I fully expect to hear raised voices start up, but everything stays quiet. Maybe they’re talking out their problems like civilized men.
Who am I kidding? This is Ray “Bonecrusher” Gatti, one of the Giulianos’ lower-level hitmen. He’s not interested in talking if he could be beating on someone instead. Or…or maybe theyareex-fuck buddies, maybe Gatti came up to apologize for almost throwing Carlo off the balcony. Maybe he’s not trying to kill Carlo this time. Maybe they’re having one last tumble for old time’s sake.
I rub my belly, wondering why I feel sick all of a sudden. All that rich food, no doubt, followed by all that exercise with Carlo. No way he’d suck that guy’s dick, not the way I left him. He wastotaled. And he might like it rough from time to time, but he’s not stupid enough to fuck with Gatti on his wedding night. So would Gatti be stupid enough to attack a Morelli lawyer at a wedding party on neutral ground?
Yeah. He would.
I make my way as quietly as I can back down the hall to Carlo’s door, and listen up against it. Nothing. No noise at all. But then I hear a soft thud, followed by a shattering noise, and that’s enough for me. I open the door and take in the room with one glance.
There’s really only one focal point worth worrying about: Carlo Bianchi’s jerking body, limbs flailing as Gatti presses a pillow down hard over his face.
Carlos’s fingers are scrabbling at the guy, tearing into the skin of his arms, his face, and I’m pleased to see that at least he has the sense to go for the eyes. But he’ll be dead before he hits anywhere vulnerable, that much is obvious.
Something red rises up in me, a vicious drive to violence, to protect what’smine. I don’t even think it through. I cross the floor, still silent, and Gatti hasn’t noticed me yet. He’s sitting on top of Carlo on the bed, pressing him into the mattress, completely fixated on keeping the pillow in place.
I hook my arm around Gatti’s neck and pull him off in one go. He’s surprised enough to let go of the pillow, but before he can start fighting back, I squeeze my bicep hard around his throat so he can’t cry out. I pull him into the middle of the room, sink down on one knee, and snap his neck over my thigh.
Gatti lets out one last, long hiss, his eyes wide, and then nothing. The only noise after that is Carlo’s choking and gasping as he regains his breath. I let the body fall to the carpet and stand to look down at the dead man on the floor in front of me.
I may have solved one problem, but I’ve created another. A muchbiggerproblem.
“What in the hell did you do that for?” Bianchi croaks out. He looks disheveled and terrified and it’s not because Gatti just tried to kill him, I’ll bet. He’s a smart one, Bianchi. He would’ve seen a million problems beginning the second he heard that neck break.
It’s too late now to go back, of course. Our options have become limited. I give a shrug. “You’d rather I left him choking you? I can kill you myself if you really wanna die.”
He’s still heaving and gulping for air, his eyes bugging out of his head as he looks at what used to be Gatti on the carpet between us.
“We’re fucked,” he wheezes. “Oh, God, Nicky. We arefucked.”
“We’re not fucked yet,” I tell him firmly. “Not if you pull your shit together and do what I say.”
Chapter Eight
Carlo
Iknow what you’re thinking.
Carlo, you’re thinking,you’re a Mob lawyer. Surely a little murder now and then is just par for the course?
I might be a Mob lawyer, but that doesn’t mean I’m a killer. Not like this fucking guy standing in front of me who just casually snapped a guy’s neck over his thigh like it was nothing.
I’ve spent my life learning the law so I can stay inside it. That’s myjob. My calling, if you will. From time to time I carry messages for the Morellis, but always coded, and never anything beyond the bare minimum of what I need to know. Besides, the Morellis understand that homicide is no way to run a business—when it can be avoided, at least.
So: no. Murder is not something that comes up often in my personal life, and definitely not right in front of my eyes. I can’t look at the dead guy there on the floor, so I look at Nick instead. I’m still freaking out, just a little, and now that my breath is coming back, I’m starting to hyperventilate. Maybe it’ll even things out, get more oxygen into my brain.
Nick still hasn’t answered my question, and I feel like I’d be badgering the witness to ask again. He’s thinking, that much is clear. But I can’t sit here and be quiet. I need to talk.
“Do you have any idea what something like this—” I start.
“Yeah, I got fuckingsome, Harvard,” Nick snaps. “Jesus Christ. Go have a drink of water. Splash some on your face. Get your shit together in the bathroom, and I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” I cough. “Roll up Ray Gatti in a rug and deliver him to the bridal suite?”
He gets this look like he’s actually thinking about it.
“Oh, my God,” I say faintly.
“Go,” he tells me, irritation leaking through his voice. “The less you see of this, the better. And for fuck’s sake, Bianchi, take the butt plug with you.” He waves a hand at the toy, still on a Kleenex on the nightstand where Nick placed it himself a few hours ago after tugging it out of my ass.
