Page 30 of Perfect Vengeance

“Psycho Fiori’s. He’s a high-ranking Falzone soldier.”

“Psycho?” Gina grimaced. She’d heard of him, but she and her friends hadn’t ripped him off yet. “I have a bad feeling there’s a reason for that nickname.”

“There is.” The dark edge to his voice told her she wasn’t going to like what he said next. “Not only does he enjoy killing, Psycho goes to a shrink on a regular basis.”

“Aside from the killing thing, dare I ask why?”

“Anger management. He’s got the temper of a wild boar and the fighting skills of a lion. A bad combination.”

“Great.” She began tapping on her Gucci bag again. “Can’t we plant this bug at some other mobster’s house, someone who doesn’t have insane, homicidal tendencies?”

“No.” He gave her a quick but meaningful look. “Court orders are location specific.”

Gina clasped her hands. She’d honestly had no idea of the damage they’d done by ripping off the mob.

Ten minutes later, they drove into Montclair. When Jack braked at a traffic light, she noted with irony that such a charming town was home to a number of high-ranking mobsters. She’d known that since childhood, having accompanied her father on “payouts” to the numerous capos and soldiers who lived here. She’d stayed put in her father’s car while he’d gone inside, but she always knew why they’d gone to Montclair.

As they passed through the town’s main intersection, not even the two- and three-story brick-fronted shops with their gold-gilded signs and colorful canopies or the beautifully landscaped parks could ever make her think fondly of this place. Her heart ached as if her parents had died only yesterday.

Before she realized it, they’d driven out of the town’s center and onto a residential road.

“We’re here,” Jack announced, breaking into her trek down Sad Sack Memory Lane.

“Number 42.” He pointed to the right. “The corner house. Stucco with green trim.”

“Posh for a crazed lunatic.” She switched to op mode and began assessing the structure and its surroundings. From a B and E—breaking and entering—perspective, that was. “Mind if I take notes?”

“Do whatever you need to.” He slowed the Expedition without making it obvious they were surveilling the place. Traffic was light but constant, helping them blend in.

“Two-story, around twenty-two hundred square feet. About a third of an acre. Grass front and back lawns. Concrete driveway.” While continuing to itemize more relevant aspects of the location, she dug into her bag for a small spiral notebook and pen. “Two motion sensors on either side of the driveway. Metal grating on all first-floor windows.” She paused to jot down her observations.

“Check out the rear of the house,” he said as they cruised past the front yard.

She looked over her shoulder. “Second-story balcony. Wrought iron railing, sliding glass door. I take it there’s a problem breaking in through the front door?”

“Several.” He braked at the stop sign and turned right at the corner. “A sophisticated deadbolt lock with anti-pick pins.”

“You think I can’t pick that?” She pressed a hand to her heart. “My ego is shattered.”

“Even if you can, it would take too long.” He made another right turn, heading back around to the front of the house. “The front door is lit up at night like Madison Square Garden. Risk of exposure’s too great.”

“So you need me to pick the lock on the second-story balcony?” She tapped the end of her pen on her chin. “Easy enough to access with a rope.”

“Unless you’ve got a busted wrist,” he grumbled so low Gina barely caught his words.

“I heard that. Point made. For the hundredth time, I really am sorry.”

The tautness in his jaw eased. “Forget it.”

As he recircled the block, she made a quick sketch below the notes she’d taken.

“Hmph.”

She looked up to catch him eyeing her pad. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He refocused on the road, but not before she detected something different in his expression.

Admiration? Respect?