Page 6 of Confession
When I end the call, Quinn doesn’t slow me down by asking questions. He opens the door so we can go up to my office, grab our shit, and go.
After six weeks of not working with him, just interacting at home, I notice the shift, how invisible he suddenly becomes. He doesn’t bother me, doesn’t distract me. He just does his job. As long as I don’t fuck with him, he’s basically a shadow.
It’s been so damn easy to take him for granted. Working with him is seamless. I don’t even have to think about him because I know he’ll be where I need him at any given moment. At home, I’m more aware of him, but it’s always been comfortable. It blurs into friendship. Like when Nonna Maria died last year and thetwo of us got really drunk, when he told me, finally, who left those burn scars on him.
The problem is, I can’t take him for granted anymore, not after he scared the shit out of me by getting hurt, and I’m not comfortable anymore either. That one’s harder to explain, but it’s like now that I’ve noticed him—like,reallynoticed him—everything feels different.
Differenthow, I don’t know. I think that’s why I keep fucking with him. It’s bugging the shit out of me and I’m trying to figure it out but I can’t.
Shit with Quinn moves to the back of my mind when we get to the warehouse.
I glance at the blackened crates and melted electronics, all of it coated in white powder from a fire extinguisher. A quick mental calculation says a hundred thousand. Not devastating, but the product isn’t mine.
I rent space here to a lot of people. Having legitimate, on-the-books goods makes it easier for me to hide my own illegal imports—guns, cigarettes, hash—but it means I’m liable for my tenants’ losses. Plus I have to deal with their questions. I’ll lie about the cause, but it’s still a pain in the ass.
The attack is small enough that the DiMaggios are just trying to make trouble for me. Maybe the fucker who did it thought he’d get away, but here he is and here he’ll die.
Joe and Quinn’s footsteps ring out with mine as we walk across the open space to where the guy is kneeling on a sheet of plastic with his hands zip tied behind his back. Two of my men who work under Joe stand guard, guns drawn.
I come to a stop facing DiMaggio’s thug. “So you have a message or something?”
The guy shifts on his knees, his eyes darting. Joe called it right. The guy has nothing, just doesn’t want to die. I can’t blame him for that.
Quinn hands me a hunting knife.
The kneeling man rears back, knocking his skull against one of my men’s guns. “I can help you! I know things—”
“I doubt it.” It’s my go-to response because nothing gets people talking faster than a desire to prove their case. It helps skip the bargaining stage.
“Martin Cohen! He’s the one who gave us the location of this warehouse.”
“Did he now?” I ask, feigning boredom to mask my surprise. Special Agent Martin Cohen is the head of the FBI’s Boston field office. Months ago, we identified him as connected to Gavino DiMaggio.
A dirty agent isn’t a surprise. He’ll retire early after shielding the DiMaggios from investigations. I have dirty agents and cops on my own payroll. But Cohen is high up the ladder, and if he’s providing information about me to the DiMaggios, that’s a problem. It means he’s not simply turning a blind eye to the DiMaggios’ activity. He’s involved in our war. That’s a complication I don’t need.
Cohen knowing the location of this warehouse isn’t in and of itself concerning. It means he did a little digging to find my name buried within the layers of company ownership. But it raises some questions. What else does he know and how will it be used?
DiMaggio’s disposable grunt won’t have that information.
The guy licks his lips anxiously. He sees my disinterest. He tries to bargain, “You could let me go. I’ll report a success, like you didn’t catch me. I can feed you information—”
“That’s all you’ve got, isn’t it?”
“I can help you!”
“If you’re willing to betray the DiMaggios, you’re willing to betray me. There’s only one thing to do with traitors.”
He scrambles to his feet. As I lunge, he tries to dart sideways, but he’s too slow and his feet tangle in the plastic. I grab him by the hair and drive my knife into his gut. I yank it out and drive it in again and again.
His legs buckle, but I still have a hold of his hair, keeping him partway up so I can slash my knife across his throat. Blood sprays.
I let go. The body drops at my feet.
I hunt for easily removable identifying parts. His fingers are tattooed, and one of them has a gold ring. I cut the zip tie and haul his arm up to get a good grip. It takes a little sawing to get through the bone, but the finger eventually snaps free.
I don’t get any pleasure from the violence, but it doesn’t bother me either. I’ve been kidnapping and killing and torturing people since I was sixteen. It’s just business. It’s just life.
I know my mother hated it and thought I was too young, but my father knew how important it was for me to be ready to take his place. Both of them died a year later. If my father hadn’t prepared me for this life, I would be dead by now, and Roman too.
