Page 133 of Married With Malice

But minute after minute just keeps passing by and I’m still all alone.

30

LUCA

The bomb came first.

All I knew in the first critical seconds of the aftermath was fire and chaos. The force of the blast knocked me down and I wound up flat on my back on dirty asphalt with my ears ringing.

Yet some inner mystery voice warned this wasn’t over.

Rather than wait for the smoke to clear, I scraped together the energy to spring to my feet. A few yards away, Monte was sitting on the ground looking dazed. His brother Nico was standing stock still while staring at the inferno behind us. And Richie was staggering around blindly like a drunk while holding a hand to his head.

Nearby, the establishment formerly known as Greasy Vito’s had been disassembled by the explosion and was still spitting fire. A couple of men ran out of the building and one of them was burning.

Nico looked my way and I waved my arms, hoping he understood that I was motioning to him to take cover. I scrambled over to Monte, yanked him upright and then took him with me when I dove behind the nearest large SUV.

Not a second too soon.

Monte was still out of it but recovering rapidly. He saw the pistol in my hand and grabbed his own piece out of the holster.

As for Richie, he was lurching around in the smoky haze. I could see him shouting but my hearing was still fucked. Richie likely suffered from the same temporary handicap. That’s why he had no clue that a black sedan had just turned sharply at the corner and was barreling down the street with an Uzi pointed out of an open window.

Richie never saw it coming before his body jerked with the impact of multiple hits. I squeezed off five shots in quick succession and clipped the car, blowing out one of the back tires. The car careened down the street, mowed down a pretzel cart and finally collided with the pole of a street light.

Half an hour later, those of us who were lucky enough to be outside the building when it blew are holed up in a deli down the street and trying to figure out what the fuck happened while avoiding all the uniformed lawmen running around.

Richie’s topcapos, Franco and Brisetti, are dead, along with a list of mid-level bosses, soldiers and longtime family associates. Last I heard, Richie was still alive, though barely. I counted at least six bullet wounds before an ambulance got through the scene to pick him up and he wasn’t moving.

I check my phone for the tenth time, hoping Anni has responded to my texts. She has a bad habit of letting her phone battery die and I hate to think of her hearing the news and worrying about me for even a second.

It’s a tiny dose of luck that this place, so close to the scene, is owned by Franco’s cousin or we would have been scrambling. All the windows have been shuttered and the CLOSED sign is on the door, which is being guarded by two jittery gunmen while the rest of us pace around and talk quietly. Everyone who either wasn’t important enough to be at the Greasy Vito’s meeting or was lucky enough to be outside on a smoke break when the building blew has congregated here.

Most of us, anyway. A few are out there scouting for answers but right now we’re stuck in limbo, an information black hole. And every man in the room is looking at me to give orders as I sit at a table with the Castelli brothers.

“You need to get that taken care of,” Monte warns.

Nico glances at the bloody mess of his upper arm where he got grazed by a bullet. The bandana he tied around the wound is soaked through.

“I’m all right,” he says. A film of sweat shines on his forehead. I won’t be surprised if he pukes.

“You all outta prosciutto?” complains Eddie Vallone, one of Brisetti’s guys. His eyebrows have been singed off, he lost his mop of a hairpiece and his suit is covered in ash but he’s pawing around in the deli case and building a giant sandwich.

I guess we all deal with trauma in different ways. Some of us eat lunch meat to cope.

My phone buzzes but it’s just Aunt Donna. She’s weeping and borderline hysterical but she manages to sob out the news that Richie is in surgery.

“Who would do this to him?” she wails.

I love my aunt but she can be painfully dense. Doesn’t she understand who she’s married to? Over the decades my uncle has accumulated more enemies than there are stars in the sky.

“We’ll figure it out,” I tell my aunt. “Stay calm and I’ll be there when I can.”

She’s still howling and weeping when I end the call. I’ve wished for Richie Amato’s death many times but that doesn’t mean I enjoy seeing innocent bystanders like my aunt suffer.

I try Anni’s phone again. Voicemail.

Worry twists through my mind. Ireallyneed to talk to my wife. I need to hear her voice and reassure her that no matter what she hears, I’m coming home to her. Even if Anni doesn’t yet know about the Greasy Vito’s blast, it would be inconceivable to think that her father hasn’t heard. In all the confusion, Albie Barone may not realize that Richie can’t communicate at the moment.

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