24. Angelo

24

ANGELO

I t’s been a few days since I last saw Fee, and I can’t stop thinking about our last interaction. The idea of Fee and Lou leaving twists my gut, but I know it’s necessary.

Jimbo agrees with me.

“Angelo, you know it’s the right call. We can’t protect them here, not with Gino breathing down our necks.”

I nod, hating that he’s right. Gino has been amping up the violence against the Pirellis, and I’m so fucking sick of getting calls that my men are dying. “I know. Doesn’t make it any easier.”

“Nothing about this is easy,” Jimbo agrees. “But it’s temporary. Once we deal with Gino…”

“If we deal with Gino,” I mutter.

Jimbo’s eyebrows raise. “Since when are you the pessimist? We’ve got a solid plan. Fucina’s documents are legit.”

I stand, pacing the room. “Plans can go wrong, Jimbo. Gino wants the Fucina, so he’s probably expecting counterfeit documents. And if they do go wrong, Fee and Lou are the ones who’ll pay the price.”

“All the more reason to get them out of harm’s way,” Jimbo insists.

I stop, staring out the window. “You’re right. I just… I hate the thought of their being away.”

Jimbo’s voice softens. “I know, Angelo. But sometimes, to protect what we love, we have to let it go for a while.”

I turn, meeting his eyes. “When did you get so philosophical?”

He grins. “I have hidden depths.”

We share a chuckle, the tension easing slightly.

“Come on,” I say, grabbing my jacket. “We need to pick up Romero at the airport.”

The airport is a chaos of noise and movement, people rushing to and fro, the constant chatter of announcements over the PA system. I scan the crowd, looking for Romero’s familiar face.

“There.” Jimbo points.

I spot Romero making his way toward us, his face impassive. Whatever news he’s bringing from Chicago, I can’t tell if it’ll be good or bad.

As he reaches us, I clap him on the shoulder. “Welcome back. How was it?”

Romero’s eyes dart around the crowded terminal. “Not here. We need to talk somewhere private.”

Jimbo and I exchange a glance before we head out of the airport and flag Marco down. Once we’re in the car, we speed off out of JFK.

Romero leans forward, tapping Marco on the shoulder. “Take me to the greasiest, most authentic pizza joint in NYC. I’m dying here.”

I raise an eyebrow while Jimbo laughs. “Couldn’t get decent pizza in Chicago?”

Romero’s face contorts in disgust. “That abomination they call pizza? It’s a fucking casserole masquerading as a pie. How can they even call it pizza when you need a goddamn fork and knife to eat it?”

Despite the tension, I can’t help but chuckle. “Come on, it can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, it is,” Romero insists. “I swear, if I never see another ‘deep dish’ in my life, it’ll be too soon.”

I shake my head, amused by his pizza-induced rant. But we’ve got more pressing matters to discuss.

“Alright, pizza connoisseur,” Jimbo calls out from the front seat. “What did you learn in Chicago?”

Romero’s face turns serious for a moment, then he groans dramatically. “Boss, I’m begging you. Let me get some real food in me first. I’m fucking starving, and this news… trust me, you’ll want me well-fed before I drop this bomb.”

I sigh, recognizing the stubborn set of his jaw. “Fine. Marco, you heard the man. Find us some pizza.”

Leave it to Romero to prioritize his stomach over urgent business. But I’ve known him long enough to recognize when he’s stalling. Whatever he learned in Chicago must be serious.

We’re back at my place, the smell of pizza still clinging to Romero as he settles into an armchair. Jimbo and I exchange glances, both of us on edge.

“Alright, Romero,” I say, leaning forward. “You’ve had your pizza. Now spill.”

Romero takes a deep breath. “Well, I’ve got good news and… more good news, actually.”

Jimbo’s bushy eyebrows shoot up. “That’s a goddamn first. What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Romero says, a grin spreading across his face. “Turns out, the Irish want Gino’s head on a platter.”

I blink, surprised. “What the fuck? I thought they were backing him.”

