Page 23 of Dirty Mafia King

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Dots appear as he replies.

Be at Magnum on Bowery and East Hudson at 9 p.m. I’ve a plan. Capisci?

No, I don’t understand.

I wait, but no response.

What’s happening?

You’re scaring me.

Renzo???

His messages stop, as does my heart, now positioned in my throat.

The clock reads eight thirty. I grab my purse, a raincoat, and a handful of bills from the envelope.

Please, be there, Renzo.

Please help us.

CHAPTER8

ALESSIA

Rain pours down in buckets as I hurry north on Broadway. Catching a cab now is impossible, yet walking beats taking the subway. I checked my phone a few moments ago but Renzo hasn’t responded to my additional texts, most a variation of the same messages: “What’shappening?” and “What plan?”

Outside Magnum, I encounter a large man who’s straightening the garbage bins outside. Italian curse words flood the street, and I wonder who poked the bear in him. I walk in a wide arc around him and enter the bar.

I bite my lip and anxiously search for Renzo.

“The Bowery Bar is up the road.” A dark-haired waitress approaches.

“I’m meeting someone.”

“Up the road,” she grumbles. “This place is for a certain kind …”

“Angel, baby.”

Renzo’s voice rings out from deep inside the bar, and the server’s eyes grow wide.

“You made it.”

I rush by her and follow the aisle dividing the bar and the tall built-in booths to the back. Renzo sprawled across a bench in a booth.

“Be careful where you step.” He gestures toward an enormous wet spot on the floor.

I step over it, slide into the bench across from him, then take off my raincoat, fold it, and set it beside me.

When I finally look at him, my stomach drops.

He looksterrible. His face is puffy, pupils dilated, and hair a matted mess. Like he hasn’t slept in a while. Like he’s strung out.

“Miss the good-looking fella, huh?”

“Renzo, what happened?”

“I had a run-in with a puddle. The puddle won.”

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