Page 18 of Texting Mr. Stranger

“Yeah, what’s that?” Luca asks.

“Orlando Gallo,” Enzo says. “Cousin to the Don. He meant little when the Gallos had all their men. He was a low-flier, a bottom-feeder, but now, the few remaining Gallo men are rallying around him.”

“What’s the evidence?” I say.

“Three TNT overdoses last night,” Enzo goes on. “One of my homeless fellas saw three Italians cruising the neighborhood.”

“That’s weak,” Elio mutters.

The Whisper glances at my brother sharply. “That’s not all. Check this out.” He reaches into his pocket, unfolds a piece of paper, and drops it on the table. Luca wanders over from the wall, and the rest of us lean in.

“Fucking scumbags,” I growl.

None of us flinch away from it. Our world is darkness. It’s our job to face it, but that doesn’t stop a sick feeling from twisting through me.

The photo shows a pale stomach in the camera’s flash. The shade of the skin tells me the person is already dead. Dried blood clings to their skin, spelling three words.

Gallo Was Here.

“How do we know this was Orlando and not another Gallo?” Salvatore says in his usual slow drawl.

“It’s the only logical person it could be,” The Whisper says. “All the others are … indisposed.”

Burned to a crisp or with bullets buried in their skulls, he means.

“Could be a copycat,” Elio murmurs.

The Whisper nods. “We need to gather more information. But if I had to bet on it, I’d say this is Orlando.”

“Do we have any information about what Orlando was doing until last night?” I ask.

“I’m gathering that now,” The Whisper says.

“I can visit whatever little hole he was staying in,” Vito says sternly, the big man ready for violence. “I will get answers.”

I nod. “In the meantime, we need to send a message. Any dealer found slinging that TNT shit loses an arm.”

Elio narrows his eyes at me.

“What?” I growl.

All the men turn to him. We’re all savages. Elio is, too. He did what he had to do on the night of the fire. He shot, and he stabbed, and he poured gasoline all over the place, but that doesn’t mean he’s as comfortable with it as the rest of us. Maybe it’s his more artistic nature. He’s always been more in tune with his emotions.

“Well?” I go on when he just looks at me.

“What if they’re coercing the dealers?” Elio says. “Maybe some idiot kid is trying to keep his mom afloat. Mayb?—”

“It doesn’t matter,” I snap. “We have to shut this down early. Do you have any idea how many drugs were spiked with that shit? How many people OD’d? How many orphans were made? Allin our fucking city.”

“I don’t disagree that we need to do something,” Elio says, “but hell, this just seems drastic. That’s all.”

“Drastic,” I repeat, shaking my head. “This is what’s happening. Put the word out. All of you. I want information on Orlando ASAP.”

“I’ll get to work then,” my four main lieutenants say, standing up. Elio lingers behind, his hands stuffed in his pockets and a pout on his face.

“You’re not smiling anymore,” Elio points out.

“Not much to smile about,” I grunt. “The last thing we need is round two with this shit. People will die, E. Countless people.”

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