Page 134 of Married With Malice

Just when I’m about to call my father-in-law with an update, the door is opened. Silvio and Gianni walk in. They were fortunate to be hanging out in the kitchen when the bomb went off in the main dining room. Everyone in that room was turned into mincemeat.

If you own a junkyard you’ll probably keep a couple of Dobermans or Pit Bulls around to tear a leg from trespassers. Gianni and Silvio are our most reliable Dobermans. Both of them are ruthless, not the brightest bulbs in the pack but fanatically loyal to Richie for twenty years. They went chasing after the occupants of the car that fired the Uzi after the bomb blast.

Both of them stand just inside the doorway and ignore everyone as they scan the overcrowded deli packed with what’s left of the Amato empire. When their eyes land on me, Gianni jerks his chin and motions to the back, a clear signal that whatever they have to say will be said to me alone.

They start walking, assuming I’ll follow them out to the alley behind the deli. Monte raises an eyebrow and pushes his chair back but I shake my head as a message for him to stay put.

“He ought to get to a hospital,” I say, pointing at Nico, who responds with a stubborn scowl.

“Flesh wound,” he insists. “I’ll wait for a family doc to dig it out. Not going to any hospital for an interrogation.”

I understand his point. The brothers watch with apprehension as I rise from the chair. All other conversation in the room has come to a halt.

“I’ll be back,” I say.

“We’ll be here,” Monte replies.

Silvio and Gianni wait at the end of the dim corridor. Silvio shoves the back door open and lets me walk through it first before they follow and shut the door behind them. The alley is narrow, filthy, and empty except for a young guy wearing an apron and leaning against the grimy building while he sucks on a vape pen. One look at us and he goes scampering in the opposite direction as fast as his spindly legs will carry him.

“What’s the word on the boss?” Silvio asks. He sobbed when he saw Richie lying on the ground and riddled with bullets. There’s a streak of blood on his shirt and I’m sure it isn’t his.

“His condition is critical but I’ll know more when he gets out of surgery.”

Silvio winces. “Those bastards.” His eyes flick to me and he shifts his weight, clearly troubled about something more specific than my uncle’s condition.

“What did you find out?” I ask.

He exchanges a glance with Gianni. “The driver of the car fucked up his leg in the crash. We caught up to him a block away and hauled him into an empty building before the law started crawling all over the area.”

“Did he talk?”

A grim smile from Silvio. “He squealed like a rat in a trap when we put the squeeze on him.”

“He’s not squealing no more,” Gianni says with vicious pride.

“What did he tell you?”

Silvio’s boxy jaw tightens as he cobbles his thoughts together. “Did you hear the words that got shouted from the car before the bullets started flying?”

“Couldn’t hear a thing just then.”

He nods. “Nobody could.”

“Well? Did you find out what was said?”

“I did. ‘This is for Bill Barone.’That’s what they shouted before cutting Richie down.”

Of all the possibilities that have been careening through my mind since the moment the bomb went off, this was not among them.

“That can’t be right.”

“The guy we cornered is definitely one of Albie Barone’s. I recognized him. Well, hewasone of Albie’s. He doesn’t belong to anyone anymore. Seems Albie liked the idea of picking today, anniversary of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, to settle all scores at once.”

He raises an eyebrow, waiting for the wheels to stop spinning in my mind.

Albie and Richie have always been tight. For decades they’ve worked together to squeeze out the competition and divide up New York like a pizza pie. Richie’s relationship with his longtime friendly rival has played a central role in my uncle’s ambitions. And I’ve played a pivotal part in ensuring our two families will remain linked by blood.

But a friend who knows your weaknesses is potentially more dangerous than an enemy who doesn’t. My father-in-law always trended toward paranoia. The murder of his brother left him feeling exposed and vulnerable. In the wake of personal tragedy, he became more eager to turn his own organization into a fortress.

---