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He says, “Last, we’re offering payment for Conti’s life, along with a two-year guarantee on the sovereignty of your turf.” Lycus glances down at me. “Anything else, boss?”
“We’ll also be open to discussions about the surrounding suburbs. There might be opportunities for your people out there that you haven’t explored. We’d be willing to facilitate some of that.”
“Get into business together, huh.” Bosco looks curious. “I know you fucking Greeks got your big sweaty dicks involved in every scheme from here to the fucking Mississippi.”
“My big sweaty dick is willing to move aside and let you and your people eat, if you’re interested in working with us.” I smile at him serenely. Big, ugly, crude bastard, but Bosco isn’t stupid. He sits on top of the Famiglia for a reason. He knows my offer’s a good one. Worth one lousy Capo, for sure.
“I don’t trust it,” Renzo says. “I don’t trust it at all.”
“We’ll want guarantees,” Bosco says. “And a solid payment. If I’m going to hand over a made man, you’d better make sure the rest of my men don’t rebel.”
“I’m sure we can settle on a number.”
Bosco grunts and leans forward. “All right, Kazan. How about we leave our underbosses here to hash out details while we go get a drink, yeah? They’ve got a bar here, don’t they?”
“They do,” I say and stand. I stub out the cigar in an ashtray, barely smoked. Bosco does the same before coming around the table.
“You’re a decent guy, Evander,” he says, grinning as we walk to the door. “A really decent guy. I wish we could’ve avoided all this unpleasantness, but the capos, they thought it was a real insult for you to take Conti’s wife the way you did.”
“Camille is mine now,” I say with real feeling. We move into the hallway together, shoulder to shoulder.
“Whatever you say, Lord Kazan.” He barks a laugh. “Fuckinglord. What is that shit?”
“Translated from the Greek.” I pause beside a fake palm tree that borders the private room and bend over as if I’m checking my shoe, shifting slightly so what I’m doing is out of his eyeline.
“Yeah? You Greeks are real fucking poetic, huh? I guess I can’t talk, all our shit’s from the old world too. But things change, huh?”
I reach around behind the pot as Bosco talks. There, in the dust, is the knife. It’s not particularly large, but I grab it, slip it into my palm, and stand. Bosco’s grinning at me like he couldn’t be happier.
I don’t smile back. “Conti doesn’t deserve to live a second longer. And neither do you, Bosco.”
His smile slips. “Yeah? You really think that? You’re such a hard-ass, Evander. Shit happens in war. We fight, we make up, we move on. Don’t be such a pussy.”
“When you see Conti, tell him he should’ve burned with his house.” I lunge forward, grab Bosco by the hair, and plunge the blade into his throat.
He gags in shock. I rip it out and stab him again, and again, each time in the neck. Blood spurts from his wound. A nearby waitress screams and drops her tray. I plunge the edge and saw into Bosco’s jugular up to the hilt before I shove him over, his body twitching, his blood pumping out bright red and arterial. I stand over him, breathing hard, as four Yakuza soldiers come rushing over from the bar with guns leveled.
I stare at them and show my teeth. Their leader, a man named Bob Tanaka, shakes his head. “You’re a fucking mess, Kazan.”
“If you had left a gun like I wanted, this would’ve been cleaner.”
“Guns are loud. Look at my carpet! What a goddamn mess.”
“I need to wash my hands.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Bob waves me away. “Go take care of yourself. Ah, what a fucking wreck.” He barks orders in Japanese to his soldiers as I return to the back room.
Lycus is kneeling on top of the table with Renzo pinned beneath him, his hands wrapped around the Italian’s throat, squeezing hard. Renzo’s face is bright purple, his lips blue and swollen, his legs kicking spastically, and he’s gently swatting at Lycus’s arms like he might break the killing grip, until slowly, he stops moving. Lycus holds him there for another thirty seconds before sighing and letting him go. He sits back on his hands, sweating miserably.
“You good?” I ask.
He grunts and dabs at his face. “Fucker fought back.” His eye is already beginning to bruise.
“You’re good,” I say. “Come on, let’s get cleaned up. The Yakuza will handle the bodies.”
Lycus slips off the table and cracks his neck. “Fucking Italians. Did they really think we’d make peace?”
“They thought they bribed the Yakuza bosses as much as we did. But they were wrong.”
