Page 26 of Dance of Ruin

This is where I’m meeting Mario.

Great first fucking impression, Mario.

I don’t know him. We’ve never met. But an hour ago, one of my little birds got back to me, saying he knew a guy with connections to the scumbags who just tried to hurt my fucking family. My contact also said the loser was interested in making a deal for some information.

If he’s truly connected to those motherfuckers, it's touch and go if I even let himwalk out of here. We'll see.

Mario is easy to spot. He’s the scared shitless twerp slumped in the corner booth, a half-finished pint in front of him and a shot glass tipped on its side. His eyes are bloodshot, his shirt stained. His hands tremble.

He doesn’t even see me until I slide into the booth across from him, stretching out lazily like I’ve got all the time in the world.

I don’t, but he doesn’t know that yet.

“M-Mr. Barone?” he stammers, sitting up with a drunken jolt that almost knocks over his beer. "Shit. I—I wasn’t sure you’d come."

“My friend says you have something I want." Mario shivers as I lean forward over the grimy table, letting my eyes cut into him. “Information.”

I sit back again, casually lighting a cigarette. It’s not for effect—it’s to keep me from grabbing him by the throat and slamming his face onto the sticky table.

Because my sister almost died.

And this guy might know—might beconnectedto—who’s responsible.

Mario gulps. His eyes dart around, like he's afraid someone might drag him out of here and shoot him for talking.

"I didn’t have anything to do with it," he blurts. "I swear to God, Mr. Barone. I didn’t know what they were planning!”

I don’t say anything. Just stare at him over the tip of my cigarette, letting the silence stretch out.

Making him sweat.

"It was a job, all right? Just a job. I swear to fuckingGod, I wasn't personally involved. But some guys I work with…yeah, the order came in to wire up that real nice sixty-nine Chevelle. That’s all I know."

My fingers curl tighter around the cigarette.

“Who do you work for, Mario,” I growl.

“I—” His eyes skate around the room again and his throat bobs before he leans in closer. “I can’t say. They’ll fuckin’ kill me, Mr. Barone.”

I smile coldly. “Well,they—whoevertheyare—would have to catch you first in order to kill you, yes?”

Suddenly, he’s choking as my hand jerks out to wrap around his throat.

“I,on the other hand, have you right here,” I hiss. “And I can assure you, if you don’t start talking, I’ll be inclined to assume you hadeverythingto do with the car bomb that almost killed my pregnant baby sister last night. I'm sure you’ve got the brain power to understand what happens if I stick with that assumption.”

I let go, and he chokes out a coughing, rasping sound. He winces, swallows, then drags his bloodshot eyes back up to me.

“Look, I’m just a contractor. I do odd jobs for?—”

I think he literally shits himself when I set my gun down on the table with a heavy thud, my hand resting over it, the business end pointed at his chest.

“Please, Mario,” I smile. “Don’t leave me in suspense.”

He nods quickly.

“They’re called the Obsidian Syndicate, okay? Eastern Europeans, I think.Realbad dudes, know what I’m sayin'?”

I don’t really give a shit about anything but the name of the about-to-be-dead motherfuckers who tried to kill Bianca.

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