“They’re up to something,” my cousin agreed, calling my bet. “You’re tempting fate, cugi. At this point, you’re practically asking for two wars on different fronts.”
“I’m not worried.”
The Iannelli outfit had a strong foundation, but after last year’s low profit margins, the men needed a cause to rally behind and cure their restlessness. A war with the Greeks was exactly what they needed. Dimakos was never going to agree to my proposal. It would be like signing his death warrant and handing it off to his family to carry out. Therefore, it guaranteed bloodshed. However, Giambrone wasn’t supposed to catch on quite so quickly to my adoption plans, but he’d never been brash.
I discarded a card. One glance at my hand, and I knew I was going to have to bluff my way through this round.
Tore raised a glass. “To purgatory and the pits of hell. I’m always in the mood for some good old gladiator-style violence.”
“A noi!” To us, we toasted.
Only two short days left until the deadline, then I was going to get my war. My capos were going to get their needed distraction. And there was an added bonus. This war was going to be the excuse needed to push back the marriage alliance with the Las Vegas don even further.
My phone vibrated against the table, the caller ID reading “Piccola Peste.” I eyed it with an equal mix of irritation and apprehension. I never answered calls during poker night. Then again, she’d never called before.
“What?” I answered.
“Please,” Ainsley cried through the line. Whimpers joined her. I shoved my chair back. “Please help us. You have to help us. I’m begging you.”
Mumbled yelling came through the line, followed by a heavy thunk. Then another. And another. Each one accompanied by the sound of kids weeping and mewling. On the last one, Ainsley yelped into the phone.
“Anzy,” little Boyan sniveled.
“Get in the cupboards.”
“Ms. Burch, what’s going on?”
“I can’t,” Boyan blubbered.
Another thunk and muffled hollering.
“You owe me this,” Ainsley sobbed. “You got me into this mess. Get us out. Please, Renzo. Get us out!”
She screamed, the kids’ cries echoing hers. Something crashed, then crackled as those hammered strikes continued.
“Vinny,” I barked. He straightened in his chair. “Give me your phone.”
He lobbed it across the table, and with a nod of thanks, I dialed Ricco.
“Mr. Armone? What can I do for you?”
“Where the fuck are they?”
“Boss? Where’s who?”
“The kids, Ricco. Do I have to spell it out for you?”
“In the house. They’re in their house, boss. Jesus. I mean, sorry I—”
“You sure?”
“Yes. They haven’t left since they got in at six.”
“Check the block for anything out of place. I’m on my way.” Thankfully, we’d met at Vinny’s San Francisco home tonight, and we weren’t far.
“Is something wrong?”
“Yes.” Unless the kid was playing some kind of cruel joke, something was very, very wrong.
