Page 89 of Absolution

Twenty-Two

Christian

Luci is pacing back and forth before his large floor to ceiling windows in the ballroom next to the dining room where I’m sitting, waiting for a phone call. I follow him with my eyes every time he passes the doorway. His whole body exudes held-back fury. He clutches his phone. So do I. We’re both holding our breaths, frustrated in this impotent rage. We can’t assemble our men until after Matteo gets back to us, because we need to know who not to include. When he does, we have to locate the snake in our ranks and make him talk.

An hour has passed since Kerry called, wailing, her cries loud enough to be heard across the room to where I sat on the couch with a cup of coffee, reading the paper, trying to sort my feelings from the night, and the disaster that was the morning.

Luci nearly jumps when his phone rings and with a curse, he puts it to his ear. My phone rings a moment later and I tap to connect the call as I move into the kitchen to get some privacy.

“Yes?”

“Bro,” says Matteo. “I’ve got three men with enough interesting financial activity on their accounts. One Laurence. Got huge gambling debts. Fred, apparently a love for expensive cars, also bank loans up over his ears, and Rusty, large sums being put on his account, but he doesn’t buy shit. I think—”

“Rusty’s our man,” I say. The other two are just plain stupid, but Rusty, whoever the fuck that is, is laying low, biding his time, trying to be clever about it.

“I agree,” says Matteo.

“Thanks, bro.” I disconnect and stride through the rooms, finding Salvatore by the bar, a tumbler with whisky in his hand.

Relaying the info to him, his gaze darkens. “Rusty,” he growls. “I fucking raised him.” He hauls up his phone. “Ivan, release the guys, and the four of you locate Rusty Alfonsi and bring him to the meat locker at The Milane. We’re going to have a word with him. You don’t have to be nice about it.” He disconnects. “Come,” he growls. “It’s time. Are you up for it?”

I don’t answer, just walk up next to him as we stride through the mansion. I might not be in the best shape, but I know my uncle won’t question my participation in this op. It’s eerily quiet. This house is always full of people, there’s always something going on. Now it’s dead. It feels ominous, worrying. Nothing is normal anymore. My soul is split, reaching in two different directions, one toward Kerry, the other toward our daughter.

Luci drives, his jaw clenched. Neither of us says a word. When his phone rings, he puts it on loudspeaker.

“Talk,” he growls.

“Got him. What do you want us to do with him?” Ivan sounds determined, dangerous. He’s a man of few expressions. Hearing emotion in his voice is almost a shock. This whole household is in uproar.

“Don’t do anything, just keep him in place until we get there.”

“Yes, Boss.”

Ten minutes later we pull up outside the closed restaurant. Francesco stands right inside the heavy glass door and opens it for us. I nod a greeting to him as he closes and locks the door behind us.

In the cold meat locker stand four men. Ivan, Johnny, Adrian, all with semi-automatics pointed at a very pale Rusty Alfonsi, a baby-faced, short guy, who’s about to regret the day he crossed Salvatore.

Luci walks with measured steps toward the group, then he veers to the side, picks up a crowbar that leans against the wall, walks calmly up to Rusty and then swings it with full force against his knee. The screams are deafening as the man’s leg bends in the wrong direction and he falls to the floor. Luci taps the crowbar against the tiled floor, the clunking sound barely audible over the hollers from Rusty.

“Rusty Alfonsi. What do I do with you?”

“Boss!” screams the man. “Boss, why?”

Luci raises the crowbar as if to beat him again, but then lowers it and nods to Ivan. “Tie him and hang him. I want him upside down.”

Johnny takes a step to the writhing man and shoves a rag in his mouth, muffling the whimpers somewhat, as Ivan grabs a pile of ropes off the floor. When they begin to tie them around Rusty’s ankles, uncaring that the broken leg twists and bends, the noises intensify.

Luci taps his elbow to mine. “Come.”

I glance at the scene one last time, then I trail behind, wondering what he’s up to. “How long have you had Rusty?”

Luci walks up to the espresso machine, huge, polished metal, imported from Italy. He starts it up and expertly begins to prepare two cups. “He’s been with me five years. He’s twenty-two, impressionable, hungry. He’s proven himself loyal over and over. Worked with us through the near-war with the Irish the other year.”

I nod. I was there too, even though I didn’t meet this guy. “Not that loyal.”

Salvatore hands me a cup and opens the fridge, picking out a bottle of soda water. “No,” he says through clenched teeth and slams down the bottle on the counter. “Not that loyal.”

“Boss?” Johnny’s voice from behind makes us both turn. “He’s ready for you.”

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