Page 63 of Wrong Pawn. Right Capo.

The man’s smart, I have to give him that. It took three days of intensive searching to locate his whereabouts. After all, who would have thought he’d resort to living right under our noses, hidden away in a secluded and less populated place like Grindstone Island?

Though we’ve been searching for weeks, we haven’t yet found out where in Utah he stashed his family, so we can’t use them as leverage against him, or force a confession out of a spouse or child who might know something.

Now that I’ve found the man himself though, the back of my neck is prickling with apprehension.

His place is the usual vintage-style house with a wide porch, wallpaper lining the walls, and well-polished floorboards. The place is spick-and-span yet empty.

Francesco heads into one of the rooms while I pivot into the dining area, and there he is—head facedown in his plate of mashed potatoes, his hand closed over his tumbler of scotch.

“Figlio di puttana (Son of a bitch).”

I step closer to him, sniffing the air for signs of poisonous substances. They always leave a trace, either a distinct chemical odor or physical signs of asphyxiation—but his skin looks completely clear.

“Francesco, muoviti (move)!”

The sound of his boots thudding on the wood fills the air as my chest heaves with fury. There’s no way he’s taking a nap or faking this posture.

“Gloves,” I say, holding my hand out. He covers my fingers with the black latex gloves we usually carry around. Keeping my gun raised, I walk stealthily toward the man and feel his neck for a pulse.

There’s not even a flicker. He couldn’t have killed himself, could he?

I straighten and scan the room again. There are no broken windows or anything that could pass for forced entry, and I’m sure he wouldn’t take his own life; the coincidences are too convenient. First Valente, and now him. Whoever killed him either walked in like a friend or was already welcome.

My fingers tighten around my Glock as I resist the urge to smash my foot into the table. What the hell!?

Someone’s trying desperately to cover something up, and whatever it is, it can’t be good.

I move through the house, opening drawers, scanning papers, and checking the shelves. There’s nothing useful here. Whoever did this job cleaned up well; it was no amateur.

My thoughts land on the only other person involved: that damned bastard, Victor Caughn. Who the fuck is he, and could he possibly have a hand in the deaths of Valente and the ex-commissioner?

“Che cosa abbiamo su Victor Caughn (What do we have on Victor Caughn)?” I ask, turning to Francesco.

“Still nothing, Capo.” He shakes his head. “The man is a total ghost. He hasn’t been seen in person for the past six years. There are no fingerprints, matching blood samples, or any other means of identification. He has no family or loved ones either.”

Interesting. Basically, he’s as good as a dead man, and dead men don’t talk. I need a man who does talk.

With all these key figures involved in the scheme dead or non-existent, there’s now just one person left that I need to circle back to. The man who handed me these leads in the first place, and the one who was there when this entire bloodbath sparked: Enzo Marcini.

While I’m not enthusiastic about facing him, I’m getting impatient with the massive jigsaw puzzle I’m having to piece together just to unearth the truth.

“Change of plans,” I growl at Francesco. “We’ll go to Enzo.”

I see the questioning look in his eyes, but I head out of the house. The least Enzo can do now is fucking talk.

“Accendi la macchina (Start the car),” I bark to Francesco, who is following closely behind me.

“Chi altro conosceva la posizione del ex commissario (Who else knew the ex-commissioner’s location)?”

“Solo noi (Only us),” Francesco responds swiftly. “And maybe some really close contacts of the ex-commissioner, like his family.”

I scoff; I must get this information. I didn’t come all this way to get played by ghosts.

***

The car rolls to a stop in front of the hospital. I heard Enzo’s condition deteriorated several days back, and he was only transferred from the ICU to a step-down private room this morning. The rest of the men have already returned to the mansion, so it’s just Francesco and me.

Francesco slips a tip to the receptionist while I make my way up the stairs to the room. Lorenzo, the old man’s second-in-command, should be guarding the door, but he was severely injured during the fight with the Irish, so he must be in one of the other wards.