“Your name?”
He narrowed his eyes at me. He was probably calling me Pinky Ring in his head. It was no secret that the connected Irish thought we were too flashy with our expensive suits and cars and jewelry.
“Harrison Ryan,” he said. “I’m Mr. Kelly’s legal counsel. We’re short a person at the desk. So you’ll have to come back, Mr…?”
I set my hand on the counter, so the gold ring on my little finger would glint a little. “Corrado. Corrado Scorpio.” News hadn’t spread yet, outside of the families, of my new role. For the moment, I wanted to keep it that way. “I’ll wait if he’s busy. As long as it takes.”
He eyed Adriano behind me and then watched him follow as I took a seat in the waiting area. I picked up a magazine about my grandfather that was left out as reading material.
Harrison Ryan cleared his throat a minute later. “Mr. Kelly will see you now.” He looked at Adriano. “Only you.”
I stood, removing my jacket, proving that I wasn’t packing any heat. I lifted my shirt, turned around, and then lifted both pant legs.
“We can skip the shake down,” I said. “If this is sufficient.”
Harrison Ryan nodded. “Follow me.”
I tucked my shirt back in, slipped my jacket back on, and nodded once to Adriano. He nodded back, touching the gun underneath his jacket in a subtle way.
Cash Kelly started an assessment on me the moment I walked into his office. In the brief second it took for him to stand, for us to shake hands, his mind worked out three things: who I was, what I was about, and what I wanted. After that, he’d decide if he would be willing to help me with the latter.
I doubted it.
He worked with select families. The Irish and Italians sometimes worked together, but it was never close. We had our own thing; they had theirs.
He checked out the scorpion on my hand, and I checked out the tiger on his neck. His old man was a legend around here. He was following in his footsteps.
I respected Cash Kelly’s stance on drugs, how hard he fought to keep them off his streets. It spoke to the tradition in me. My grandfather never allowed it, and neither would I. There were too many other opportunities to make money if a mind was creative enough.
I also knew that Kelly was more willing to trust a man who had spent some time in jail. Maybe he would sense that about me. Maybe he wouldn’t. Either way, though, my message would get back to its intended target through him.
He nodded to the seat across from him. I took it.
“I’m going to be brief,” I said. “Word on the street is that you know a man that goes by Mac Macchiavello.”
“Know him,” he said, studying me harder. “Or can get close to him.”
“I don’t need you to get close to him,” I said, sitting up some, fixing my suit, before I relaxed again. “I’m here to confirm that you know him.”
“That he exists.”
I waved a hand. We could play this game all day long. I pulled out a picture of Emilia and slid it across the desk toward him. I wanted him to know there was more to this situation than just me looking for him.
His eyes moved over her face, studying her, trying to place her. He released a breath when he did. “My condolences.” He slid the picture back. “But I can’t help.”
“Can’t.” I grinned. “Or won’t.”
He waved his hand—either way, it was a hard no.
I shrugged. “I’ll find him, regardless.” I took the picture, slipping it back inside of my pocket, and then I stood.
He stood and offered me his hand. We shook once more. I stopped when I was at the door. “You didn’t ask why I wanted to find him.”
“Why?”
“Because when I do, I’m going to fucking kill him.”
My gut told me Mac Macchiavello was Vittorio Scarpone—the Pretty Boy Prince. Even back in the day, he was a smart motherfucker. Machiavellian to the highest degree. Men used to talk about how he was the only one who was capable of getting out of the life without help—help meaning, either in a body bag or by becoming a stool pigeon.
