She chuckles, a low sound that rasps the edges of the air. “Thought so. You talkin’ about Frederick, ain’t ya? That boy’s been nuthin’ but headaches. Always owing tabs, stirrin’ up shit. Told boss we should cut him loose, but no one listens.” She shakes her head, lips pursed. “Ain’t seen him in a day or two now, which sure as hell ain’t like him. Freddy’s the kind that crawls in here at least once a day, beggin’ for a pour on credit.”
He’s dead. The bastard gambled with the wrong side, and I hope it’s my bullet that ended his life. What I need right now is the hand that pointed him in my direction… I need a name and face attached to the fucking mole because I’m certain the information about Isabella’s whereabouts came from him, and I’m already investigating my men, especially those assigned to protect her.
She smiles slyly, like she enjoys having information men like us want. “Truth is, if there’s anyone who can tell you where Freddy’s at, it’s his identical twin. Edwardo. The two of ‘em—thick as thieves. Eddie was here jus’ last night. Didn’t look much like himself.”
Matteo and I exchange a look. We’re both thinking the same thing…the possibility that Edwardo has the information we need.
“And where can we find him?” Matteo asks.
The woman shrugs, rag still circling the rim of her glass. “Now, that I can’t say.”
Smacking my lips together, I toss another stack of bills on the counter. Her eyes dart down, then up again, her smile settling into something neutral.
“You want Edwardo?” she says, voice low. “You’ll find him by the old diesel yard. He’s got a dented Fiat he calls Pride, parks it under the grey crane when he wants to be quiet. If he’s not there, check The Sparrow ‘round closing. He likes the back booth where the light’s dim and the keeper looks the other way.”
Matteo gives a short nod. “Appreciate it.”
The woman smirks, her eyes moving between us, then settling on me. “That’s all you boys need?” Her tongue sweeps across her bottom lip suggestively.
I push back from the bar, rising to my full height. “We’re good,” I say, sliding the stool back into place. “Keep this between us.”
She snorts softly. “Honey, ain’t nothing round here that stays secret for long. But I got mouths to feed.” She jerks her chin toward the door. “You didn’t see me. You didn’t come by.”
***
Rolling to a stop in front of the diesel yard, my eyes quickly scan the perimeter before I step out. Three men stand under the shade of a crane, sizing us up as we walk toward them.
“You boys got problems with your cars?” the biggest of the three asks, arms crossed like we just invaded his territory. He’s got a scar running down his cheek, and the same skull inside a wheel tattoo Frederick had is inked on one side of his shaved head.
“Edwardo here?” I ask flatly while studying the nuances in their behavior.
The question changes the look on their faces. Scar-face steps forward until we’re close enough to share the same breath. His grin pulls ugly. “Who’s askin’?”
“We are,” Matteo cuts in.
Scar-face snorts and tilts his head. “Hear that, boys? They’re looking for Edwardo.” His laugh fills the air, joined by the other two. Then, he pulls a knife from his belt and levels it at my throat. “Well, then… how about you get your asses back in your cars and get the fuck out of here.”
The other two circle us, drawing out their own knives. Scar-face lunges with the knife, a sloppy forward thrust meant to intimidate. I catch his wrist mid-air, twisting it hard until the bones grind under my grip, and the knife drops to the ground. Before he can recover, I shove him back and jam my Glock against his temple. His grin vanishes, sweat already breaking along his head.
“Drop your weapons,” Scar-face screams. “Drop them. Please, I don’t wanna die.”
The boys look at him—then at the gun pointed at his head.
“I’d listen if I were you,” Matteo mutters, clicking his pistol.
They drop their weapons immediately, sinking to their knees.
“Now,” my voice comes out coated in fury. “Where is Edwardo?”
He jerks his chin toward the far end of the yard. “Under the grey frame. By the Fiat. Don’t-don’t shoot.”
His pathetic sigh of relief irritates me. My Glock lowers to his thigh and I pull the trigger. He folds with a raw, animal howl, clutching at the wound as blood darkens his jeans.
That’s for wasting my time.
Edwardo spots us approaching and immediately bolts toward a line of trucks. A man with nothing to hide doesn’t run.
“Fuck,” Matteo mutters, already moving.
