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Roberto Chinellato is old-school, dyed-in-the-wool, mama’s gravy and meatballs Brooklyn mafia. He’s pushing seventy, but still has the look of a man who’s spent his life cracking skulls and taking names. A crucifix tattoo covers one forearm, with the Virgin Mary and Child on the other, alongside the Italian flag.
He grins a toothy smile at me, running his fingers through his thinning silver hair.
“Nice shiner, too,” he grunts, nodding at my eye.
I take a sip of shit coffee as Roberto leans his elbows on the table between us. We’re at Fairview Prison up in the Hudson Valley, about thirty minutes outside the city. Instead of in an indoor interrogation room or visitors hall, we’re outside in a fenced-in side yard at one of the half dozen bolted-down picnic tables.
Why? Because that’s what they do with prisoners who’re suddenly being transferred into protective isolation.
I raise my good eye to the bloody bandage on Roberto’s neck, then down to the clean one wrapped around his hand.
“Pot-kettle-black,” I grunt, nodding at his fresh wounds.
Roberto was moved to Fairview gen pop without warning, despite that being a shitty idea for a guy with as many enemies as him, and sure enough, somebody made a play for his life within an hour of him being dropped off there.
Luckily, Roberto is tough as nails, and managed to wrench the shiv out of the attacker’s hands. His hands are pretty sliced up for his troubles, but he did grab the homemade knife before it could damage his neck too badly.
Roberto chuckles as he rolls his shoulders. “You should see the other guy.”
I smile wryly. “Well, protective isolation should put an end to that. I’ve already submitted a motion to extend that as long as we deem necessary, by the way. How’s the neck?”
“Enough small talk.” His brow furrows. “I asked you here, Mr. Black, because there are some things you need to know.”
“Well, I am one of your attorneys, Mr. Chinellato. And you’re enjoying client privilege right now, even out here. No cameras, no recordings. You can speak freely.”
He pauses, then smiles. “You and your gramps aren’t exactly on good terms, I hear.”
My jaw tenses. “I’d say that’s putting it mildly.”
“Well,” he winks. “It’s about to get worse. You know he and I have done some business together, yeah?”
I nod. It’s one of the reasons Charles has been hounding Taylor, Gabriel, and I so much about this goddamn case.
“Well, a few months back, I was involved in a deal with some people in Chicago. I didn’t know it, but your grandfather also had some money invested with these assholes. When the deal went tits-up and sideways, well…” Roberto grimaces. “I…may have tried to walk with the merchandise and the cash.”
Jesus Christ.
“Guns came out, I got two of this other prick’s lieutenants, he got a bunch of my guys. The deal was fucked, and needless to say, Charles and me, we had a bit of a falling out. I don’t exactly expect a Christmas card from him anytime soon. Still, your gramps and me, we worked out a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“Well, these other pricks wanted my ass, and Charles and me both knew the feds were itching to come down on me too. So we came up with an agreement where he’d get his grandsons—you and your brother—to get me a reduced sentence, since you’re a couple of superhero miracle lawyers.”
I frown. “Mr. Chinellato, we’re planning on getting you no jail time at all. You’re going to get those charges dropped entirely.”
He smiles thinly. “Yeah? What about until someone makes another play at me in here while we wait to go to trial?”
I shake my head. “You don’t need to—” I frown. “Sorry, what exactly was this deal?”
He shrugs. “I paid him and everyone else back what they lost when that other deal went south. And, well, let’s just say I know more than a few of the skeletons your gramps has in more than a few of his closets. So I promised to keep my mouth shut about those. In exchange, he said he’d look out for my family on the outside. I lost a bunch of my crew in that bad deal, and there are lots of people out there who want me deader than disco.”
What the fuck.
I stare at Roberto. “Mr. Chinellato, all due respect, why the hell are you telling me all this?”
His face darkens. “Because your gramps is going back on his word,” he snaps, jabbing a finger at his bandaged neck. “This was him.”
I arch a brow. “Mr. Chinellato, again, with all due respect, you have a number of enemies?—”
