22. Angelo

Chapter 22

Angelo

T he bar's a crappy joint in a middling neighborhood deep in the south side of the city. It's Bianco territory, and all the businesses around here pay tribute to the Don.

It makes sense that Roc would hang around this place. He probably feels safe. Nobody from my direct family will ever show up, but there are plenty of people he knows around to watch his back.

I hunker down in a booth in the back corner. I've got on a big black track jacket, a pair of crappy sweats, beat-up old Timberland boots, and a baseball hat pulled down low. I shaved my face bare for the first time in many years, and I look like a totally different man.

Roc's sitting alone at the bar, his back to me, hunched over a burger and fries with a beer at his elbow, watching a Cubs game on TV.

He hasn't changed much. His hair's a little thinner, his gut's a little bigger, but it's still Roc. He's a big guy, handsome in his own way, almost boyish looks. Girls always went for him and were surprised to find out that he was a total fucking psychopath. If Tommy was my right hand, then Roc was my muscle, always willing to hit, punch, shoot, break, get into physical altercations, and he enjoyed it. The big fucker loved breaking bones, and sometimes I wondered if he loved getting hit right back.

Now he's eating alone. I never would've found him here if it weren't for those pictures Claudia took of Tommy's phone. Roc mentioned coming to this place more than once in his conversation with Tommy—it turns out that the two of them have kept in touch over the years, even if their stars have diverged in the family's eyes. Roc's a low-level enforcer; Tommy's running Cage. But they still manage to get together every few months, and they always come here.

Roc's turf. His favorite spot. I had to come here every night for almost a week before he finally showed, but there he is, in the flesh.

I force myself to be patient. I kill time pretending to look at my phone while I drink a beer and eat the worst steak sandwich I've ever had in my life. I'm thinking about Claudia the whole time, about her body in bed, about her moans, her gasps, her arched back and lips against mine. I want to text her, but if I get engrossed in that, I won't be paying close enough attention to my real target.

I've been watching over her like a hawk. When she told me about nearly getting caught by her sister, I nearly had a fucking heart attack. No more risks. I made her promise. Claudia can help me if it won't put her in any danger, but from now on, she's going to stay on the sidelines and let me do the stupid shit. Guilt hits me all over again for ever putting her in that position—I should've been smarter than that.

But she came through. The clever, beautiful girl, she came through like fucking gangbusters. Those texts were a bonanza of fucking information, sleazy side deals, and incriminating offers. Not only has Tommy been meeting with Roc, he's also been hustling with the Russians and the Turks and, yes, the fucking Serbs, setting up minor drug deals and running blackmail schemes on his clients and using non-family premises to wash his ill-begotten cash.

No wonder the fucking Cage is bringing in so much money. Tommy's got a million different scams going. And I'd bet a limb that he's making even more that never touches the Famiglia's books, meaning he's not paying the Don his rightful tribute, which is a huge problem.

But Simon can hear about all that when I'm ready.

Roc has a few beers, laughs with some random regulars, and gets up to take a piss. Fucking finally. The guy's got a bladder like a champion. Once he's headed back to the head, I follow him and keep my face down, not meeting anyone's eye.

The men's room smells like piss and cleaning agent. Roc's alone at the urinal and he doesn't look up or react when I lurk behind him. It's not until he sighs, flushes, zips, and turns, does he finally notice I'm there.

I meet his eye. He doesn't move.

"Good to see you again," I say and he lunges at me.

I duck the big man's fist, jab him twice in the side, kick him in the knee, and draw my revolver. He's down on the floor, gasping in pain, as I press the barrel to his fucking neck. "Angelo," he gasps.

"You're not as fast as you used to be. Got soft while I was in prison?"

"Fuck you. How'd you find me?"

"Get up."

He stands slowly, and I keep the gun on him. He keeps his hands where I can see them, which is smart.

Roc knows me extremely well. It's been five years since we last saw each other, but that's not long enough to forget what I'm like when I'm determined. I'll kill, I'll hurt, I'll maim, I'll do whatever's necessary to get what I want, and now that Roc's under my gun, he knows he's fucked unless he talks.

