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I jerk out a nod.
“Then on your feet, kid,” he says, lowering his gun. “Your father'scapo dei capiis downstairs.”
“Capo dei—?”
Before I can finish, the giant is clamping a huge hand around my wrist and yanking me upright.
The boss of all bosses of the Cosa Nostra ishere?
Papàalways joked that Tommaso Zaccaria would never leave Italy, not even if his beloved villa was on fire.
“What a mess.” The giant slides his weapon into his holster and casts his eyes around the room, lingering over my father’s corpse. “You hurt?”
I shake my head, though the back of my neck is wet and sticky.
“Ten seconds later, and it could have been your insides all over that floor, kid.”
“T-thank you.”
“Just following orders.” He pushes me toward the door and out into the hallway. “Now, move. You don’t keep a man like Zaccaria waiting.”
I take one final look at my father, burning the image into my brain. His body looks empty now, like a broken shell discarded on a beach. “How did you know Antonio was—?”
“You’ll get your answers soon, kid.” Another shove. “The motherfucking storm’s just arrived.”
CHAPTER 2
FRANKIE
Marching me out onto the pavement, he steers me towards a silver SUV with tinted windows.
The doors swing open as we approach.
“Get in.”
I try to back away, but the giant has other ideas. Giving me another hard shove, I find myself tumbling headfirst into a black hole that stinks of leather and cigars. I blink a couple of times, the darkness fuzzing up my brain. There’s a shadow sitting next to me. Watching me. Puffing on anArturo Fuente, the same brand my father smokes.
Smoked.
I hate the past tense now, almost as much as I fear the present.
“Do you know who I am, Francesco?”
His accent is strong, and he has a slow way of speaking that makes me think of soft chairs with hard edges.
“I’ve h-heard my father talk about you, mister.”
Scary stories with nightmare endings.
There’s a pause as the giant slides into the passenger seat upfront. “In reverence, I hope?”
“A-always with respect, mister.”
“Good.” He leans forward to tap his driver on the shoulder, his profile catching in the streetlight. He’s older than my father, with a narrow face and a long straight nose. His black hair is streaked with grey, and his lips are pulled tight into a cold smile.
He looks like a Bird of Prey.
Or a vulture.
