Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

Anthony

"Oh, my God. I'm so sorry!" the woman said, eyes saucers as she frantically reached for napkins to wipe the coffee off my shirt.

The least of my concerns was my dry-clean-only shirt as the hot coffee burned through the material and into the skin of my chest and stomach. And I didn't think it would exactly be appropriate to strip out of said shirt in a public place.

"It's alright. Don't worry about it," I insisted, wondering if the burns would be self-treatable, or if I had yet another visit to Salvatore ahead of me.

"Let me give you my number so I can at least pay for your dry-cleaning," she said, already trying to fish into her purse for, I assumed, a paper and pen.

"Really, don't worry about it," I told her, forcing a smile I didn't feel as my shirt brushed across my oversensitive burned skin. "I'm fine," I told her as she turned to accept a replacement coffee from a concerned-looking barista.

"Again," she said, frazzled, but checking her watch like she was late for something, "I'm so sorry," she told me as she grabbed her coffee and ran out the door.

"You okay?" the same barista asked as she passed me my coffee.

"I'll be fine," I told her, nodding for emphasis, then making my way out to the truck I had parked down the side street.

It wasn't the same, giant, clunky one I'd used back in the day to help Lorenzo out of a bind that had finally put me on his radar. As much as I loved that one, it would stand out way too fucking much on the city streets. This new one looked more like an SUV, but had a small truck bed in case I needed it to cart anything… messy around.

I didn't have a lot of use for a vehicle in my daily life in the city. And it was probably financially irresponsible of me to pay for parking for it, but on occasion, it was nice not to have to ask Lorenzo or another capo to use of one of their cars when I needed one.

Like now.

For a fucking stakeout.

Whatever excitement I'd felt at the idea of getting a job of my own kind of fizzled out when I was told that all I would be doing was a little surveillance.

At first , I reminded myself. Lorenzo said that was all it would be at first. He had heard whispers about a Czech crew puffing their chests, and he wanted to know if it was something he actually needed to worry about, or if it was just a small crew who wanted control of a neighborhood.

And, of course, if they would kick-up to us.

If not, they had no right to take over a neighborhood, period.

So, yeah, I had a passenger floor well stocked with a cooler full of food, a couple bottles of water, my coffee, binoculars, and a discreet, but powerful, camera.

It was my first official stakeout.

I mean, sure, I'd sat outside of buildings and watched crews before, but mostly because my Family was inside.

This was different.

And I was determined to do a good job. Even if all I had to tell him was that this crew was a bunch of low-level guys who had no chance of becoming any sort of threat.

So there I was, parked at the end of the block of historic clapboard row houses in Washington Heights where Lorenzo's intel said we could find these guys.

I dunno about for Lorenzo, but red flags immediately went up for me hearing that. Because, yeah, Washington Heights was more affordable than a lot of other neighborhoods in Manhattan, but these weren't apartments. They were townhouses. They were houses .

I mean, no, they didn't cost six or ten million like brownstones did in more in-demand areas, but they still cost, on the low end, a million.

Meaning that whoever this crew was, they weren't new and they weren't small-time.

Though from what I could tell as I sat there watching, though, there didn't seem to be any scouts in the area. Typically, crews used kids for that task. Sometimes as young as ten, just riding up and down the block on their bikes, keeping an eye for anything suspicious, and ringing their bike bells if something felt off, tipping off their bosses to be aware.

Sure, it was school hours. But that never seemed to matter when there were kids from economically pressed families. They'd rather skip school and risk truant officers than miss out on the chance to make some desperately needed money.

But there were no kids, save for the trio of them that a woman shuffled into a double-stroller and one on her chest as she headed out… somewhere.

There weren't any adults lingering around either.

Which was interesting.

Definitely seemed to go against the notion that they were a big crew, despite the expensive house.

Maybe backed from the old country, trying to establish a foothold in a notoriously profitable area for organized crime.

I flicked my newspaper, turning a page like I'd been doing occasionally every few minutes, wanting to appear like I was a man waiting for someone, not like I was casing the joint.

I'd even smiled and nodded at the woman who'd eyed me suspiciously as she passed. It would do no good if neighbors started to question my appearance here. Shit got around, even if you didn't have scouts.

The morning slid toward afternoon as I left my truck only to hustle around the corner to grab another coffee and use the bathroom, checking my chest and stomach in the bathroom mirror.

The skin was red and painful under the layered aloe and petroleum jelly I'd put on after a quick internet search. But I was reasonably sure that the degree wasn't bad enough to warrant a visit to Salvatore.

