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He takes a sip of his coffee and leans back in his chair behind his desk at the station. “If I had to guess who did it”—he takes the picture and narrows his gaze on it—“I’d say it was the same fuck that got Joaquin.”
“Yes, it would seem that way.”
Morrison nods. “The pennies and evidence that he was with someone shortly before he was killed are dead giveaways.”
Renzo had been with a woman. Ruby. But the prostitute left way before I did. Besides, I can’t imagine that she’d have returned after the beating he gave her.
Fuck me. If I hadn’t instructed the two guards flanking his door to leave and destroyed the camera, I’d be able to see who came in after I did. Then again, the police would be able to see that I was there.
But I left, confident that the guards wouldn’t come back and would never rat me out.
I left the body where it lay. It hadn’t been a clean kill. I’d lost my temper, something I rarely do, because when it happens, shit gets messy. After I left, I sent the order to our Cleaner to take care of it. But when he got there, police had already swarmed the place.
Renzo was found in the position I left him in but with the calling card that had been used with every other Don’s death. The fucking pennies.
Someone took credit for my fucking kill.
Standing, I say to the chief of police, “Keep me updated on any findings. I want to be first on your call list.”
“Yes, sir.”
I leave the station, a myriad of thoughts racing through my mind. Who would have done that and why? Are they going to blackmail me? Because I’m sure they’re aware that I’m the one who killed Renzo.
Or maybe they did it because killing him was already part of the plan. I just made it easier.
The Ferryman. That’s what Tony Sinacore called him. I wonder how much information he’d gathered on the threat he perceived before he died. Did he share any of it with his brother, Luca?
My phone buzzes and I touch the Accept button that pops up on the dash display of my car. “Esposito.”
As if thinking about the Devil is enough to summon him, it’s none other than the man I was ordered to kill.
“Noah,” he says. “This is Luca Sinacore. From New York.”
“I know who you are,” I tell him.
“You must be wondering how I got your number.”
Not really. In fact, I’m not surprised to hear from him at all. “What can I do for you, Luca?”
“I heard about Renzo.” He doesn’t give his condolences. That’s not why he’s calling anyway.
“News travels fast.”
“I like to stay informed,” he says. “Especially when kingpins are being targeted. We need to talk, Noah. Before you make the same mistake Renzo did and try to take over the Giannis, we need to talk.”
“What makes you think I’d take over the Giannis? I’m just a hitman.”
“A hitman with rank. You were one of the few Francesco allowed by his side at all times.”
I don’t reply. That rank lost all meaning when Francesco died and Joaquin thought the only way to settle disputes was to kill.
“There are two capos,” I tell him. “Matteo and Alex.”
“Will they challenge you?” he asks, still assuming I will go for the position.
“No one would challenge me.” Not when most of the men were there when I stood as Francesco’s right-hand man.
“So youdointend on taking over.”
