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“The Angelino service isn’t until tomorrow, miss.”
“Oh, I’m not here for that.”
He smiles politely. “Well, business inquiries are by appointment only. The website has a way to make?—”
“I’m here to see Don Amato.”
The man goes quiet, arching a brow at me. Then he eyes me up and down, pulling his jacket open just enough for me to see the gun holstered under his arm.
“I think you need to?—”
“I’m not going anywhere until I see Don Amato,” I smile. “Trust me, he’ll want to meet with me. You can tell him it’s Mrs. Sartorre.”
The guard quickly sucks down the rest of his cigarette. Then he tosses it aside and stamps it out.
“Wait here.”
He slips inside. A minute later, he’s back, looking at me with curious interest.
“Come on in.”
“My, my, my.Mrs. Sartorre…”
Luciano Amato is a large man both vertically and horizontally. He’s alsoverywell dressed and is somehow not just “pulling off” a pinstripe suit, he’s seriously rocking it.
He stands as I’m ushered into his office above the funeral home, which, from what I’ve heard from my brothers, is notoriousfor occasionally puttingmore than one bodyin a casket before burying it.
…If you get my drift.
“Please, have a seat,” Don Amato rumbles, gesturing at the chair in front of his desk. “Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you, Don Amato. Thank you for seeing me.”
“Of course. I assume you’re here to apologize?”
I smile benignly as I settle in my chair. “For?”
He frowns. “For fucking up my niece’s boy’s face, and for your prick of a husband putting him in a goddamn coma, that’s what.”
I clear my throat. “I hear Silvio is awake now.”
Luciano grunts. “He is. So, where’s this apology?”
“Oh,” I smile. “There is no apology. Your niece’s son is a giant piece of shit, and if I had it my way, he’d be back in that coma.”
Luciano’s brows shoot up. He looks half amused, half pissed off as he steeples his hands and studies me from across the desk.
“You got balls, Mrs. Sartorre, I’ll give you that,” he mutters eventually. “So why don’t you tell me why the fuck are you here, then?”
“I’d like to bury the hatchet, so to speak.”
I reach into my bag, which the guard at the door already examined, and pull out a stack of printouts from Dante’s computer—phone call transcriptions, text message screenshots, bank statements, and photographs of Frank Bonpensiero meeting with Kratos Drakos.
I drop the packet on the desk. “You should see this.”
Luciano doesn’t immediately look down.
“What is this?”
