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“Yes, Boss.” He nods. “How’s the arm?”
“Just a graze,” I say and proceed along the trail, past the overgrown bushes that sweep the side of the car. A rickety house comes into view, and I park on the gravel out front.
When I enter the safe house, I find Stefano sitting in a recliner, dressed only in his black suit pants. His chest is bare and glistens with sweat and blood, most of which appears tohave dried to a dark, crusty brown. Across from him, tied to a wooden chair, sits a man in his late forties. He’s still alive, but Stefano has taken him right to the edge, it seems.
“Got a little carried away, Stefano?” I ask.
“Boss.” He jumps off the recliner and comes to stand next to our unfortunate guest. “Sorry. I heard he shot you, so I might have been a little rougher than normal.”
Sometimes, my men are like an old maids’ church choir. They love to gossip among themselves. I don’t give a fuck, as long as they keep the information within the right circles. They know better than to let any news—personal or business—spread if they don’t want to end up like Octavio.
I walk toward Stefano’s vacated recliner, sit down, and regard the shooter. He’s conscious, but unresponsive. It happens when you overdo a beating, eventually numbness and dissociation set in, and you’re left with a lump of throbbing, inert flesh. Stefano should have switched tactics hours ago if he wanted results. But he’s young. He’ll learn.
When I took over the New York Family, I changed the way things work. I delegated most of the operational stuff—things that don’t require my personal involvement—to Arturo and the capos. That left me only with high-level decision-making in terms of general business oversight. I kept a close hold on the Family stuff, however, including the handling of thieves, snitches, and outside threats.
“Cut off his hand,” I say to Stefano.
The man starts talking the moment the saw bites at the skin of his wrist two minutes later.
“The Irish!” he screams. “It was the Irish.”
“Who, specifically?” I ask.
“Patrick Fitzgerald.”
I lean back in the chair and regard the prisoner. It’s nothing new, someone’s always trying to kill me, but the Irish are becoming a serious problem. When they attacked the Bratva in Chicago four years ago, their attempt ended with half their own men dead, the leader included. It looks like they’ve set their sights on my city now. They’ll have to be dealt with, and fast.
“Did you tell the Irish I was meeting a woman?” I ask.
The shooter stares at me, then shakes his head quickly. I give Stefano a nod. He takes a knife and thrusts it into the man’s side, hopefully avoiding any vital organs. The prisoner screams.
“I... I might have mentioned her,” he says between whimpers.
“Did you give them her description?”
“Yes.”
I close my eyes. If the Irish think there is something between us, they might come for Milene. “What else?”
“I told them she works at the hospital.”
I open my eyes and stare at the peeling wallpaper behind him. It’s not the fact that he’s passed the information along that stuns me, but the anxiety that builds in my gut. When I think about how easily this man’s bullet could have caught Milene, it turns into full-blown rage. This bastard missed her, but the next one might not. For a few minutes I stare at the wall, making sure my features don’t betray anything of my internal turmoil.
Unfamiliar emotions wash over me. I feel like a sailor caught out on the stormy sea. I let the feelings overtake me, taking them all in. The urge to destroy rises inside me like the tide. It’s anger. Fury. An unrelenting maelstrom.
I get up, walk toward the prisoner, and take the knife from Stefano’s hand. With the blade at the sniper’s neck, I swipe hard, slicing his throat from ear to ear.
* * *
After I leave the safe house, I get inside my car and taking out my phone, pull up the surveillance feed from Milene’s place. The cat is hanging from a half-shredded curtain, evidently chasing some bug. Milene is not there. Anxiety immediately builds deep in my chest.
I call Aldo. “Where is she?”
“Still at work. I’m parked in front of the hospital, I’ll let you know the moment she heads home.”
“Don’t let her out of your sight.” I cut the call and stare into the distance. I’m not sure for how long. Eventually, I pick up the phone again and call Luca Rossi, the don of the Chicago Family.
“Mr. Rossi. We may have a problem.”
