“What did he say?” Nazario’s menacing tone gives the kid pause. He narrows his eyes, glancing around the room, calculating the risks.
“He said he was asked to be a sniper on the building across from the restaurant as a backup plan for you and your brother.” He gestures to Naz. “He mentioned the Cartel were meeting you there, and his boss told him to take you two and all your men out. Let the Mesias go free. To make it look like the Cartel took out the hit.” He pauses. “Something must’ve gone wrong though because he was saying something about his boss was pissed about being questioned by the Cartel about his whereabouts and if he knew anything about the hit.”
“They were asking abouthiswhereabouts or his boss’s?” Mauro asks.
“I don’t know the answer to that.” The kid shrugs. “I was listening in, but I was there for my own assignment. I didn’t catch everything. I was focused on my task for the night. You know?”
“Who was it? What’s his name?” I already know Ephraim was the one who shot Santo and our men. What I need to know is whether he is working alone or if he was given an order.
“Ephraim something or other,” the kid says. “I know he’s one of ours. Or hewas.He works security detail sometimes, but most of the time I see him collecting downtown. He was always bitchin’ about how he was underpaid and his skills as a sniper were underutilized. He talks about how he should have a higher rank and be one of Enzo’s most used assets,” he says, looking me in the eye.
“He was a loose fucking cannon who had zero patience and didn’t like following instructions.” It’s why I rarely used him for anything other than collections. But Halloween was the exception. I knew the meeting was happening, but Nazario took the lead on his protective detail for the night. We didn’t foresee any issues since the Cartel was already appeased with Henry’s death and their product being returned.
I should’ve handled the detail or at least double-checked Naz’s choices.
But you were more concerned with getting Althea in your bed.
“What was your name again?” Mauro asks, pulling my attention back to the conversation.
“Daemon,” he answers, turning to face Mauro. “Daemon Rossi.” He’s not afraid, meeting each of us eye to eye when he speaks.
“Where are you from?” Mauro looks from him to me with a strange look on his face. Does he think this guy looks familiar too?
He shrugs. “Italy.” That intrigues us all.
“How’d you come to find yourself in Dallas?”
“It’s a long story.”
We all stare at Daemon expectantly. When he realizes we aren’t going to budge until he talks, he sighs. “I was an orphan. The foster care system in Italy, much like here, is shit. One night, I think I was about five. I’m not sure. A group of men came in with a priest and took a group of us to join the Academy. It’s a boarding school.”
“We know the place.” Angelo chuckles. The family has used the Academy as a resource for soldiers for years. They take in children who have been abandoned or abused and train them to be soldiers. They get their education along with a few extralife-skillstraining courses, and anyone who stands out among the students gets put on a watch list for the family.
Our uncle Eliseo, who is in charge of the family businesses in Italy, decides who we recruit from the list. Daemon here must’ve stuck out among the crowd to make it all the way to Texas. Eliseo doesn’t send just anyone to the States. Working directly under the Don himself is not a privilege freely given. They must earn it.
“Anyway, I was picked up by Eliseo when I turned eighteen. He saw I was good with numbers and my fists. One of his men was sent to collect me, and I was sent to Houston. Once there, I met with Marcello, and he assigned me to Anthony Rossario’s crew. I’ve been working for him ever since.”
Rossario is one of our Capos. He runs debt collection in both Houston and the Metroplex for us. He also runs an underground boxing circuit that he moves around when shit gets hot.
“Rossario’s currently recruiting in San Antonio for the circuit. I’m assuming you’re on the card. Though I don’t recall seeing your name.” Daemon nods. “Then why would he send you here to Metroplex instead of to his training camp? He’s got a lot of money riding on the next gig.”
“I’m a fill-in at the moment.”
“Why? You hurt?” Angelo leans forward with his elbows on his knees, fully invested in the conversation.
“My last fight stirred up some bullshit with another fighter. I broke his wrist.” He smiles. “Rossario suggested I lie low for the next one.”
“Youbroke his wrist? He didn’t do it himself when he hit you?” Mauro asks, almost laughing.
“How did you break someone’s wrist in a boxing match?” Angelo smiles, intrigued.
“It was after the fight,” Daemon explains further. “He was pissed about the loss and grabbed his woman by the bicep, dragging her screaming through the crowd. I didn’t like it. I chased after him, and when he didn’t heed my warning to let her go, I snapped his wrist.” Another shrug of his shoulders, like it was the most normal thing to do. I guess in our world it is. It’s what most of us would’ve done.
I would’ve started with the wrist at least.
“Rossario thought it was best if I laid low for the next few fights while he smoothed shit over with the other guy’s camp. I don’t mind. I like it up here.”
“What did Rossario send you up here to do? Because I know he didn’t send you out here on vacation,” Nazario pushes. He appears relatively calm, but the edge is still present in his voice.
