There, hanging on a hook near the little built-in closet, was a hospital property bag. Plastic. Transparent. Containing his jewelry, his wallet, the chain he never took off, his belt. Next to it hung his boots, scuffed and muddied. Above those, with a hospital sticker slapped crookedly on the strap, was a black backpack that didn’t belong to him.
Miami liked loud colors. Flamingo pink. Neon blue. Anything that screamed “Florida trash chic.” This bag was plain. Matte. Practical. A civilian’s backpack. Something he wouldn’t be caught dead with in a million years.
My pulse kicked up.
I crossed the room in three long strides and took it down. It had weight. Too much weight for clothes. I set it on the little visitor chair and unzipped the main compartment halfway.
Inside, I saw the corner of a leather cover, dark and worn. The edge of something wrapped in plastic. Thick, heavy, some sort of electronic device maybe? This had the kind of organization that didn’t belong to junkies or joyriders.
My heart sank all the way to the floor.
“This isbad,” I whispered.
I took a breath, steadying myself, then slid the zipper the rest of the way opento see exactly just how bad it was.
Six
Jersey Boy
The zipper teeth parted with a low hiss.
Inside the backpack sat a black leather book, thick and worn at the edges, the kind of thing that never saw daylight unless someone meant trouble. Next to it was a smaller bundle wrapped in plastic, flat and dense. A tablet, maybe. Or a drive case. Wires coiled at the bottom like snakes.
I ignored the electronics for now and pulled the book out.
It was heavier than it looked. Real leather, real paper, no cheap digital replacement. The cover was blank except for a small, embossed V.
Vincino. Had to be.
My stomach turned.
I opened it near the middle.
Handwritten entries, tight and neat. Columns of numbers. Names. Cities. Dates. Notes in Italian, others in English, a couple in Spanish. Someone had used different colored ink for different categories. Black for payments. Blue for contacts. Red for risks.
I flipped back a few pages.
BOLIVAR – distribution routes, northeastern corridor. Then arrows to port cities. Dollar signs. A note was in the margin. “Increase pressure, test Giorlando response.”
Next page.
STEEL SERPENTS – retainer renewed. Under that, a list of hits and “messages” with approximate dates. Some crossed out. One of the most recent said “secure and escort transit, high sensitivity. NJ coast. Use bikers, keep insignia hidden. No contact with the Giorlandos.”
My fingers tightened on the edges of the book.
Below that, in smaller letters:
“Keep Serpents at arm’s length. Too visible if heat comes down.”
I flipped ahead. The next section was a scouting report. Not for Philly. For Atlantic City.
CASINOS – ownership webs, shell companies, suspected skims. GIORLANDO FAMILY written across the top in underlined letters. Beneath it, notes on who might be bribed, who might be leaned on, which dealers were in debt. Little circles marked “soft targets.”
Then another heading.
“THE RUSSIAN – intermediary or independent?”
Under that, questions. Speculation. A doodle of a question mark.
