Benson was gasping now, tears streaming down his face. “Just... just about the shipment. The one last month. That’s all, I swear. He already knew about it anyway, I just confirmed?—”
“What else?”
“Nothing! I swear on my mother’s grave?—”
Another nod. Another punch. This time to the face. Blood sprayed across the concrete.
“Mr. Benson, we can do this all night. I’ve got time. Do you?” I pulled out my phone, checking the hour. “Actually, that’s not entirely true. I have a plane to catch in a few hours. Montana. Ever been there before?”
He stared at me through swollen eyes, confused by the sudden shift.
“Beautiful country, from what I hear. Wide open spaces. Clean air. Cattle.” I smiled. “My father’s expanding operations out west. I’m handling the acquisition personally. So you see, I really do need to wrap this up.”
“Please,” Benson whispered. “Please, Mr. Valenti. I got a family?—”
“And yet you still chose to talk to the cops. Funny how that works.” I stood again, brushing off my pants. “One more time. What else did you tell him?”
The dam broke. It always did, eventually.
“The warehouse,” he sobbed. “The one in Newark. And... and the route. The trucking route through Pennsylvania. That’s it, I swear to Christ that’s everything. He was gonna arrest my son, Mr. Valenti. My boy, he got mixed up in some shit, and Caruso said he’d make it go away if I just gave him something. Anything. I didn’t have a choice!”
There it was. The truth, finally.
I looked at Marco and his partner, Angelo. “You boys got all that?”
“Every word, boss,” Marco confirmed.
“Good.” I turned back to Benson one last time. “See? That wasn’t so hard. You should’ve just led with the truth. Would’ve saved us all a lot of time.”
Hope flickered on his ruined face. Pathetic.
“As for your son,” I continued, “don’t worry. We’ll make sure he’s taken care of too.”
The hope died. He understood.
“Mr. Valenti, please, he’s just a kid?—”
“So was I, once. Didn’t stop my father from teaching me how this world works.” I headed for the door, done with this conversation. “Marco, Angelo—take care of Mr. Benson and his family. Make it clean. I don’t want any complications while I’m away.”
“You got it, boss.”
Benson’s screams followed me out into the hallway, but I’d already moved on. I had a plane to catch and a ranch to acquire. One way or another, the Valenti family was heading west, and nothing—not cops, not rats, not some broke Montana rancher—was going to stop that from happening.
My phone buzzed. A text from my father.
Him: Stop by the house before you go to the airport. We need to talk.
Me: On my way now.
I let out a long sigh as I stuffed my phone back into my pocket. I was happy to take over the western expansion. After all, it had been my idea to begin with. But being the youngest of four boys, it was difficult to talk my father into letting me take the lead on the project. Thankfully, the other three were already married and far too busy running other aspects of the business to have much time for new ideas.
The move into Montana represented a more…legitimateside of the family business. Crime paid well.Damn well, actually. But between the feds and the cops, many men in the Valenti family spent more time in court or prison than they did enjoying the fruits of their labors. And that wasn’t the kind of life I wanted to lead.
Even though I was only twenty-nine, I’d been working for my father in some capacity or another for over fifteen years. I wanted to slow down a bit and enjoy my life instead of always interrogating or laundering or fencing. And running a Montanacattle ranch seemed like a good place to build that slower life I craved. Plus, with my contacts, I could have the place filled with livestock and profitable within six months. It was a sure winner. And once I was familiar with the area, I would alert my father of otheropportunitiesto lend money to needy ranchers that were easily driven under by bad market prices. After that, acquisition would be easy.
The drive to my father’s estate took twenty minutes through familiar streets. Newark at night was nothing but neon reflecting off wet pavement and the distant wail of sirens. It was the kind of urban decay that had been part of the landscape my whole life. I’d grown up in these streets, learned the family business in back rooms and warehouses just like the one I’d left Benson screaming in.
My father’s house sat behind iron gates in a neighborhood where cops didn’t patrol unless they were on our payroll. Old money and mob money were the same thing in this part of Jersey. The gate guard waved me through without a word.
