kick.

“Boys, I’d say it’s time we lay low.” I holstered my gun.

“What about Margo?” Slade asked instantly.

“Her, too.”

“She’s not going to like that,” Jumaine said.

“Who says we’re giving her a choice?” I grunted.

We were quiet, contemplative, and covered in food as we drove away.

Leaving the city would be like leaving behind the past fifteen years of my life. A small part of me was thrilled. Taking orders from Roscano? Nope. Not anymore. Despite this new revelation about Emilio’s past, I still thought he was a hundred times the man his son was.

But this was more than just a professional relationship gone sideways. Roscano hadn’t put a hit out on just Margo. He had put out a hit on all of us. The Don wouldn’t leave a stone unturned to find us. My only hope was that we would get to him before he could hurt us.