He opens his mouth, closes it. “I don’t want trouble.”
“Then don’t make any,” I say. “Tell me what I want to know.”
He shakes his head, hands up like he’s warding off heat.
Vito moves in close, catches Carlo’s jeweled hand, and plants it flat on the counter. The pinky ring gleams stupidly.
“Please—” Carlo starts.
I walk slowly to the wall and peruse my tool options.
My fingers trail the pegboard—pliers, mallet, pry bar—until they close on a torque wrench.
I lift it off the hook, testing the swing like I’m deciding if it’s balanced.
Carlo can’t look away.
I walk back slowly, hitting it lightly against my palm a couple of times.
Back at the counter, I tap the wrench against my palm again, then bring it down gently toward his pinky, right above his ridiculous ring.
He flinches hard and starts struggling, curling his fingers in.
Vito simply puts his knee into the man’s back and straightens his hand back out.
I tap the wrench on each of his fingers in turn.
“Now. The Tahoe,” I say conversationally. “Who brought it in?”
“Capri,” he blurts in a panic, his voice cracking. Sweat gathers on his skin, soaking his collar. “He said his name was Capri.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s a runner for the Russos!” he shouts, trying to struggle away again.
“Who hired him?” I ask, keeping my tone mild.
Carlo’s eyes dart, looking for a lie that won’t cost him fingers. He doesn’t find one.
“Nello,” he pants. “Nello Morante is the go-between for Russo’s nephew, Gabe. Gabe Russo.”
“What else?”
“Nothing, I swear!”
I bring the wrench down again, not hard enough to do damage, but enough to make a point.
“I swear! That’s all I know!” DeSantis spits out, his eyes wide with fear.
I step back and nod, setting the wrench down on the counter.
To Vito and the two men hovering at the door, I say, “Make sure that’s true.”
“Got it, boss,” one of them says with a smirk.
The other pulls the half-opened garage door all the way down.
I walk out the door, Giovanni trailing me.
