“You’re strong enough for this, Panini,” he says, taking my hand.
“I guess we’ll find out if you’re right about that.”
“I am,” he says. He quirks his brow. “I’m always right.”
Chapter Thirty Five
Luca
The shop squats at the end of a service road, cinder block painted the color of old gum. The bay doors are half down despite the heat, music low inside, one compressor whining like a mosquito.
We park across the alley. Vito kills the engine. Giovanni checks the sightlines once and nods.
“Owner?” I ask.
“Carlo DeSantis,” Giovanni says. “Keeps two sets of books and has a nephew on parole.”
“Good.”
We walk.
The bell above the side door gives a weak jingle when Vito pushes it open. Three heads come up—kid with a spray mask around his neck, a stocky man at the parts counter, and a skinnier man wiping his hands on a rag.
The skinny man sees me, and all the blood leaves his face. “We’re closed.”
I don’t bother to respond; just keep walking.
“Bring DeSantis,” I tell Vito, and he peels off toward the office, a gleeful smile on his face.
Vito disappears through the glass door. I hear a chair scrape, a yelp, then silence.
The stocky man tries on a brave face. He fails. The kid with the mask stares at the floor, pale.
Vito reappears first, holding the door with two fingers.
Carlo DeSantis stumbles out of the office, ill-fitting navy suit, shirt half-unbuttoned. A chain thick as an anchor line tangles in a patchy chest of hair. A pinky ring big enough to tip the small man over. The toupee is crooked, front edge lifted like it’s trying to take off. His cheek bears a fresh bruise about the size of Vito’s fist. He’s breathing hard.
“Mr. Conti,” he says, trying for swagger and landing on wheeze. “If I’d known you were coming—”
“What?” I ask softly.
He swallows. The room goes absolutely still.
“My men are me, Carlo,” I say, still using the soft voice that’s far more effective than a shout. “When my men come around, asking questions, that’smeasking them.”
“The Tahoe is gone,” Giovanni says. “It was here a couple of days ago.”
“Who drove it?” I ask DeSantis.
He shakes his head too fast. “Walk-in. Cash. No name.”
“Same old story,” Giovanni says, pulling a single photo from his pocket and sliding it across the counter. “Who was it?”
“Never saw him myself,” DeSantis says, eyes jumping to the office.
The kid with the mask starts edging toward the back; Vito sends a look in his direction, and the kid stops.
“Carlo,” I say, and he jerks at his own name.