"You killed Paulie," he says, just stating a fact.

"I sure as fuck did. Turn to the door and start walking. If you open your fat mouth, I'll kill you here and now, and not a single person in the place will complain. I'm a fucking Bianco."

Roc obeys orders, which is always a good move. We step out of the bathroom and hang a right. There's a door at the end of the hall that leads into the kitchen. We go straight through, get some weird looks, but the two burly cooks don't even slow down. At the far side is another door, and it spits us out into an alley.

"He was trying to turn it around," Roc says. "He had a girl and they were gonna get pregnant. I was leaving him alone. We all were."

"Paulie's dead and you're going to be dead too if you don't start talking." There's a dumpster here and it reeks. Another couple doors lead into the building opposite, and the alley leads to streets on either side. But it's late and there's nobody out walking at this time, and besides, we just look like a couple of drunks having a conversation. Nobody's going to notice the gleam of metal in my hand.

"What do you want, Angelo?"

"Whose idea was it to contact the Serbs?"

Roc's lips pull into a sneer. "Fuck you."

I jab the barrel into his neck. "Try again. Who do you owe loyalty to anymore, huh? You think Tommy's going to help you? He's not fucking here, Roc, and I don't know what he's been kicking over to you these last five years, but I can promise, it's fucking pennies compared to what he's rolling in."

I can tell that bothers him. Roc's nose crinkles a few times. "I told him it was a dumb fucking idea. I told him those shitty second-rate wannabe Russians couldn't be trusted. You were supposed to be fucking dead , but they fucked it up."

I almost laughed. God damn. That made more sense, actually—send in a hit squad, take me down, and run away with the entire arms shipment for themselves. "I bet the cops confiscating everything really pissed Tommy off."

"You should've heard him. Lost his goddamn mind."

"Was Paulie in on it?"

Roc laughs. "We all were."

A little knot of guilt untangles. Paulie was trying to go straight—and he still deserved what he got. That fucker. "Why?" I ask even though I know the answer and it doesn't matter.

"You were cheap and Tommy said we could do better. You were always strutting around telling people your name and honestly, fuck you, and fuck your name. I broke my knuckles. I fucking bled. And you got rich."

I sucked a breath into my nose. "The Famiglia got rich, you motherfucker, and I was on the rise. I was dragging your dumb asses with me, and if you had just stayed the course and didn't listen to that stupid piece-of-shit Tommy, we'd all be better off right now."

"Maybe you're right, but here we are."

I lean forward. "Tell Paulie I said he's a piece of shit and I hope you both burn."

Then something hard hits me in the back of the head. I gasp in pain and stagger sideways. Roc twists and clocks me in the jaw, and I stagger, only keeping myself upright by leaning against the wall.

A sawed-off chunk of a 2x4 flies at my head. I barely duck. I'm dizzy, not thinking clearly, and everything around me is shapes. There's shouting, and the wood beam comes at me again, and this time I take it on the arm. My left shoulder goes dead, but I lurch forward, lunging at my attacker with the gun. I bash him in the face and shove the barrel into a cheek.

The revolver cracks and blood splatters. There's a scream, and a grunt, and I shoot again. This time, the top of the bastard's head gets blown off. I look around wildly and catch Roc running toward the far end of the alley. I aim and shoot, but I miss him, and he turns the corner, his arms and legs pumping wildly as he sprints.

Below me, a body goes cold and doesn't move, and it takes a second to recognize Vito. His expression is surprised and his eyes and skull are mangled. He's got a piece of scrap wood gripped in both hands.

"Should've fucking shot me," I growl at him and shove myself to my feet.

Blood runs down my cheek. Asshole hit me hard. I hurry away from the corpse, going the opposite direction of Roc, angling to my truck. On the way home, I'll wipe off the gun and toss it into a drain, and I won't mourn Vito's passing for a single second.

But as I climb behind the wheel, something occurs to me.

They were working together. When Vito went on the run—he stumbled straight into Roc's arms. I bet they were planning on meeting here tonight, and I got lucky as fuck that Vito wasn't carrying. Otherwise, I'd be dead.

I have a feeling I know where Roc's headed.