Romero shakes his head. “Not anymore. Gino’s burned every bridge he had in Chicago. And I mean scorched-Earth style.”

“How?” I demand, my heart racing. “What did he do?”

“For starters,” Romero says, ticking off points on his fingers, “he poisoned a consigliere. Then there was a car bomb that took out another Mob Boss. And get this—they’re pretty sure he offed his own father.”

The room falls silent as we process this information.

It’s one thing to kill another Mob Boss. But to kill your own Don? Your own father ? Unforgivable.

Jimbo breaks the silence first. “His own father? Are they sure?”

Romero nods grimly. “Apparently, Antoni was starting to have second thoughts about some of Gino’s more… aggressive tactics. Next thing you know, he’s dead.”

“Antoni’s cause of death was a heart attack,” Jimbo says, his hands clenching and unclenching.

“So Gino says,” Romero counters, steepling his fingers together. “Has anyone seen the death certificate?”

Silence.

“Jesus,” I mutter, unable to believe what I’m hearing. “So Gino’s got no support in Chicago?”

“None,” Romero confirms. “He’s persona non grata there. And the Irish? They smell blood in the water. They’re looking to take advantage of the Timpone family’s weakness.”

I stand up, my mind racing as I process Romero’s information. Something doesn’t sit right.

“Hold on,” I say, turning to face Romero. “How are the Irish so sure Gino killed his own father? That’s a hell of an accusation.”

Jimbo nods, his brow furrowed. “I’m with Angelo on this. It’s pretty unbelievable. We need more than just rumors.”

Romero holds up his hands. “I get it, Boss. I had the same thought. That’s why I did some digging of my own.”

I sit down and lean forward, my interest piqued. This is one of the many reasons Romero is my best enforcer. “What did you find?”

“Well,” Romero starts, “I started following the breadcrumbs based on what the Irish were saying. Led me to this little restaurant in Queens.”

“Wait, you flew back here and didn’t even tell me?” I demand.

“A restaurant?” Jimbo interrupts, skepticism clear in his voice. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Romero shoots us an annoyed look. “If you’d let me finish, I was getting to that. Yes, Angelo, I flew back here, but I needed to follow the clues. This restaurant was a regular spot for Antoni. He’d go there at least once a week, right up until he died.”

I feel a chill run down my spine. “And?”

“And,” Romero continues, clearly enjoying being the center of attention, “I talked to some of the staff there. Off the record, of course. They remember Antoni’s last visit. Said he was there with Gino, and they were having a pretty heated argument.”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” I point out. “Fathers and sons argue all the time. God knows my father and I did.”

Romero nods. “True. But here’s where it gets interesting. One of the waiters overheard part of the conversation. Said Antoni was threatening to cut Gino off, to take away his position in the Family.”

Jimbo whistles low. “That’s a big fucking deal in our world.”

“Exactly,” Romero agrees. “And get this—the next day, Antoni’s dead.”

I feel my stomach drop. “Shit. That’s… that’s pretty damning.”

“There’s more,” Romero adds. “I managed to get a look at Antoni’s autopsy report. Official cause of death was heart attack, but there were some… inconsistencies.”

“What kind of inconsistencies?” I demand. “And how the fuck did you manage to get a hold of that report?”

Romero winks at me. “You’re not the only one who uses Fucina. She was more than willing to look into this for me.”

My brow furrows at that. Genesis told me nothing about Romero asking for a favor.

“When was this?” I ask, my mind trying to put pieces together. Finally, my brain locks on when I called Genesis after Fee killed Jonah and she was irate that I was interrupting her. “Wait, did you fuck her? Were you her mystery guest a few weeks back?”

Romero at least has the decency to look a bit ashamed. “Guilty.”

I could fucking kill him. Not for fucking Genesis—I don’t care what Romero and Genesis do in their personal lives, but to not even tell me when I sent him to Chicago to get information?

