“Okay, so she can cook,” Michael reluctantly agreed. “Fine, hire her. But make sure you run a full background check first. If she has any ties to any of the families, I want to know immediately. Bring her in tomorrow and get her trained.”
The manager grabbed a pen and jotted down notes.
“Anything to add, Mario?” Michael asked.
Mario nodded. “Stress test her. It won’t matter how great her dishes are if she can’t handle the pressure. If she fails, all our heads are gonna roll, so be sure you have trained backups, just in case.”
It seemed unreal that everyone was this keyed up about a goddamn dinner, but that was the way of a rising family. Everything we did had to be thought through and handled correctly, since we needed to prove we were competent and powerful.
With the decision made, Mario and the manager worked out the details while Michael grabbed the office phone and made a call. With nothing to do, I stacked the applications, setting Annetta’s on top. Then I memorized her phone number.
When Michael returned to the table he pulled me to the side and let me know one of our warehouses missed their drop and Father wanted us to check it out. And with that it was back to family business as usual.
***
Mario drove my Porsche home from the restaurant and I slid into the passenger’s seat of Michael’s black Acura NSX. With its full leather interior and VTEC engine, the NSX was my brother’s pride and joy. He revved up the engine to life, and we headed south.
The family owned several warehouses around the city, each one on record under a different fictitious name. It was one of the many ways my old man kept Uncle Sam out of the family coffers. Warehouses were used to process stolen or manufactured goods, and money drops were made one to three times a day, depending on the flow of business. The warehouse in question was currently moving a cocaine shipment, so it should be making money drops at least twice daily. Carlo had called to check on them when they missed the evening drop, and nobody answered.
The warehouse was located in a brick building behind a lounge on West Spring Mountain Road, between an imported car lot and a Korean restaurant. An empty lot occupied the land behind it, with a low-income housing development beyond that.
We drove around the block a couple of times, checking out the scene. It was dinner time, and the restaurant’s parking lot was filling up. Six cars were parked in front of the lounge, and traffic at the car lot was dismal. Nothing seemed out of place and no one appeared to be too interested in us or the warehouse, so we pulled into the empty lot and scoped out the building. The security lights were on, but while we waited nobody came or left, which was odd.
I pulled the P229 SIG SAUER from my pocket, checked the magazine, and flicked off the safety. “You ready, Mike?”
At his nod, we slid out of the car. I slipped my weapon back in my pocket but kept my hand on it. Michael beeped his car alarm on as we crossed the lot, heading for the front door. Listening, I heard no sounds other than traffic and the loud rock music of the lounge.
“How do you want to handle this?” I asked, deferring to my older brother.
“Through the front door. Stay by me.”
Most mafia bosses wouldn’t send their two heirs into a potentially dangerous situation, but our old man made it clear that if we couldn’t survive the life, we didn’t deserve it. I could see his logic, but still, it would have been nice if he’d at least sent us backup.
The front door stood ajar. We drew our guns and crept in slowly. We’d done this sort of thing over a hundred times, but it still made my heart pound, knowing anyone could be inside waiting to pop us off. We slipped around the corner and pointed our guns, just like we’d been trained to, only there was nobody standing to threaten. Four bullet-ridden bodies were lying on the ground, all of which I recognized.
We stuck together and searched the rest of the warehouse, finding it clear. The blood of the bodies was congealing, so whoever had made the hit was probably long gone by now. Michael swore and lowered his weapon, picking up the receiver of the phone on the countertop. He dialed and put it to his ear while I wandered around the room. Blood was splattered everywhere, and the place reeked of shit. In addition to the gunshot wounds, chunks of clothing and flesh had been flayed off two of the men.
Mobsters often left messages with their hits. A bullet through the eye meant the family who’d ordered the hit was watching. A bullet through the mouth meant the victim had been a snitch. But I’d never heard of a message connected to flaying a person. I dragged a hand down my face and tried to figure out why the hell these two had been tortured. It didn’t make any sense.
In the middle of the room stood two empty tables, with a safe in the corner. Michael hung up the phone and made a beeline for the safe. He put in the code and opened it up to reveal a pile of cash.
“At least they didn’t get the money,” he said, pulling it out and locking the safe back up.
Sometimes my brother sounded eerily like our old man. All these men were dead, and he was proud none of them had given up the code. “Harsh, Mike.”
He shrugged. “What do you want me to do, cry for them? Build them a shrine? Sorry, but I don’t have time to do any of that shit, because I’m gonna go catch the bastards who did this. Now let’s get out of here. Father’s calling in a clean-up crew.”
He made it sound like they’d be cleaning up trash, or some sort of spill. Not people we knew. Searching for some whisper of humanity in him, I said, “That guy with the gun… he’s got a kid. A little girl. She was at dinner a couple of weeks ago, remember?”
“Yeah. This one right here has a wife. You wanna stick around and reminisce? Maybe explain to their families why their killers are still out there? Cool, but I’m gonna go hunt them down.”
“Does Father know who did this?” I asked.
Michael cocked his head. “We all know who did this. Let’s talk in the car.”
We hustled out to his Acura and took off. After we’d put a few blocks between us and the murder scene, Michael filled me in on his conversation with our old man.
“He suspects the Durantes are behind the hit, but wants the names of the men who pulled the triggers. He’s given us permission to do whatever it takes to get them.”
