Page 41 of Dreadful
That idea is actually too tempting to pass up, and I give in. Within a couple of car-lengths away from the Rolls-Royce, the shuffling turns into hoarse curses, and it’s clear that either the deal went south, or this isn’t a deal at all. I pick up my cane to avoid making any noise of my own as I pad closer.
When I round a large van, I suddenly see Foglio struggling with a man in a trench coat in the corner behind my uncle’s car. I duck back behind the van, and my muscles tense as I peek over the hood.
Should I stop this?
The fact that I’m merely asking the question and not unholstering the gun from underneath my arm tells me everything.
Foglio is already on my shit list for dealing, and I’ll never forgive him for blindly murdering people like the Bianchis in Claudio’s name. The driver undoubtedly has as much innocent blood on his hands as Vinnie did. Maybe I’ll even get lucky, and this low-level dealer will take care of Foglio for me.
I lean against the side of the van, taking in what clues I can to see who Alfonso pissed off this time. Depending on what I find out, I’ll either put a bullet in the attacker’s head myself or shake his hand.
The man has managed to grab Foglio from behind and yank him by the hair. The grip stretches Foglio’s head back at an awkward angle, and the light shines along his throat. He’s stockier than the attacker and only a few inches shorter, but he’s slow and stoned, an easy target. It’s obvious who will lose when the attacker presses a long knife right underneath the driver’s Adam’s apple, just like I would.
The thought itches my brain, but I dismiss it so I can focus on the scene in front of me.
“My parents…dead…” The attacker hisses so low that all I can make out are bits and pieces. “…give…name.”
The driver shakes his head. “No!”
Foglio is panicking, and with the blade where it is, any movement could be deadly. When the attacker questions him again too quietly for me to hear, the driver’s next objection forces blood to trickle down his throat, and he squeaks.
“Won’t…tell…”
The attacker grunts and slices deeper before hopping off of Alfonso’s back. The driver claps his hand over his neck, stemming the bleeding as he slumps against the car.
It looks bad, but most throat injuries do. This one is just a flesh wound, so I have time to step in, if needed.
I drop the fur coat to the ground and rest my cane against the van to hover my hand over my holster. While I’d be fine with Alfonso dying right here and now, it would complicate things for me, especially since it seems the attacker is after information rather than drugs.
Maybe this could be beneficial in more ways than one. I could wait and hear what the attacker wants to know and then take them both…
The attacker leans into Foglio’s face, the knife back to his throat. Their hurried, fierce whispers are impossible to decipher. But then the attacker reaches up and swipes his hand over the parking garage’s frozen concrete half-wall. He brings his hand to his face and tilts his head, and whatever he says next makes the driver freeze. His only movement is when his mouth drops open to speak.
“It’syou.”
That’s the moment the attacker strikes.
He cuts the driver’s neck in one fluid motion, nearly cutting it clean off…
Just like I would. Just like I did to Vinnie yesterday. And just like I did to thestronzoin the alley just moments ago.
Che cazzo!
It’s my signature, but I don’t know how the attacker would be familiar with the way I work. People rarely see the bodies unless my uncle wants proof of death. Only Claudio, or one of his men, would know my MO. And even if itissomeone close to Claudio, why would he copy my methods to kill a man who’s been loyal to him for well over a decade? I can’t figure out an angle where this is good for me.
What reservations I had about interfering disappear. I can’t let a copycat go free. Not to mention that if anyone in the Family thinks I did this as an unsanctioned kill, I’ll be dead well before I can right the wrongs my family has committed. My realization comes too slowly, though.
The man’s head tilts at the sound of me unholstering my gun, and he’s gone before I can aim. He hops over the garage’s low cement wall and runs off. His bulky trench coat flaps in the wind, slowing him down slightly, but it’s not enough.
While I’ve always excelled at weights and hapkido cane fighting in martial arts, running has never been my strong suit. I’m no match for the speed he manages on light, silent feet. Instead of following him, I focus on which way he goes. I’ll cross-reference it on my CCTV footage later. He stays well away from the streetlights, and it’s obvious he knows the area well when he sprints toward a thin crack in between two buildings and disappears inside. That direction will make it hard to piece together which way he went on the security cameras, but hopefully I’ve got enough out there to cover my bases.
I strain to hear him, but all that comes are the sounds of Hanover Street, the North Square, and laughter from a group of people leaving the Revere afterparty. The last makes me glance to the corner where the corpse has slumped against the garage’s half-wall. The driver’s head hangs by a bloody thread from his spinal column, mouth, and eyes wide with shock.
And I’m the only suspect around.
Fuck.
Scene 12
