“You still there?” he asked.
“I’m here.”
“A delivery came today,” he said.
“Where?”
“The bar. A man sat on one of my stools, ordered vodka, and then told me he’d been looking for Scarlett Rose Fausti but couldn’t seem to find her. Italian fella, by the looks of him. I didn’t say anything, just kept wiping down the counter, and offered him another drink. This time he refused and threw a thousand dollars on the counter. He left a box. Has your wife’s name on it.”
“Did he sound Italian?”
My eyes rose to meet Scarlett’s. She stared at me.
“Got me there. He had an accent. More local than that, I dunno. My hearing hasn’t been on point since Bush was president. Or was it Clinton?”
I rolled my shoulders, but the tension refused to leave. “Tell me what’s in the box.”
“Figured I’d consult with the owner before I tampered with it.”
“Tamper,” I said.
“You go it. Hold on.”
The phone scratched against a surface as he muttered to himself while opening the package.“Jesus in heaven,” he said. A wave of laughter washed over the phone, drowning out any other words before it went quiet again. I heard a door shut.
“It’s a red rose,” he said, voice full of gravel. “Has your wife’s name on—on a, ah, Jesus in heaven, a toe tag. A picture of her smiling beside it. A rosary is wrapped around it all. It’s so tightly wound that it’s strangling the flower, making it turn black.”
“A rosary.”
“Yeah, a real pretty one. Made with rubies.”
Nemours was known for sending his messages this way. I found it hard to believe it was him this time, though. After attempting to fake his own death so he could come back and take his adversaries unaware, I doubted that he would reveal he was alive this way. Even though we knew he was.
Unless I killed him myself, I would always be on guard for him. A car accident seemed much too easy, much too convenient.
Unless he was starting to get restless. We had a heavy price on his head, attempting to drive him out of hiding.
Nemours didn’t sound Italian either. He had French written all over him. And he had never included a picture of my wife, nor a rosary.
If it was Nemours, our men would have taken notice as well. Donato would have received a call right away. Nemours was too smart for that. He was being hunted so fiercely that no one would deliver a message from him unless they had a death wish.
The rosary seemed more personal.
It was the symbol of the Faustifamiglia. Men who were a part of the family got a tattoo of it, along with a lion and a sacred heart, when they were inducted. It was a rite of passage, a baptism in the life, a lifelong vow to serve what was theirs by right.
Sangue familiare.
Blood and bone would always carry out the silent oath, until flesh perished into ashes.
It was all too familiar to be coincidental. Someone knew about the war with Nemours, was letting me know he knew, and adding his own twist.
There was only one reason that I’d involve myself in something like this.
He made it personal by targeting my wife. I’d never turn a blind eye to this blatantly disrespectful gesture—this fucking threat againstmylife.
Two voices reached me at once, but I looked up to find the one that could reach me from another world.
“Brando?” Scarlett whispered.