Besides, I was pretty sure I still had that magic shit he gave me the last time I got a nasty burn in my medicine cabinet back home. The same stuff he claimed they used for the worst kinds of burns in hospitals. I could use that as soon as I had something, anything to tell Lorenzo and could go home.

I had just gotten back in my car when, finally, I saw a car pull down the street, suspiciously double-parking outside of the last row house on the street.

A crew of three men climbed out, gazes moving around for a second before they popped the trunk.

One of the men went toward the house, unlocking the door that was on the street—or basement—level under a staircase to the main floor, propping it open, then joining the crew as they, I shit you not, started to unload guns. A shitton of guns. Every kind. Handguns. Automatics. Some shit I didn't even recognize.

The trips seemed endless, the men working tirelessly until the trunk seemed empty, then sharing a few words in the street before two of the men went inside, and the third took the car.

Well.

That was certainly a development.

On the one hand, they might just be arms dealing. Though, obviously, they had to pay us to do that kind of thing on our turf.

On the other, though, they had accumulated enough firepower to potentially take all of us out if that was their plan.

I opted to stay in my car, risking being seen as suspicious, to see how many members there were on this crew.

The third man returned about an hour after he left, carrying bags of what I guessed were takeaway.

Ten minutes after that, two more men arrived.

Then, finally, one last one.

Six men.

Not exactly an impressive crew.

But with firepower like that, they didn't need to be big if they opted to be discreet and slowly pick off the senior members of the family in a targeted attack.

Six men could mean Lorenzo, Emilio, Brio, Cosimo, Salvatore, and Cesare. The biggest capos we had. Leaving, who? Lorenzo's brother Santi, and Cesare's brothers. And others like me, who didn't even officially have crews yet.

It would be a devastating, Family-ending attack.

Which warranted me hanging out even as night fell and I was out of coffee, but not willing to risk getting out of the truck again, and having someone see me with the interior lights going on and off.

So I just sat.

And watched a house as lights went on and off.

And not a damn thing else happened.

Until, finally, someone walked down the street, black hoodie up over their head, casting their face in shadows.

If you looked quickly, you would have thought it was a man. Maybe a teenager, given their long, slim limbs.

It was the walk for me that was a dead giveaway.

Men shuffled, swaggered, and strode.

Women, whether they meant to or not, swayed more than men did. I figured it was more to do with their hips and different center of gravity than the fact that they were, you know, doing it consciously.

And this hooded figure swayed enough for me to clock it.

I didn't think much of it. This was a decent street, but who knew where she was heading. It was night. Dark. She was alone. It was always safer for a woman to try to disguise herself as a man than to deal with some creep following them around when they were just trying to get from Point A to Point B.

I didn't even think much of it as she took out her phone and turned a bit awkwardly toward the row houses as she passed.

It wasn't until she came back down the street, this time walking past my car, that I sat up a little straighter and took note.

This time, when she lifted her phone, I focused my binoculars on it as she focused on the row houses.

She was taking pictures.

Of each level of the house itself, but also the street in general.

Was she staking it out?

If so, why?

And why the fuck was she doing it alone?

Granted, I was alone.

But I was in a car. And I had the whole of my Family behind me if shit went down.

Who did she have?

Maybe I was thinking too narrowly, though.

It was possible she was just an ex-girlfriend with a grudge or something like that.

Hell, maybe she'd get her Molotov cocktail on and save me from having to do anything.

She was on her third trip down the street when the door at the top of the steps flew open and a man walked out, the streetlights catching off of something long and metal in his hand.

The woman seemed to see or sense the danger as well, yanking her hoodie strings tighter around her face as she started to pick up her pace. It wasn't exactly a run. She was trying not to draw attention to herself in case the guy was just stepping out for a smoke or something.

My windows were cracked to let in some fresh air, enough that I could hear it when the man on the steps called out.

"Hey!" he yelled, making the woman push her legs a little faster. "Get your ass back here," he called.

Then he was rushing down the steps.

And the woman was running.

But not out toward the cross street.

Nope.

She was running directly at my truck.

Before I could even think to hit the locks, she was yanking open the door, and rushing inside.

It was then I saw another glint of metal.

As she aimed a gun at me.

"Drive," she demanded.

Even if I didn't want to, she left me no choice with the man rushing forward, arm lifted, ready to hail bullets on the truck.

Of all the ways I could have anticipated this night ending, getting shot at while being carjacked was certainly not on that list.

I turned over the truck, backed out of the street, and fucking floored it as two bullets clipped my truck bed.