He took another minute or two, and then he shook his head. “He’s going to die regardless,” he said. “But I get it. He’ll get pissed enough to find you—if the Scarpones don’t get to him first.” He sighed, stood, stretched his arms over his head, wiggling the nine fingers he had, and then used the window to step into the apartment.
The smell of smoke lingered on his clothes as he rummaged around a kitchen drawer for a minute. He pulled out a knife used for hacking between the bones of an animal about to be put on for dinner. Brian knew his way around a butcher shop, since his brother and grandfather had been butchers.
He lifted the knife up to me. “Mind if I use my own?”
“I’d rather keep mine clean.”
“As long as this’ll do.”
“That or your heart.”
“The finger is worth more than a heart. You can get more done with it.”
“I have no problem taking your heart, since it’s worthless.”
He met my eye for a long second before he took a firmer grip of the knife, proving his words bullshit. He didn’t want to die because his nephew was a fucking moron.
He set his hand on the chopping block on the counter. It still had carrot pieces on it. He narrowed his eyes for a second, and then, bringing the knife up, he came down with a hardthwack!His middle finger disconnected from his hand as soon as the knife connected with the block. It tilted a little before it righted itself. The nail still had a blood bruise where he must have hit it with a hammer.
He must’ve done it when he was hanging a picture of him and Molly taken at Sullivan’s bar. I’d noticed the hammer and nails on a table right under where the picture was hung when I was making my way through the apartment. It was the same place she had a picture of her and my old man back in the day.
I handed him a dishtowel that was hanging on the oven. He applied pressure for a minute before using it as a tourniquet. He lifted both of his hands, a grin on his face. “At least now they match.”
My old man had cut off his other middle finger years ago, when another war had been going on between Cormick and my old man.
“Consider your name Carver Turkey,” I said. “One more move against my wife, and I’m going to serve you to your nephew on a fucking platter.”
He waved the hand at me, the blood seeping through the dishtowel, like the crazy son of a bitch he was. “Gobble Gobble. I’ll be sure to tell him.”
Brian was like a father to Lee, and after losing his own, he wasn’t going to risk it. Whenever Lee was in trouble, Brian either hid him or got him out of it. This time, though, Brian knew the end game was coming—either from the Scarpones or me. Brian might not convince Lee to give up the entire game, but he would convince him to leave my wife fucking out of it, or he’d be the one paying the price for his nephew’s decisions.
As I shut the door to the apartment, I heard Molly yelling from inside. The volume of it rattled inside of my skull until I was about ten minutes away and consumed by my own chaos. The madness went up a notch after I pulled up to Harry Boy’s house and found it surrounded by cops.
I nodded to Harry Boy, who was talking to a detective, as I made my way closer to his door. My wife sat on the porch, and when she saw me, she stood. Her face became a mask, but not before I noticed the relief that made it to her eyes before she hardened her resolve.
She could act on a Broadway stage for thousands of people, fooling each and every one, but there was no fucking fooling me. She wanted me here, no matter how much she despised that she did. My theory was further proved right when I took her by the arm, leading her toward the car, and she didn’t put up a fight.
After I opened the door for her, she stared at me, like she had something to say. Or maybe she expected me to say something.
Instead, I lifted my hand, and letting my fingers brush across her skin as I did, I tucked a wild curl behind her ear. Her eyes closed and her hand came over my wrist, her grip tight. We stood that way for a minute or two, until she opened her eyes, shook her head, and got inside of the car.
She slammed the door before I could close it.
25
Cash
Rocco Fausti came to see me the day after Harry Boy’s house was shot up and my wife almost got riddled with bullets.
Which was exactly what should have happened to me if it was Lee Grady or the Scarpones at the country club.
It was hard to pinpoint who ordered the hit, but it didn’t really matter in the end. They were in this war together—until they turned on each other. Someone was going to find someone else dead soon. My bets were on Grady floating up first.
The Scarpone family was known to chew off their own legs to save their hearts, and it would take more than Grady to destroy them.
Ah.Lee Grady. This was his big break, and I watched it goboomright in front of my eyes. He might not chew off his entire leg to save his heart, but he’d drag the leg, still trying to get a hit in on me before his last breath. Especially since Brian lost a digit.
Either way, between Macchiavello and me, we had almost crippled both operations.
