"Running like clockwork." He gestures toward the manifest. "Milan shipment's already being processed.”
I head toward the warehouse and notice a man hanging out near the door. “Who’s that?”
“He’s looking for work. Been here since dawn."
"And?" I’m a suspicious man by nature. I have to be in my line of work.
"He's... persistent. Turned him away twice, but he keeps coming back. Says his wife is sick and he's got three kids to feed."
I glance toward the man. He’s maybe thirty years old, clean-cut, wearing clothes that are decent but worn. Desperate eagerness radiates off him.
"Background?"
"Claims his name is Michael Russo. Lives in Queens. Told him we weren’t looking for new hires. Says he’s willing to do anything.”
I arch a brow. “Anything?” That’s often code for someone looking to become a soldier. While no one can pin a crime on me, my family’s business and reputation is well known.
A flash of Olivia crosses my mind. Could this be her play? Send in some fresh-faced kid with a sob story, get him inside my operation?
It would be clever. Less obvious than surveillance or wiretaps.
"Want me to run him off for good?" Franco asks, cracking his knuckles.
"No." I make a decision. "Send him to my office. I'll talk to him myself."
Franco looks surprised but nods.
As I watch the young man being approached, I notice his posture, the slight stiffness in his shoulders that speaks of nervousness.
His reaction when Angelo points in my direction seems genuinely intimidated.
Still, I can't afford to trust appearances. Not with what's at stake. Not with the FBI circling.
If this kid is legitimate, I might help him. If he's not, if he's part of some operation by the FBI or a competitor, well, he'll learn why crossing a Vitale is a mistake no one makes twice.
I study Michael Russo as he sits across from me in my office, his eyes darting around the room, taking in the expensive furniture,the view of the docks through the windows. His hands fidget in his lap.
"So, Michael. Tell me why I should hire you."
"I'm a hard worker, sir. I can do anything, load trucks, clean…” He pauses. “Run errands. Whatever you need. My wife’s medical bills are piling up, and my kids?—"
Errands. Another possible code word. I raise my hand, cutting him off. "I've heard about your situation. What I want to know is why my docks? There are plenty of places hiring in the city."
He swallows hard. "My uncle worked here years ago. Said you were fair to your people."
"Your uncle's name?"
"Vincent Russo. He loaded cargo for about five years before moving to Florida."
The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I'll have one of my men verify it later.
He’s not the first person to come looking to join my organization, and I have no reason specifically to question his authenticity except that I’ve got the FBI breathing down my back and someone out to ruin La Corona.
For that reason, I should send him packing.
But if he is a spy, I want to know from who and what his intentions are.
My gut tells me to keep him close where I can watch him.
