Colletti and two of his top soldiers are accompanying Joey Panzeri. They’re making small talk I can pick up on the cameras. Something about hash browns for breakfast at the diner. It’s mundane, a reminder of the human stakes. But I’m not shaken by listening in on what will become some of Panzeri’s final words. Rats must be exterminated, or they keep multiplying.
“I’m good,” I confirm, silencing my phone and reaching for my piece. “They’re approaching the spot. You stay here, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I quickly backtrack to the stock room, waiting around the corner just out of sight. I hear them coming, still talking about the diner, which apparently serves up the best Shit on a Shingle. They head into the room where we’ve strategically stashedcutting and packing material to make it look like we’ve just received a shipment.
“You sure your guy is going to want a few bricks?” Colletti asks Panzeri.
Part of the ruse in luring Joey here was that we unexpectedly came into a stolen haul of coke that we needed to unload under the radar. The timing had to be perfect in getting Panzeri away from any potential handlers before he learned we set him up with the other warehouse location. He volunteered to help sell the coke, and Colletti brought him here.
It’s best this way. They only put up a fight when they know something’s wrong. But when they think they’re a part of the inner circle and they’re about to score big, that’s when you clip them. It’s all about the element of surprise. My old man taught me that lesson, and he was wrong about a fuck of a lot of things.
But not that.
“My guy has a lot of connections upstate,” Panzeri is bragging. “I’ll run it through for you, no problem. Tell me what you need to unload, and it’s done.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Colletti says. “We came into this a little unexpectedly, so it can’t go the usual routes.”
It’s the phrase I’m waiting for, the predetermined signal that we’re good to go.
“Check this box first, Rafael,” he adds, talking to his soldier. “Let Joey Bones have a look at the quality.”
I slip around the corner, gun at the ready, finger on the trigger. Colletti is waiting. He catches my eye and nods, moving to the far corner of the room. I take in the setup, and thank fuck it’s just as planned. Joey Bones is bent over a shipment of coke that’s not even coke. It’s sucralose powder. His back is to me.
Colletti’s soldier sees me and takes one step in retreat. I raise my pistol, training the barrel at the back of Joey Bones Panzeri’s head.
“Holy fuck,” Joey Bones says. “This isn’t real coke. It’s?—”
I pull the trigger, and he never gets to finish his sentence, his lifeless body crumpling forward.
“It’s a fucking rat,” I say into the silence. “And that’s what happens to rats.”
I turn to Colletti, calmly wiping at the fine mist of blood spatter that rained on me when I clipped Joey Bones. “See that this mess gets cleaned up.”
Colletti nods. “You got it, boss.”
I tuck my gun away. It’s been a while since I had to take on the role of enforcer. But this was important. I had to make an example of Joey Bones. The Feds are working overtime to try to nail us with any charge that sticks. But they can never get us if our men are loyal.
“Not a fucking trace left,” I add. “Take it to Angelo. He’s expecting the delivery, and he knows what to do.”
My cousin and his crematorium are going to come in handy tonight. Because Joey Bones definitely needs disappearing. Angelo will mix the cremains with a few senior citizens, and no one will ever be the wiser.
After Colletti and his soldiers move out, Priest and I will set the warehouse on fire, and any lingering evidence will go up in flames. There’s an art to making sure a building burns down, one we learned as teenagers while Antonella Rossi was playing house with her princesses by the ocean.
I leave the stock room still covered in a fine mist of blood, the monster this world made me.
And I have zero fucking regrets. I belong in this life. It runs in my veins. It’s all I’ve ever known.
It’s also the reason I’m going to have to let Isla go.
Isla
“What time is it?”Luna asks, wineglass dangling from her left hand, which is dripping in glittering diamonds. “Does anyone know?”
We’ve been up talking half the night away with Camilla and Bianca. Antonella, too, at first, until she announced that it was well past her bedtime and she was getting some much-needed rest. Lucky has been bouncing back and forth, on and off his various burner phones, clearly agitated and orchestrating something from afar. Or trying to.
“No clue,” Bianca says. “My phone has been confiscated.”
“Mine too,” Camilla adds.