“Focus, you two,” Jimbo says sharply. “Who gives a fuck about whether Romero was fucking Genesis? What kind of inconsistencies did you find, Romero?”

Romero leans forward, his voice low but his cheeks slightly pink. “The kind that could be explained by certain types of poison. The kind that mimics a heart attack.”

The room falls silent as we process this information. My mind is whirling, trying to connect the dots.

“We need to check out this restaurant,” I say finally, banishing thoughts of Genesis and Romero to the side for now. “See what else we can find out.”

Jimbo nods in agreement. “I’ll make some calls, see if we can get access to the security footage from that night.”

I’m already reaching for my phone. “Marco,” I bark as soon as he answers. “Get the car ready. Now. We’re going to Queens.”

We pull up to Mama Rosa’s, a cozy-looking Italian joint tucked between a laundromat and a bodega. The neon sign flickers, casting a red glow on the cracked sidewalk. The smells of garlic and tomato sauce waft through the air, mingling with the less pleasant odors of the city.

Romero nods toward the back alley. “Kitchen entrance. Chef should be prepping for dinner service now.”

I follow his lead, my hand resting on the gun concealed under my jacket. The alley reeks of garbage and stale grease, our footsteps echoing off the narrow walls.

Romero raps on the metal door. A moment later, a portly man in a stained apron appears, his face flushed from the kitchen heat. “We’re closed?—”

His words cut off as Romero shoves him back inside, me close behind. The kitchen is a cacophony of sizzling pans and clanging metal, the air thick with steam and spices.

“What the fuck?” the chef sputters, stumbling against a prep table laden with half-chopped vegetables.

I lock the door behind us, the click seeming to echo in the suddenly silent kitchen. “We just want to talk, Chef. About Antoni Timpone.”

The color drains from his face, his eyes darting between Romero and me. “I–I don’t know nothing about?—”

Romero’s fist connects with his stomach, doubling him over. The chef gasps for air, clutching at the edge of the table to keep from falling.

“Wrong answer, pal,” Romero growls, his eyes glinting with malice. “Try again.”

I watch, my jaw clenched, as Romero works the chef over. It doesn’t take long before he’s a blubbering mess, slumped against the industrial refrigerator.

“Okay, okay!” he gasps, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’ll tell you everything. Just… just stop, please.”

I step forward, my voice a near growl. “Start talking.”

The chef takes a shaky breath, his mustache quivering. “It was Gino. He… he told me to add something to his dad’s meals. Said it was some fancy seasoning, like saffron truffle powder or some shit.”

I can’t fucking believe what I’m hearing. “And you just did it? No questions asked?”

The chef’s eyes are wide with terror, darting between Romero and me. “He said it was a special thing, from a son to his dad! How was I supposed to know it was… was…”

“Poison?” Romero finishes, his voice dripping with disgust.

The chef nods miserably. “I swear, I had no idea. If I’d known…”

I exchange a look with Romero. This is worse than we thought.

“How often?” I demand. “How often did you add this ‘special seasoning’?”

“Every other day,” the chef mumbles. “For about a month before… before Mr. Timpone passed.”

I feel sick to my stomach. Gino had been slowly poisoning his own father for weeks.

“You got any of this ‘seasoning’ left?” Romero asks.

The chef nods vigorously and hurries toward his spices, Romero following close behind. I watch as Romero pockets the small vial of powder, the chef’s hands shaking as he hands it over.

“Is that all of it?” I ask.

The chef nods frantically. “Y–Yes, that’s everything. Gino forgot to take it back after… after Mr. Timpone passed.”

I exchange a glance with Romero. Gino’s sloppiness might just be our lucky break.

“Listen carefully,” I say, stepping closer to the chef. He shrinks back against the refrigerator, his eyes wide with fear. “This conversation never happened. You never saw us. You know nothing about any special seasoning. Understood?”

The chef nods again, sweat beading on his forehead. “I understand. I won’t say a word, I swear.”

