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“Don’t you fucking talk to me about Family,” I snarl.
“Watch your tone, boy. You may be my son, but I won’t tolerate disrespect. And no matter how nice that Castellani mouth sucks your dick, you better remember: he’s your enemy. When I’m done with him, he dies.”
I’ve never been this angry before. But it’s a cold rage, turning my heart to ice and freezing out this bigoted, short-sighted fuck.
“Say that again.” My voice is soft. Silky. I sound exactly like Julian Castellani, and it has exactly the same effect. My father goes pale.
“Get out,” Aldo orders, his voice quavering. “I don’t want to see your face until you’ve come to your senses.”
“You better pray you never see my face again, old man.” And then I turn and leave.
I’m done. With him, with the Family.
I’m done with everything except Julian Castellani.
* * *
Desperate for some kind of direction, I drive to a nearby lookout point, perched high above the sprawling city of Los Angeles. The freeways look like pretty silver trickles as the morning rush hour hits, all those cars sparkling in the sun. I dismount my bike and stare out over the city, as though the view might suddenly narrow in, show me Julian walking the streets, lying in a gutter, day-drinking in a bar.
“Where the hell are you,?” I mutter as I scan the horizon. I pull out my phone and bring up Sandro’s number, the one he gave me last night, pacing back and forth as it rings. He picks up on the third ring. “It’s the Lion,” he says to someone else, and then cautiously to me, “Well?”
“My father knows nothing,” I say bluntly, cutting straight to the heart of the matter. “You? Heard anything?”
“Nothing.”
“Shit,” I whisper, running a hand over the back of my head, wincing as usual as I hit the still-sore spot. “Jacopo?”
“Jack’s heard nothing.”
“No convenient trail of bodies anywhere?” I’m only half joking.
“Not yet,” Sandro replies.
I think we have a similar sense of humor.
“Alright,” I say. “I’m hitting the streets again. If you hear anything—and I mean anything—let me know immediately.”
“Of course,” he agrees, and we end the call.
As I stand there, staring out at the vast expanse of the city, thinking about where to start, an unwelcome thought crosses my mind.
What if Julian is already dead?
No. I can’t think like that. There has to be a clue out there, something that will lead me to him. I just need to find it. My mind races through every contact I have in this city—anyone I missed last night who might know something about Julian’s whereabouts.
The obvious contender is PacSyn, so I pay them another visit, to the same guys Julian and I shook down just a few weeks ago. No joy.
Next I hit up the Azzopardis, another Italian group, smaller than most. Their leader, Marco Azzopardi, is a slippery guy. It takes some doing to corner him in one of their brothels, where I grab him by the collar and push him against a wall.
“Julian Castellani. What have you heard?”
“Nothing,” he gasps, trying to pry my fingers from his throat. “I don’t know. Haven’t seen him.”
“Listen to me,” I growl, tightening my grip. “If I find out you’re lying to me, I’ll come back here. And I won’t be happy.”
“Swear on my mother’s grave,” he wheezes, his eyes wide with genuine fear. “I don’t know where he is.”
As the day wears on, I continue my search. I try the Caruso Outfit. The Mancinis. I even go, respectfully, to the most influential cartel in my neighborhood, and share a drink with their leader as I ask my questions.
