Mickey frowned, but he didn’t bother asking. He didn’t think Cold would tell them, and he already had a pretty good idea. “You need some help, Boss?”
“No, thank you,” Cold said briskly. “I will be handling it on my own.”
“I was happy to help,” Rufus gushed. “Marco will deserve whatever is coming to him.”
“Agreed. Now, moving on.” Cold cleared his throat. “Luigi has officially surrendered his claim to the family and fled the city. His supporters have either followed him or defected to one of his brothers. Now it’s us against Cristian and Matteo. Matteo is weak, thanks to both our efforts and his brother’s, and it will not be long before he’s out too. Which then leaves us with Cristian. My plan for him is nearly complete, but there is one particular obstacle still in our way. The city’s prosecutor, Mr. Marcus Head. Mr. Robert York, the assistant prosecutor, is a friend of Mr. Corman’s, and he is much more sympathetic to our cause. He would like us to remove Mr. Head from the picture so he can assume his position.”
“Yeah?” Mickey perked up. “Want me to go get him?”
“Mr. Head is aware his life is in danger, and he’s been placed under police protection,” Rufus said. “The Luchesi family has some beef with him too, and he’s being kept tucked away at an undisclosed location, but he still arrives to work every weekday morning at precisely nine o’clock.”
“At the Strassen Springs Courthouse, which is crawling with fuckin’ pigs as it is,” Jules chimed in. “It’s way hot. They’re postin’ uniforms all over the place, the whole block. Fuckin’ suicide to go after him there.”
“Shit.” Mickey scowled. He thought it over and looked to Cold. “I’ll do whatever needs to be done, Boss.”
“I’d rather not risk losing you to Strassen Springs’ finest, although I appreciate your dedication as always,” Cold drawled. “No. I do not think trying to take out Mr. Head at the courthouse is wise. The danger is too great. We must find where he’s being kept or discover some other way that he might be vulnerable.”
“Family?” Jerry asked hopefully. “Maybe a wife? Girlfriend?”
“No. Not even a dog.”
“Damn.”
“Who drives him around? The cops?” Roger scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe we can arrange our own little transportation service?”
“I believe he’s being driven personally by SSPD, but it may be worth looking into,” Cold mused.
One of the guards approached, saying politely, “Hey, Boss? I’m sorry to interrupt your meetin’, but I got a situation.”
“What is it?” Cold demanded.
“There’s an old guy and some scrawny little kid here,” the guard replied. “Says they got info about the fire at Slick Rick’s.”
“Oh?” Cold glanced over at Alistair. “Bring them in, please.”
“You got it, Boss.” The guard returned to the lobby, coming back a moment later with the unexpected guests.
The old man was gray and gaunt with long hair and wild eyes. The kid was indeed scrawny, a bean pole stuffed in an oversized hoodie, and his eyes had the same feral look as the old man’s. Their clothes were dirty and patched in several places, and Mickey swore he heard the kid’s stomach growling as they got closer.
“Hello, your Coldship,” the old man said in a grand voice that might have once graced a stage. “My name is Francis Von Valdemar. This is my grandson, Francis Von Valdemar III. We like to call him Thirdsies. He has something very important to say to you, sir.”
Cold narrowed his eyes and leaned across the table as he looked them over, his fingers steepled in front of him. “Proceed.”
The kid stepped forward, nervously tugging at the pocket of his hoodie. He took a deep breath and mumbled, “I’m sorry for burning down your club.”
“You did that?” Alistair roared furiously. “You fuckin’ little worm—!”
The kid immediately cowered.
Mickey almost laughed.
This tiny kid toasted the club? It was ridiculous.
Cold held up his hand to silence Alistair, remaining calm as he asked the kid, “And what inspired you to do that?”
“These fancy guys asked me to make a bomb.” Thirdsies fidgeted. He was clearly uncomfortable with everyone staring at him. “Somethin’ Italian somethin’ Lucheesy. Gave me a thousand bucks to do it.”
“The Luchesi family came to you to make them a bomb?” Cold tilted his head curiously. “How old are you?”
