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Giovanni was speaking, his thick accent making Vincent strain to pay attention. Sicilian by birth, he’d immigrated to America a decade before and moved up in rank to become their highest-producing Capo. Some of his crew was present, sitting off to the side. Vincent had a hard time remembering the names of the soldati, but one he was familiar with was Nunzio.
Nunzio had been lurking around for years. They called him Squint because of the way his eyes always seemed to be half-closed, his face frozen in a roguish scowl. He kept his head buzzed, a light dusting of brown hair showing, and his eyes were the dull color of cracked earth. The Don’s brother had taken him in as a baby, so Salvatore had a soft spot for the boy.
The men argued back and forth as Vincent swirled the scotch around in his glass, having no intention of drinking it. He remained quiet until the unmistakable voice of the Don chimed in, speaking directly to him. “What do you think, Vincent?”
I think I want to go home. “I think being hasty will backfire. I don’t like the way the Russians conduct business, but they’ve yet to hurt any of our people.”
“They will,” Giovanni warned.
“If they do, it’ll be handled,” Vincent said, “but until that time comes, who are we to police another group?”
Vincent looked across the room at where the Don sat in his favorite chair. In his late sixties, Sal was shaped like a balloon and sounded perpetually full of helium. He’d been the underboss when Vincent’s father ran things and succeeded rule after he died. Antonio had dubbed him Salamander. “If you scare a salamander, he’ll drop his tail and run,” he had said. “No skin off his back. Two weeks later, he’s good as new.”
Sal mulled over Vincent’s words. “You’re right. Maybe they’ll take themselves out with their stupidity.”
Squint laughed dryly, but tried to cover it with a forced cough when everyone looked his way. The guy beside him seemed annoyed by the outburst, another soldato whose name eluded Vincent. He thought it might be Johnny, one of about a hundred other Johnnys running around the streets. His looks certainly fit the name—generic, undistinguishable. Another number in the crowd, easily replaced, never missed. A tail, Vincent thought. Sal would drop him and keep going.
When Sal dismissed them with a wave of the hand, Vincent was the first out of his seat. He dumped the scotch and headed for the door, but Giovanni cut him off. “I think we are making a mistake, Doc. It will do us no good ignoring them now.”
“We’re not ignoring them,” Vincent said. “We’re just not going to instigate a fight. The last thing we need is violence on our streets over things that have nothing to do with us.”
Vincent headed for his rental car when Giovanni’s voice rang out once more. “Just because we do not know of anything does not mean they have not violated us. There will be war.”
5
Carmine pulled the last clean shirt off the hanger in his closet. The small piles of laundry had morphed into mountains, every piece of clothing he owned now dirty on the floor. Usually it wouldn’t have gotten that far, as he would have taken them to the local laundry service, but he had a problem—he was broke.
He strolled through the library to the other side of the floor and grabbed Dominic’s doorknob, his brow furrowing when it wouldn’t turn. He could hear voices inside and pounded on the door.
Dominic opened it. “What?”
Carmine noticed Tess lying across the bed in one of Dominic’s shirts, and cringed at the mental image of what he’d interrupted. “I need some money. My clothes are dirty.”
“You want money?”
“Yeah, a loan.”
“You have a funny way of asking, bro,” Dominic said. “And how are you going to pay me back when you don’t have a job?”
Carmine shrugged. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Yeah, you will,” Dominic said. “You’ll figure out how to do your own damn laundry.”
The door slammed in Carmine’s face. Tess laughed inside the room as Carmine punched the wall before heading back to his bedroom. He grabbed his cell phone and dialed Dia’s home number, breathing a sigh of relief when she answered. “What do you want, Carmine?”
“What makes you think I want something?”
“Because I know you,” she said. “You don’t call to chitchat.”
He sighed. “My laundry needs done.”
“You want me to do your laundry?”
“Yes. I don’t know who else to ask.”
“Well, how much money do you have?”
“None.”
