Not surprised. John’s is a hundred-year-old Italian restaurant where the recipes were passed down straight from Italy in 1908. The handmade pasta and Costa Nostra history, including an infamous assassination, make it a legend in New York.
There’s a simple neon red sign on the brick building and one window on the left of the red awning. I can only see the reflections of the cars driving by so I’m walking in blind. Also unarmed. If Amato sees me as a threat, I’m a dead man.
I step through the doors and am hit with the scent of Italian food, murmur of voices and clinking silverware. It’s packed with warm bodies. A quick sweep gives me the layout. Small space. Bar. Dark walnut booths, tables to match the dark wainscoting, simple white tablecloths, cool air with light coming from the one sidewalk window and small table lamps.
Amato’s holed up in a back-corner booth chatting with a fella across from him. His guard is leaning against the wall andspots me first. He straightens, his hand flicks aside his jacket to give me a peak at his holstered 9 mm in warning.
I lift the edges of my own jacket to show him I’m not packing, then I keep my hands visible as I walk toward him. He leans down and says something to Amato without taking his eyes off me.
Amato glances up and meets my eyes when I’m only a few feet from him. His dark gaze glistens with suspicion beneath wiry gray brows. He’s a tall fella but slim, salt and pepper hair, red dress shirt, gold necklace and rings. His jaw is clenched tight, obviously not happy about my intrusion on his dinner time. Across the booth, his companion is a beefy lad in his thirties. He also eyeballs me suspiciously.
The guard steps up and puts a hand on my chest. I bristle at the contact but keep my cool. “No closer. State your business.”
I hold up my palms. “I just need a quick word with Mr. Amato, mate.” I move my gaze from the guard to the boss. “It’s about Michael Barone.”
His eyes narrow with recognition as they sweep over me. Then he leans back and wipes his mouth with a white cloth napkin and jerks his chin for his companion to slide over.
Joey Amato gestures to the vacant spot. “Sit, Mr. Donnelly.”
I pause. I’m not sure if it’s a good or bad thing that he knows who I am. Considering he refused to see me, probably not great. I take a seat in front of him anyway.
As if he can read my mind, he says, “I wouldn’t grant you a sit down, so you dare ambush me while I’m enjoying a meal.” His words are a low growl, but the gleam in his eyes looks morelike amusement. “I don’t know if you’re brave or stupid. Which one is it, Mr. Donnelly?”
His guard tenses in my peripheral vision.
His companion chuckles darkly on my right.
I shrug. “Probably a bit of both. Apologies,” I say with a smirk, walking the fine line between respect and letting him know I’m not afraid of him. “But I’ve got some information that benefits you as well.”
He cuts into a meatball, stabs it and slides it off the fork, chewing as he studies me.
I wait patiently.
Finally, his forehead wrinkles as he waves his fork at me. “Let’s hear it then.”
I pull my phone out nice and slow, making sure I don’t spook the lad with the itchy trigger finger still glaring daggers at me, then find the photo Dunn sent.
Dunn did a grand job setting Barone up. He had him meet with an FBI agent under some made-up pretense. The photo is damning. The agent’s badge gleams in the sunlight. Between it and the evidence I know Amato received through his source, it should plant enough of a seed of betrayal for my plan. Well, I guess “plan” is too heavy of a word for the feckin’ Hail Mary I’m about to throw.
I spin the phone around and set it in front of Amato.
He leans forward and stares at it. His thumb starts drumming on the table, but he keeps his expression unreadable. He turns the phone for his companion to view. When he finally looks up at me and slides the phone back, the suspicion in his gaze has morphed into an intense fury with a touch of controlledcalculation. He rolls his tongue over his front teeth. “Where’d you get this?”
I hold his stare, shake my head. “I’ll not be burnin’ my source.”
He folds his hands on the table, his eyes searching mine. “I gotta tell ya, you asking for a meeting about Barone and then this falling in our lap. Quite the coincidence. It don’t pass the smell test to me.” He turns to his companion. “What’s your feeling on this, Franco?”
The man stares at me for a moment and then shrugs. “Maybe Irish here arranged it. Maybe not. But, Don, you know the rule. Thehintof a rat is enough.”
He sighs, then nods. “I suppose two points of proof is enough to justify action, despite the timing.” He leans forward. I can’t tell if it’s skepticism or curiosity he’s eyeing me with. “You’re The Maco’s boy, right? What’s your stake in this?”
I let the rage that has been simmering beneath the surface rise to ignite the fire in my eyes. “He’s got my girl.”
“Ah.” He smirks and leans back against the booth. As he lifts his fork once again, he shakes it at me. “My boys were requested for muscle at a wedding at Michael’s home tonight.” He watches me closely as he cuts into another meatball.
Every muscle in my body tightens.
A wedding? Is he forcing her to marry him?
