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“On it.”
“Once you get settled, coordinate with Darius when he gets back from his honeymoon. I want John Davis—dead or alive,” the boss says in an ice-cold tone. Nobody knows who this John Davis fucker is, other than he’s dumb enough to start a war with Jersey.
“Wait, Darius is on his honeymoon?” I ask, eyebrows raised.
“I know. Turns out there is a woman crazy enough to marry him.” Sam marvels.
“Darius will be back in forty-eight hours,” Romeo says. “Until then, get settled in AC.”
“Will do, boss.”
Romeo nods, indicating our meeting’s over, and I stand.
“Bring me cannoli next Sunday when you deliver your kick ups,” Sam says.
“You trust anything that comes out of this fucker’s kitchen?” Romeo snorts.
“You’re the one who just gave the man keys to a restaurant,” Sam counters.
I chuckle, walking out.
Sliding behind the wheel, I grab my phone and text Vince to round up the crew for a meeting. Pocketing my phone, there’s a big grin on my face; I just wish my old man was here to see this.
After dropping by my place and grabbing a few things, I stop at the cemetery. Walking to my folks’ adjoining plots, I brush off some grass clippings from Mamma’s headstone before laying a red rose on the marble. “Hey, Mamma.”
Cleaning off Papà's headstone, I keep my hand on the cold stone. “Hey, Papà.” I’d love to be able to share the news of my being named capo, but you never know what bugs could be lurking—surveillance bugs, not the kind of bugs my papa used to eradicate with his pest control company. He always hated his nickname the Bug Man; Sergio started that shit. I’m so glad the actual cockroach of the family has been exterminated.
“I’m moving to AC, so I’m not going to be around as much.” AC, which brings to mind another vermin, and why I’m speaking to my parents’ graveside…
Fabio, eight-years old
“Sola dosis facit venenum.” My old man carefully selects a small glass container. It’s always exciting when I’m allowed in his workshop. The day he showed me the hidden door in the basement of our house leading to a small cellar with all sorts of bottles and tubes lining the shelves, it felt like I’d entered a magical world.
“The dose makes the poison,” I proudly translate.
“And do you know what that means?” he prods.
“Not really,” I admit.
“Anything can be deadly if given too much of it.”
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“We all need water, right? It’s good for you. But if I forced a man to drink gallon after gallon, his body would shut down and he’d die. It’s called water poisoning.” He pauses, opening the container and pouring it into a beaker before he continues, “Some men kill with guns. Some men kill with their fists. Some men kill with a knife. What do all those dead bodies have in common?”
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“Bullet hole. Crushed skull. Stab wound.” He pauses like I should get it; I don’t. “The cause of death is obvious, and if we’re sending a message, that’s all well and good. But not every hit is a message. Some hits need a little more finesse. Secrecy’s the name of the game.”
“And we don’t want the cops involved,” I add, feeling important for doing so.
“That’s right, my boy. We never want the cops involved. And the way to ensure that? Making the death look natural—and the right dose of poison will do just that.”
“Who is this poison for?” I wonder.
“Maximo Russo.” He grabs a dress shirt from a dry cleaning bag and takes it out of the plastic. Using a paintbrush, he dips the bristles in the poison before he goes every inch of the fabric. “Rat killer is good for all kinds of rats,” he tells me with a smile.
It’s been a few days since I helped Papà in his workshop. He’s been in a bad mood, so I guess the poisoned shirt didn’t kill the Russo rat.
