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Who his brother worked for.The reminder of my father feels like a punch to my gut.
“His brother has been dead for eighteen years. Vito left Chicago before that. How long has he been sitting on this recording?”
“Ten or eleven years.”
“Why do you think it has something to do with the Morettis?”
“Because he was in Chicago the night it happened and there was nobody bigger in this city than Salvatore Moretti. And now his sons too.” Monty shudders. It’s obvious he has no idea who I am. “Do you work for them? Is that why you’re looking for the recording? Have they found out? Have they taken him?”
I shake my head. So many questions. I should just shoot Monty and his naked lover right now. Let his wife come home and find the pair of them in each other’s arms. “No. I don’t work for the Morettis. How are you involved in this?”
“I used to be Vito’s lawyer. He came to me that night. Rambling about how he was going to show his nephew who the real traitor was.”
“His nephew?”
Monty nods.
Me.
Monty Lincoln just bought himself and his buddy a reprieve.
“If that recording ever finds its way to you, you contact me and only me. You got that?”
“I d-don’t have your number,” he stammers. “Or your name,”
“I have yours. I’ll send you a number you can reach me on later. Someone has taken Vito, and right now you’re the only man I know who can help me. But if that recording ends up in the press, Monty”—I take a threatening step forward—“I will make you watch while I murder your wife. Then I will carve out your heart while it’s still beating and feed it to your orphan children for dinner. You understand me?”
His face turns gray, and he puts a hand over his mouth, gagging. “You…you won’t tell her about this, will you?” He looks at the guy on the floor.
“I have no interest in the fact that you’re fucking around behind your wife’s back, but I amveryinterested in anything to do with Vito DiMarco. That’s all you need to be concerned about right now.”
I walk out, leaving Monty to help his friend off the floor. I have more questions now than I did when I got here, and I’m wound tighter than I was a few hours ago.
What the fuck is on that video? Why did Uncle Vito tell Monty he wanted to show me who the real traitor was? And how could my uncle possibly think he isn’t the traitor to the DiMarco name when he screwed around with his brother’s wife and then fucked off to New Jersey when shit got hard? Vito was always good at blaming other people for his failings. Salvatore Moretti might have been a cruel and twisted piece of shit, but he always had my back when I needed him.
Walking to my bike, I dial Kristin.
She answers on the first ring.
“Hey, how are you doing?”
“Good, I guess,” she says. “Did you find out anything about my dad yet?”
“Maybe. Do you know anything about a storage locker he has?”
“No. Why?”
“Did he ever mention a video recording of someone?”
“No, Max. Is that why someone took him? A recording?”
“I don’t know. I’m still looking into it.” I sigh, scrubbing a hand through my hair.
“When will you be home?”
I shake my head. I’m too wired and pumped up to go home right now. I need to do something about all the rage burning up inside of me before I explode. And I need to seeher. I can’t get her out of my fucking head.
“I’ll be a few more hours yet. Don’t wait up for me, okay?”
