I open my eyes and pull a metal folding chair from against the wall, positioning it in front of Marcus. I sit, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees.
"Who do you work for?"
"I don't—" He shakes his head rapidly. "I don't work for nobody. Not like, not regular. I'm not in a gang or nothing."
"Then why are you selling product with my family's mark on it?"
His eyes go wider. "I didn't know it was yours, I swear. I didn't know nothing about marks or territories or any of that. Some guy just gave me the bags and told me where to go."
"What guy?"
"I don't know his name." His voice pitches higher. "I never met him before. My cousin's friend knew somebody who knew somebody. Said I could make five hundred dollars just for delivering some packages. That's it. That's all I was supposed to do."
I study his face. The trembling hasn't stopped. His pupils are dilated, his breathing shallow and fast. Classic fear response. No signs of deception that I can detect.
"Why did you need the money?"
"My mom." He swallows again. "She's sick. Can't work no more. We got bills, you know? Rent's three months behind. They're gonna kick us out." His voice breaks. "I just needed to do two deals. Just two. Get enough to cover this month, buy some time."
Two deals. Five hundred dollars. A mother who can't work.
I've heard this story a thousand times. It never gets easier.
"The man who gave you the product," I say slowly. "Did he tell you who he worked for?"
Drake nods, eager now, desperate to be helpful. "Yeah. Yeah, he said... he said he was from the Corellis. Said they were expanding, needed street-level guys. Said if I did good, maybe they'd bring me on permanent."
The Corellis.
I go still.
The Corellis are old money. Old power. They've controlled the South Side for three generations, and they didn't get there by being sloppy. They don't hire seventeen-year-old kids off the street for drug runs. They don't let their name get dropped to random recruits. They don't make mistakes like this.
Which means one of two things.
Either someone is using the Corelli name to throw us off the trail, and they planted this kid as bait to lead us in the wrong direction.
Or the Corellis have suddenly become incompetent enough to hire untrained children who crack under twenty minutes of light interrogation.
The second option isn't possible. Giorgio Corelli is many things, but stupid isn't one of them.
So someone is playing games.
I lean back in my chair, watching Drake's face. He believes what he's telling me. That much is clear. He genuinely thinks he was working for the Corellis because that's what he was told.
But who told him? And why?
"Igor." I don't take my eyes off Marcus. "Get him some water. And find out everything about the man who recruited him. Description, location, how the contact was made. Everything."
Igor moves toward the door, then pauses. "And the kid?"
I look at Drake. Seventeen years old. A sick mother.
"Keep him comfortable. Don't touch him again." I stand, pushing the chair back. "I need to think."
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Vittoria
