Page 1 of Out of Sight

Prologue

Claire

Angelo Morelli was pacing in his office across the hall, shouting and threatening someone through the phone.

“You tell Mario Costa that he better pay his debts or I’ll break his kneecaps in,” he thundered. “I’ll take his fingers one by one until he begs me to take his fucking hands! I’ll make him wish he’d never been born, Willie-Boy, and then I’ll kill the asshole.”

It was a completely normal workday.

Angelo was aggressive, but I figured that was part of what made him such a successful lawyer; he took no prisoners and wouldn’t stand for anyone’s crap, especially when one of his biggest pet peeves what unfolding: people who didn’t pay their invoice or retainer on time. It was one of the most common threats he laid out on his calls or during his meetings.

I smiled indulgently at him when he briefly marched back into view, like a grandma letting her grandkid think he was getting away with sneaking a cookie out of the jar. He wasn’t bad looking despite his hostile demeanor; piercing blue eyes, jetblack hair with just the beginnings of silver streaking through at his temples, and I could detect a muscular physique, despite how he stayed formally dressed in a suit and tie at all times. If he wasn’t always glaring or frowning I might have thought he was attractive, despite the decade or so age gap between us.

Carlo Morelli, the much older and friendlier brother, walked past me, but instead of berating me for eavesdropping he gave me a mischievous smile and wink, leaving the door wide open as he joined his younger brother in his office. He was in his mid-to-late fifties, about twenty or so years older than Angelo, and the senior partner in their small law firm. Despite the age difference, they looked remarkably similar, one slightly more silver and creased than the other.

I pretended to busy myself with work, but I kept my ear toward the door. I was a sucker for gossip, even if I had no one to share it with.

“Costa is dead if he doesn’t pay up by end of business today. You hear me, Willie Bracco?” Angelo paused as another masculine voice rumbled through the phone line. “Then why the hell are you still on the goddamn phone? Get moving or you’re next on my shit list, Bracco.”

Angering Carlo Morelli as the face of the law firm would be a huge mistake, but Angelo? He was ruthless when business was on the line. I didn’t know who Willie-Boy Bracco was, but I felt sorry for him.

You didn’t want to be on the wrong side of the Morelli brothers’ business. They always went for the kill.

one

Will

Carlo Morelli said his nephew would meet me at Costa Laundry at seven on the dot, so I kept a look out as I pulled my car up to the entrance. The kid smoking a cigarette out front had to be him: slicked back black hair, dark eyes, and deeply tanned skin. He had to be about twenty, much too young for the amount of excitement in his eyes.

I’d been with the Morellis in a lesser capacity for a couple years before they told me I was graduating up to enforcer. My new job for the Morellis was just to throw my weight around a bit, threaten, maybe throw a punch here or there. Never anything as serious as this. I was neverthatexcited at the possibility of violence. What did Antonio really think we were here to do?

I already went over to the laundromat this morning to tell Mario Costa it was time to pay his due and he promised to get the money together by sundown. All it took was lifting him a foot off the ground for a few seconds. It was amazing whata strong body and a well-practiced Intimidating Asshole Face could get you.

But tonight was different. Now I was just hoping that Costa found a way to come up with the money. I had no idea what I would do if he didn’t. I wasn’t the guy who dealt in wet works, but no one said no to Mr. Morelli.

I threw the car in park and pushed the button to roll down the passenger window, letting out a short whistle to get the kid’s attention.

“Ayyyy, yo!” he called, giving me a broad smile as he hopped in the passenger seat. I couldn’t believe I was skipping leg-day at the gym tonight to meet with this guy.

“You’re Willie-Boy?” I gave a stiff nod; I hated that nickname. “You’re not that big. They said you were huge, but I expected you to be built like a tank, man. I probably spend more time at the gym than you do, bro,” he smirked.

I just raised an eyebrow. First of all, he looked ridiculously skinny. Second, I didn’t need to explain a damn thing to this little fucker.

“Well? Why are we in the car? Aren’t we supposed to drag this guy out to the desert and teach him a lesson his wife won’t ever forget?”

I guess he did know what we were doing. Except…

“We’re in San Francisco, kid. There’s no desert here.” Someone was making too many mob assumptions.

“Do we blow him up?” he asked, eyes bright like a toddler who just discovered playdoh. “I have a cousin on my dad’s side who knows about this stuff. He taught me-”

“No, we don’t blow him up,” I interrupted, starting to feel irritable. And I hated feeling irritable when being in a good mood was so much more fun. “If we blow him up there’s no way the Morellis get their money.”

“Then how are we gonna, you know, do our business?” He looked genuinely flummoxed.

I sighed. The Morellis wanted me to show him the ropes and the longer we talked, the more chance Costa had to notice us parked right in front and escape out the back. “We stuff him in the trunk and take him out of the city, probably to one of the nature reserves in the ’burbs.”

“The suburbs? Why go so far?” What, and the desert wasn’t farther?

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