"Good," I growl. “Because if you do, you’ll have a lot more to worry about than just us. Gino isn’t known for his forgiveness.”

The chef’s face pales even further. “I… I get it. My lips are sealed.”

Romero steps forward, his voice a menacing whisper. “They'd better be. Because if we find out you’ve talked, we’ll make sure you never cook again. Got it?”

The chef looks like he might faint. “Got it. Please… just go. I won’t say anything.”

The smell of fear lingers in the air as we leave the kitchen, and I can’t shake the sick feeling in my gut. Gino’s own father. How could anyone do that?

Back in the car, Romero breaks the silence. “Jesus Christ, Boss. I knew Gino was a piece of shit, but this…”

I nod, my jaw clenched. “Yeah. This is a whole new level of fucked up.”

“What’s our next move?” Romero asks, his eyes meeting mine as Marco drives away.

I take a deep breath, my mind racing. “We need to get this powder analyzed. If it’s what we think it is, we’ve got Gino dead to rights.”

“And if it’s not?”

I shake my head. “It has to be. The chef’s story, the timing of Antoni’s death… it all fits.”

Romero nods, his face grim. “So we take this to the other Families? Show them what kind of monster Gino really is?”

“Not yet,” I say, my voice hard. “We need to be smart about this. If we move too fast, Gino might catch wind and disappear. Or worse, he might lash out.”

My mind flashes to Fee and Lou. No, we can’t risk Gino doing anything desperate.

“So, what’s the plan, Angelo?” Romero asks.

I pull out my phone, dialing Jimbo’s number. He answers on the second ring.

“What’s the word?”

“We’re moving forward,” I say, my voice low and steady. “Call Gino. Tell him I’m ready to give him whatever he wants.”

There’s a pause on the other end. “You sure about this?”

“Absolutely,” I reply, my jaw set. “Set up the meeting. Make it seem like I’m coming to surrender.”

“And then?” Jimbo asks, though I can tell from his tone that he already knows the answer.

I glance at Romero, who’s listening intently. “And then Romero takes care of our problem. Permanently.”

Romero’s face breaks into a grin. “Fuck yes . It would be my honor to finally take that motherfucker out,” he says, his voice filled with excitement.

I nod, acknowledging his enthusiasm. “Just remember, we need this to be clean. No traces, no witnesses.”

“Don’t worry,” Romero assures me, cracking his knuckles. “I’ve been waiting for this chance. I’ll make sure it’s done right.”

Back to the phone, I continue, “Jimbo, make sure everything’s set up perfectly. We can’t afford any mistakes.”

“Understood, Boss. I’ll take care of it.”

As I hang up, I feel a mix of anticipation and dread.

This is it.

The endgame.

The next morning, I walk Lou to school as normal. Lou’s voice is a constant stream of chatter beside me. I nod and make appropriate noises, but my mind is elsewhere, replaying last night’s revelations and thinking strategy about my meeting with Gino in a few hours.

“…and then Mom said we might need to get a bigger place because of the baby,” Lou’s saying, her voice excited.

I nod absently. “That’s nice, Lou.” Suddenly, her words register. I stop in my tracks, my heart pounding. “Wait, what did you just say?”

Lou’s blue eyes widen, realizing her slip. “Oh, no. I wasn’t supposed to tell you that. Mom’s gonna be so mad.”

I kneel down to her level, my mind reeling. “Lou, are you saying your mom is pregnant?”

She nods, biting her lip and scuffing her shoe against the sidewalk. “Yeah. But it was supposed to be a secret. She was gonna tell you herself.”

I stand up slowly, feeling like the world has tilted on its axis. Fee is pregnant . With my child .

And she hasn’t told me.

“How long has she known?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm.

Lou shrugs. “I dunno. A couple weeks, I think? She made me promise not to tell you. She said she needed to figure stuff out first.”

I take a deep breath, trying to process this bombshell. Fee is pregnant. We’re having a baby. And she’s been keeping it from me.

Holy fuck, things just got a lot more complicated.