I shrug. “You first.”
“I should have taken you out years ago.”
“Yeah, that seems likely.”
“Taking off before your Fed buddies get here? Coward.”
I stand. “Should make for an interesting morning, don’t you think? Have fun trying to talk your way out of things with them. They’re usually pretty dense, so you might have better luck.” I head back for the window.
Behind me is the unmistakable sound of a shifting mattress.
I spin.
The gun is raised, and I throw the knife without a thought. The handle barely even jiggles when it strikes true.
He doesn’t get a shot off. His mind goes to where a dying man’s mind goes when he knows the end is nigh. Marco leans back against the headboard and reaches for the handle to yank it out.
I’m on him before he can, and I swat his hand. “Don’t touch it. You’ll bleed out faster.”
His mouth gapes a few times like a fish out of water. Breathy sounds that aren’t words come out.
“It didn’t have to be this way. You chose every step of it—from the taped window in my apartment to tonight.” I look athim. “And I never called the Feds. I wanted to see what you’d do if I said that. What exactly was the plan—kill me while law enforcement came through the gate?”
More breathy sounds.
“You got sloppy, Marco. Comfortable. It made you stupid.” I pick up the gun from the floor. “Time for old blood in this organization. My mother’s legacy, the way it always should have been. Tell the devil I’ll be sending more his way soon.”
I don’t look back. I don’t need to.
The drive home is twenty-three minutes. The city runs at its before-dawn frequency—thin traffic, open streets. I drive through it, and I think about my mother, who would have done Marco and had breakfast.
My father would have said some pretty words first, something solemn probably, then had breakfast. He was the sentimental one.
Can’t imagine wasting pretty words on Marco. Even in my own mind. I pick up bagels, lox, and all the accompaniments before heading home.
My father wanted me to build a practice and help out with the organization when I had the time. My mother wanted me to shoot first, ask questions never.
I have a few calls to make to the old guard. Dons I’ve known my whole life, some still involved, others still involved but only tangentially. “Joe, long time no?—”
“Dario, since when do you use fucking pleasantries? At six in the morning? The fuck’s going on?”
“I was trying something.” Onto business. “Marco’s dead. I’m taking over.”
The old man goes quiet. “You did him?”
They’re allies of a sort, so it’s a tricky question. “He forced my hand. Attacked my family.”
“Why did he do something stupid like that?”
“He thought I was going soft. He was wrong. Wanted to take us out. He failed.”
Joe goes quiet again. “Your mom woulda been proud.”
I don’t know why, but that strikes something in my core. “Yeah. I think she would have.”
“You get things settled. We’ll have dinner.”
“I’ll call then.” We hang up, and I make the same call four more times. All but Giovanni is on board. That’s fine. He’ll roll over when he sees I’m in with everyone else. He isn’t one to buck a trend.
