Page 16 of The Wages of Sin

DORIAN

Some nights were quick. On others, the job dragged on so long it bled into morning.

I’d been sitting, still and silent, in the same place since midnight—a worn leather armchair in the far corner of Joey Bonetti’s living room, my eyes glued to the door, just waiting for him to walk through it. Dawn had broken an hour ago, and daylight now poured through the windows at the back of the apartment. Fortunately, only a hint of that light made it all the way to the front, meaning that I would still be cloaked in shadows no matter when he arrived.

Though something told me, he wouldn’t be long now.

In my experience, men who stayed out all night did so because of a woman. And while they might tire themselves out in their mistress’ bed, they rarely stayed there past dawn, preferring to duck out before the lady woke up and wanted to talk.

It didn’t matter if the guy had just turned twenty or, like Bonetti, was deep into his fifties. Some things were universal.

And sure enough, a little over fifteen minutes later, I heard sleepy footsteps padding down the hall outside, followed by the clumsy scratch of keys against the lock.

I stayed dead still as Bonetti came inside, tossed his keys on a shelf, and kicked the door closed behind him before bolting the series of deadlocks that ran along its edge. After that, he turned and made his way toward the kitchen without bothering to turn on a light.

He didn’t even glance my way.

I waited until I heard the sound of a kitchen cabinet opening and the clink of glass before rising from the chair. The last thing I needed was one creaky spring in this ancient chair to give my presence away and ruin the element of surprise.

Fortunately, that didn’t happen.

Bonetti’s back was to me as I entered the doorway between the front room and the kitchen. I rested my arm against the frame, blocking his only escape route.

“Joey.”

The man might have been an experienced street soldier, but he was also human, and he jumped at the unexpected sound of someone saying his name. But it wasn’t until he swiveled around and saw my face that he dropped the water glass in his hand. It shattered on impact against the linoleum floor.

It was a reaction I was used to. Just about every made man in New York knew what it meant if they found me in their house.

“D-Dorian,” Bonetti sputtered, his hands shaking badly as he reached out an arm to steady his suddenly wobbly legs. “What are you doing here?”

“I think you know.” The man had been with the D’Angelo family for decades; there was no point in bullshitting him. Besides, I needed him to talk, and fear was a powerful motivator.

“Shit,” Bonetti cursed, his lips starting to shake along with his hands. He drew in one deep, steadying breath before locking gazes with me. “Just tell me who put out the hit. Was it one of the twins?”

I shook my head. “Sal.”

“Sal?” Bonetti’s eyes went wide in genuine shock, followed by a flash of pure anger. His hand stopped shaking long enough to ball into a fist that he pounded against the counter. “Fucking Sal? That traitorous son of a bitch. I don’t believe it.”

I arched a brow. Traitor was a strange choice of words for a man accused of being a rat. But at least Bonetti seemed to be in a talkative mood. Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to get information out of him after all.

“I’m guessing you know why,” I said.

“Oh, I know.” Bonetti shot me a look filled with betrayed rage. “I’m curious what he told you.”

Again, I saw no reason to lie. “Sal has pictures of you handing information over to the feds.”

Bonetti ground out another curse and rolled his eyes. “He does? Of course, he fucking does! Who the hell do you think was the one that sent me to hand it over?”

I crossed my arms, pushing my shoulders back so my chest filled nearly all the space in the door frame. “You expect me to believe Sal sent you to rat out his own family.”

“Not the D’Angelos,” Bonetti shook his head. “All the dirt I handed over was about the other New York families. Our rivals—I swear it.”

And I believed him.

I’d heard enough desperate lies to recognize the sound of truth when I heard it. Still, questions remained.

“Why would he do that?” I demanded.

---