“Hello, Mr. Corello,” the kid gulps.
“I hear you’re saying some pretty interesting things about me.”
“No, I would never,” he swears. “Honest, I was just running my mouth. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“My men tell me that you’ve been inside my home,” I remind him.
“Just the once,” he whispers. “I didn’t even really get a good look.”
I crouched down next to him, putting one hand on his knee. “When did you have occasion to be in my home?”
He swallows thickly, his voice nearly inaudible when he speaks. “My boy Taylor brought me.”
“Taylor, huh?” I say, standing back up.
“One of Frankie’s friends,” Edoardo explains.
“Ah,” I exclaim, putting two and two together.
“I don’t like—” Edoardo begins, but I put a stop to it with a raised finger.
“I don’t appreciate people selling information about me,” I tell the kid, making it clear that he is in no way out of the water.
“I understand, Mr. Corello,” the boy whimpers.
“I don’t think you’ve got anything to do with my son,” I tell him. “I think you’re lying to me.”
“Why would I lie?” he shouts, trying to get up.
The men behind him push him back down, and he looks away, seeing the writing on the wall.
“Why would you lie?” I say thoughtfully. “What have you got to lose? I know you’re not some punk who came in with my son after school. Now. I want to know who you are, who you run with, and who else knows.”
“Honest to God…” the kid begins.
I nod, giving my muscles the signal. One bodyguard steps around and slugs the kid in the stomach. The boy doubles over, coughing into his lap. The guard grabs him by the hair and pulls his head back up.
“I don’t believe you,” I say again.
“I swear,” he cries, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“You tell someone where I sleep at night?” I demand, thirsty for action.
When he doesn’t answer, I let my men have at him, pummeling him again and again until finally he’s ready to give me the real story. I motion to the guards to give him some breathing room. He sobs, coughs, and spits out blood. I’m getting bored.
“Talk,” I command.
“I’m on Andretti’s payroll,” the kid whispers.
“That’s what I thought,” I say. “So what was the plan?”
“I was supposed to get close to Frankie, and then use him to get close to you,” the boy wheezes.
“And what then?” I ask.
“I-I was just supposed to be a mole,” he responds. “I was supposed to listen and learn and be there whenever Mr. Andretti called.”
“So why were you running your mouth?” I ask, sticking two fingers under his chin so he looks at me.
