Page 102 of Captivated

Dante rested back in his chair, and steepled his fingers. “And you’re certain this will be as clean as the hit on the Senator?”

“Cleaner, maybe,” Joe replied. “With that stupid fuck, I had to avoid security cameras and shit. Martin doesn’t even have that in his home, and no security around the perimeter. He’s just a fucking cop—and no different from other cops, despite his title, at the end of the day.”

“His wife—”

“Heading to a breakfast with some friends at the golf club she frequents,” Joe cut in. “I called in a favor, and had a friend hack into their Wi-Fi. That then allowed us into their phones, and their digital calendars. The woman has breakfast with the same three ladies every Saturday unless it’s a holiday, or some other occasion. At least, according to her calendar.”

“Tomorrow could be the day she wakes up sick, and decides not to go,” Giovanni pointed out.

Joe passed the man a look. “You must think I’m a dumbass.”

“No.”

“Then, you must think I’m new to this.”

Giovanni cleared his throat, and passed Dante a look. “I’m not sure how many marks you’ve successfully carried out hits on.”

“One hundred, twenty-two,” Joe said, “since I began at fifteen, anyway. On average, that’s six a year, if you’re curious. To be fair, some were done in small groups of several. Some were brought to me to see what I could gain from them first.”

The man cleared his throat.

Joe figured, Point made.

“I know you think I work only in Chicago because that’s where I live, and whom I work for, but fact is, I go wherever Tommas Rossi sends me to remove someone who might be causing him trouble. He’s got problems making more problems all over the goddamn world. Point is—I’m not new to this.”

Joe fell into a chair at the far end of the table, and a good twenty chairs down from Dante and Giovanni. Really, he was kind of surprised at the large size of the table as he had yet to see the entire family fill it. Although, he knew by the size of the Marcello family that they absolutely could fill the table.

Digging into the food on his plate, Joe enjoyed the moment of comfortable silence that he was afforded by the only other people in the room. Shit, cinnamon and sweetness saturated his tongue with every bite of the French Toast sticks.

Cecelia Marcello was—by far—one of the best cooks Joe had ever gotten the pleasure to sit at their table. He reminded himself to tell the woman exactly that when he saw her the next time. She deserved to be told.

“If the wife doesn’t go to breakfast,” Joe said, finally deciding it was time to bring the conversation back around to the point at hand again, “then I will carry out the hit at the vacation home. She doesn’t go there—not that I’ve found, anyway. Maybe once or twice a year, but not during Martin’s weekend trips.”

“Still just as clean, right?” Dante asked.

“I know you just want to be sure,” Joe murmured, “but it’s offensive when people question my tactics or ability at every turn. Just for the record.”

Dante sighed a little.

Giovanni chuckled.

Joe shoved another bite of food in his mouth, and chewed. Behind him, he heard footsteps enter the room before the man even spoke. And he could tell exactly who it was by the comfortable smiles the two brothers at the other end of the table wore at the sight of him behind Joe.

Lucian.

“How’s Liliana?” Joe asked before Lucian could speak.

The man moved around him, and up the table to take a seat closer to his brothers. “Pretty well, all things considered. She’s got a lot of questions, though, but I’m putting them off for now.”

Joe nodded. “Better to explain after, I suppose.”

“You could say that.”

It was only the ringing of one of two burner phones in Joe’s pocket that took his attention away from the men at the table. He made a move to leave the table for a second to take the call, but Dante and Giovanni stood before he could.

“Stay, and enjoy your food, Joe,” Dante said.

“Give us a call when the hit goes through,” Giovanni added.