But why the hell would Victor be doing favors for Antonio? They’re literally on opposite sides of a war. Antonio’s been paying Nico Conti’s bills since I was in law school. Victor wouldn’t piss on Antonio if he was on fire.
Lorenzo tilts his head, eyes narrowed. “You think I sold her out? To Antonio fucking Martinez?”
“I’m asking.”
“No, you’re not. You’re telling. Don’t fucking insult me.”
He’s right; my palm is resting against the hem of my jacket where the weight is. I don’t remember putting it there. The body decides these things on its own, after a while.
“Lorenzo.”
“Five years.” He drops the cigarette and grinds it under his shoe. “Five years of bleeding for you. Of doing the kind of work that wakes a man up at four in the fucking morning.” He pushes off the wall. “And you’re standing here in an alley accusing me of selling out the woman you sleep with because Antonio Martinez somehow found a Brooklyn address.”
“You knew it.”
“So did you.”
He spreads his hands.
“Boss. If I wanted to hurt you, there are a thousand cleaner ways. I don’t go through girls. I don’t go through people you love.Especiallypeople you love. I’d have to be a fucking moron topoint an arrow that direct at you and then stand here and let you ask me about it.”
I don’t answer.
“And another thing,” he says. “If I had anything to do with this—Antonio, the bathroom, the goon—I wouldn’t be in this alley with you right now. I’d have done it back at her place Wednesday night, when you had the second guy on his knees on the rug and your back was turned. One round, behind the ear, while you were busy. I had every chance, Raffaele. Every chance. But we’re both still here, aren’t we? That’s the whole goddamn proof.”
He’s right. But it’s also the kind of thing a man in his position would say.
“Then explain it.”
“I can’t. I don’t know how Antonio found her. I’ve been turning it over in my head since that night. I don’t have an answer for you.”
He looks at me. Waits.
“Boss. You have to choose.”
“I have to choose?”
“Yes. Right now. Either you trust me, or you don’t. If you don’t, take the gun out and we settle this in the alley. If you do, then put it down. Because I’m not going to keep working under a man who’s one bad mood away from putting one in me. That’s not a life. I won’t live it.”
I stare at him, make him think I’m considering the offer.
“Look—”
The first gunshot comes from inside.
It’s muffled by the wall but unmistakable. Single round. A second later, three more in close succession. Then a long burst—automatic fire, eight or ten rounds, two shooters minimum, professional cadence.
It’s followed by a scream.
Lorenzo’s gun is in his hand before mine is.
We glance at each other for a quarter of a second.
“Move.”
We burst through the door.
The corridor is short and turns once. We take it at a run, shoulders low. The shooting from the main room is sustained. Somebody’s reloading. Somebody else is calling out positions in Italian.
