“What kind of message?”
She looks at me, her lips twisting into a grimace.
“’New management coming soon.’”
Jesus Christ.
She gets off the couch and runs to her bedroom. When she comes back, she’s got a hoodie on, and her bag flung over her shoulder. She stops in the middle of the living room, scrolling through her phone.
“What are you doing?” I ask, pulling my shirt back on.
“I’m calling a car. I have to go. If I don't show up, it's a signal. It tells every capo that I'm hiding. That I'm scared.” She slips her feet into her sneakers. “And fuck that. Riccardo's already looking for a reason to call me weak and get everyone to revolt against me. I'm not giving him the chance.”
“I'm coming with you.”
“Lochlan, you don’t have to. This is my battle to fight.”
“This is not up for debate,” I say. “Give me a second.” I run into my room, unlock my safe, and grab my Glock 19. It’s fully loaded. Then I pull on a pair of sweatpants and stick it in the waistband.
I expect her to fight me, to tell me she can handle herself, that she's been handling herself for forty years and doesn't need a babysitter.
But she shocks the hell out of me and nods.
“Stay close,” she says, squeezing my arm.
“That's the plan.”
And if I need to take out any Russians to keep her safe, so fucking be it. We’ll battle together.
Moretti's is a family restaurant in the North End. It’s been there for three generations, under DiMicheli protection. It’s one of those old school Italian places with red-checkered tablecloths and pictures of the owner with half the city council on the walls.
I pull up to the curb and turn off the ignition, letting out a low whistle. “Fuck, they really did a number on this place.”
The front window is shattered. We sidestep jagged pieces of glass scattered all over the sidewalk.
Inside is worse.
Tables are flipped. Chairs lie on the tile floor in broken pieces. The kitchen is in shambles, shelves cracked in half, pots and pans all over the floor, jars of tomato sauce shot up, splaying the walls with chunks of red. It’s like a fucking bomb detonated right in the middle of it.
And on the back wall, sprayed in red paint just like Zio told me, is a sign that says, NEW MANAGEMENT COMING SOON.
Adriana’s mouth drops open as she takes in the wreckage, her face draining of color. But the shock only lasts a few seconds. She must realize her reaction because she pulls herself together, eyes hardening, lips stretched into a tight line.
Sonny Moretti stands in the middle of the wreckage, fear etched into his expression. He's a stocky guy in his mid-sixties, kind of a local celebrity famous for his cooking. His wife cries quietly in the corner, comforted by their daughter.
“Ms. DiMicheli.” His voice is grave and laced with panic. “Thank you for coming.”
“I'm sorry this happened, Sonny.” Adriana's voice is steady and calm. All business again. The same woman who was moaning my name twenty minutes ago is now pure ice. “We're going to handle the people who did this.”
Sonny nods. “It was the Russians. My surveillance cameras picked up three of them. They didn't even bother to cover their faces.” He gestures at the destruction around him. “Thirty-two years I've been here. Thirty-two years under your father's protection.And now this. What is he going to do? How is he going to protect us?”
“My father is recovering. I'm handling things until he's back on his feet,” she says.
He furrows his brows then sighs. “With respect...” He trails off before he finishes the sentence.
He doesn't have to say another word. I can see exactly what he's thinking. What they're all thinking.
She's a woman. She can't protect us. Maybe it's time to cut a deal with the new guys before things get worse.
