Nick just grunts.
“So,” I continue, “you think someone sent Gattion purposeto take me out?”
He snorts. “You think everyone loves you?”
I know I have enemies. I’m a Mob lawyer; ofcourseI have enemies. But the New York Families have their own twisted code, and part of that code is not taking out the lawyers that keep any of them on the streets so they can run their businesses. Even when we fail and they get put inside, we work to allow them privileges and concessions that your average criminal doesn’t get in the Big House.
But maybe times are changing. The Clemenzas broke the code completely when they teamed up with Sam Fuscone and took out Tino Morelli, after all. “I thought Don Morelli had them all under his thumb,” I say, and rub the back of my neck. It feels tingly, like some ghostly fingers are trailing around my hairline.
“Luca’s got power they want. That makes him a target, even when they’re playing at peace.”
Nick Fontana is not stupid, that’s for sure. “You really think someone wanted me dead? At the wedding?”
We’ve been in Brooklyn a few minutes, driving through unfamiliar streets, and now Nick pulls up to the curb. “I don’t know. All I know is, a hitman came for you, and I understand how they think. They don’t kill unless they’re getting paid to do it.”
“But why at his own wedding?” I persist, taking off my shades. Nick is parked on the shadowy side of the street. “Why not anywhere else? Why do it in the one place it could blow apart the truce you all reached?”
“Maybe that was the point.”
Another shiver runs from the back of my neck right down my spine. My job is more dangerous than the average legal job, but I’ve never really feltunsafe. Not even after Tino Morelli’s death, when the whole Family looked like it was about to dissolve. Because at least then I knew where the threatswere. But this blackmailer, a shadow figure, it’s something different from the usual in-your-face violence of the Mob. “You think someone wants to make sure the Families remain enemies?”
Nick shrugs again, and is about to answer me when his attention is distracted by a guy across the street. “Here we go. You know who that is?”
“I assume the answer isnot‘a guy who’s about to swallow his own teeth,’ because if it was, I’d have to remind you again—”
Nick snorts. “Nah. Promise. This guy’s a low-life Clemenza who tried to make a name for himself coming after me a few years back. I’m gonnainvitehim into that alley there and, uh, have apolite conversation. Ask him if he has anything he wants to say to my face.”
“You know, going around asking people if they saw you dumping a body isn’t exactlysubtle.”
“I told you,” he insists. “I just need a few words, need to look in their faces, see if they flinch. I’ll know if they’re lying. I cansmellit when they do.”
“Right,” I drawl, and return to the emails on my phone.
He shakes his head, tired of arguing. “You stay here, keep those shades on, and duck down. And turn the fucking phone off.”
“Fuck you, I need to stay connected.”
“You know what—” He grabs my phone and gets out of the car before I can stop him.
Chapter Eighteen
Carlo
The day’s a bust.
I’m pissed that Nicky’s dragged me all over town with nothing to show for it, andhe’spissed that he got no results. And he didn’t even give me my phone back, the asshole. It stayed turned off and secure in his back pocket, despite my protests that I didn’t want his thick ass sitting on it.
Once we’ve checked the last guy Nick had in mind—a Rossi Capo, who’s apparently “usually a good guy, but we had a run-in over a matter of business a few years back”—he has to admit defeat. We’ve been in four of the five boroughs and got no joy, and we drive back to Manhattan with rush-hour traffic crawling up our ass as I wait for Nick to say he was wrong.
He doesn’t, which makes me like him just that little bit more. Never admit defeat, that’s my motto, too. Still, the “conversation” approach isn’t working, and thinking about all the emails I’ve missed today is making me queasy. “So can we try things my way tomorrow?” I ask as we finally hit Manhattan.
“Your way?”
“Yeah. Strategically plan our next move.”
“My moveswerestrategically planned.” I don’t say anything, and eventually he grunts, “Okay. Tomorrow, we do shit your way.”
“Drop me at the office,” I tell him. “I’ll be there most of the night catching up on my goddamn emails.”
