Page 188 of Rosetti Family New York
Istep into the bar and spot Dale slouched in a sticky vinyl booth. I weave through a haze of smoke and spilled beer, past guys hollering over the thumping rock music. He hasn't noticed me yet. Classic Dale, letting the world come to him.
I sidestep a group of drunk bros and take a breath. The job. Focus on the job. Not Sloane. She's a distraction I can't afford right now.
Outside, the street is wild with Saturday-night chaos. The Callahan problem needs my full attention. The fighting ring is bleeding money, and I need to find out where it's going. That's what matters here. That's why I called Dale.
She's entirely wrong for me anyway. Smart girl, nice background, ex-cop for a dad. I bet he shines his badge every night before bed and drinks decaf until the pot's empty. Didn't take me long to figure that out—her old man is a small-time legend for cleaning up a precinct in Jersey that was dirtier than I am.
And her? Post-grad student studying criminal psychology. Like she's holding a magnifying glass up to me and my wholelife. A girl like that should be running from guys like me, not chasing after answers about her dead friend. She's in over her head, and staying clear of her is the smart move for both of us.
I've got real problems to deal with. Missing money. Family business. The Callahans. No time for distractions, no matter how green her eyes are or how stubbornly she refuses to stay away from trouble.
I drag myself back to the moment. The job. Focus on the job.
I take the last steps to the booth. Dale looks up and grins.
"Rosetti," he says, lifting his beer. "Thought you'd bailed on me."
I slide in across from him. The vinyl seat cracks under me. "You're not that lucky."
The waitress notices me as I sit down and brings over a shot of whisky. I don't even wait for her to leave before I down it in one quick gulp. It's harsh, burning down my throat, just how I like it.
"Never been a beer guy, huh?" Dale quirks an eyebrow while he takes a sip from his own drink. There's a little taunting in his voice, like he's trying for a casual tone.
"I don't drink water from the Hudson either," I reply, setting the empty glass down with a hard thunk. "But I'm guessing we're not here to talk about that."
I lean back, watching him closely for any hint of what's coming next.
Dale isn't bad blood. I've known him a while, but we don't meet up just for chit-chat, and I don't like wasting time. Still, it's not like him to call me over if he didn't have something important on his mind. He wouldn't be sitting there waiting for me if this was nothing.
"You look serious," I add, cutting through the noise of the bar.
His eyes narrow a bit, like he's trying to gauge my reaction to something big. A strand of that scruffy blond hair falls into his face as he tilts forward.
"I think someone's skimming our take," he says.
My mind kicks into high gear. The Callahan and Rosetti families joined forces in the middle of last year to open an underground fighting ring. The gym where we worked out turned bloody most days anyway, so we just decided to monetize it. The Rosettis run the fights, and the Callahans take care of the betting.
It's a wild success. Most nights, you couldn't squeeze an extra pimple into that room, and cash is flying around almost as fast as the booze.
But the numbers don't stack up. There's a hole. A leak. I had one of my brainiacs calculate it, sitting ringside and watching every damn bet. I even had Emilio poke around in the Callahan computers, and we can't find the leak, but I'm sure it's there.
So, the missing money isn't news to me, but the fact that Dale knows about it is. And the fact he's coming to me with it says he's probably not the guy behind it.
"You think it's one of our guys?" I ask, testing the waters to see if he knows more than he's saying.
His narrow eyes hold mine, and I can't tell if he's got a name or if this is just one of his wild hunches that he's hoping I'll run with.
"I don't know," he admits after a beat, frustration lacing his voice.
I lean in. The dim light throws shadows on his face.
"What do you know, exactly?"
He slams his bottle down. The table vibrates.
"A ton of cash just vanished," he says.
"What about Chase? He know?" My voice drops to a whisper.
