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He slowly opened his eyes and looked at me. “This time, the entitlement came with barbs. The woman did not want her husband killed. She used her husband suspecting the affair as an excuse to stop what was going on. Because PG had something on her—pictures of her using drugs—that she did not want her husband to see. Since PG had nothing on her any longer, she went crying to the connections I mentioned. The situation has reached Messina.”
Joe Messina was my boss. He was also Gallo’s boss.
“PG is saying he did not do it and there is no proof that he did. Ivanov died of an overdose, and his death has been ruled as suicide. The men who are wanting vengeance for Ivanov do not believe it. They believe his wife is telling the truth. PG told her he did it. He drugged Ivanov’s food to make him woozy, then held him down and shot him up with more drugs.”
“Where’s the wife now?”
He shrugged. “Under protection.”
“Ivanov was against using drugs,” I said.
Balabanov’s grin came slow. “We should work together,” he said. “Our wits are matched. You believe the wife because she is telling the truth. Why would Ivanov take too many drugs if he did not believe in using them? This is why the wife was fearful of him finding out about her habit. He sold them and was against anyone in his circle taking them. Especially his own wife.”
That was a symbolic twist on Gallo’s part, which brought me to the simple conclusion: Ivanov’s wife was telling the truth. Whether Messina believed it or not was something else entirely. And even if Messina did, he might pretend not to know the truth to keep peace. He might have Gallo throw some money their way to try and smooth the situation over. Depending on what Ivanov was worth to his men was where this all came to a head.
Balabanov studied me. “PG wants you dead.”
Yeah, but again, what happened between us stayed between us. Balabanov wouldn’t get anything out of me but a handshake.
My deal with Gallo was both personal and business-related.
Mooch stood after I did, following behind as I approached Balabanov on his throne. We shook and I told him I’d catch him later. On the way out, the blonde who’d been in Balabanov’s office was passing me in the hall. She was naked, except for the high leather heels she wore. She slid her hand over my shoulder as I kept walking.
The men who had followed me looked up from their magazines as I came out of the “Personnel Only” door. I nodded to them, and they nodded back. We all left at the same time. They went their ways, and I went mine.
Lights from passing cars flashed in my eyes as I decided on where to go. I was fucking restless. My interaction with Lucila earlier was still fresh in my mind. Her face as she sat on the stoop. The way her knees swayed to the beat. Her scent in the air. The way her lips felt and her mouth tasted.
I took the turn and found a parking spot. Then I took a walk along the boardwalk. It only made me more restless. I decided to head to the gym, but as I pulled up and took my spot, the car sat idle, and so did I.
Mooch groaned after he realized we weren’t getting out yet. He jumped in the back and got comfortable. I rested my head against the seat and closed my eyes.
LILO
THE PAST
“Valentino! You got a call.”
I look up to find my boss staring expectantly at me. He mimics putting a phone up to his ear and then points toward the office. It’s Ken Nolan on the line, the principal at Lucila’s school. We have an understanding now. He tells me everything, and in return he gets to keep his secrets and his knees.
“Thought you’d want to know…” are the last words I hear as I drop the phone. I say nothing to no one as I rush out. I peel out of the parking lot and move around the city like the possessed animal I am, except this concrete jungle is full of them and I’m one in a million. It doesn’t help that snow is falling in hard sheets and everything is coated in white. It’s only going to get worse. What the men at work were calling Snowmageddon.
By the time I arrive at the ER entrance of the hospital, I’m fucking sweating in the cold, and my heart pounds so hard in my chest that I’m not sure if it’s normal.
The woman at the front desk stops me, asking my business, or if I have a name. A second later, she reaches for her phone. She does it in a way that’s subtle—oh, I’m going to need this to call and find out information. But it’s more than that. The look on my face is telling her everything she needs to know without me opening my mouth. She’s a roadblock, and I’ll run right over her. She senses this and clutches her lifeline—hospital security.
“My wife,” I lie, because I’ll tear this motherfucker up if they try to stop me from getting to her. Time is of the essence. “She was brought in from school. She passed out. Which room?”
She clutches the receiver even tighter. “I’ll need her name,” she barely gets out.
“Lucila Girardi,” I say.
“That your last name?”
“Which fucking room?” I say, getting louder.
People are starting to look. The receptionist talks into the receiver, her eyes bouncing up and down—between me and her desk. “Her husband,” she rushes out.
Enough of the bullshit, I walk right past her. She doesn’t even try to stop me. I get past the doors and find a nurse.
