Page 25 of Kept

“There hasn’t been a Rizzuto in this fucking city in a decade,” I tell him.

“Oh, well then, I’m sure he pulled that incredibly specific last name out of thin air,” my brother retorts.

“Fuck. See what you can find out.”

I climb back into my black Lincoln Navigator, which has been heavily modified to accommodate the armored panels and reinforced glass.

Rizzuto. Fuck.

I quit smoking years ago, but suddenly regret the decision. It would be concerning in and of itself, but there have been some unusual changes in the cash flow, some business deals that have fallen through. It’s not unheard of, but I’m suddenly suspicious as fuck.

I pull my phone out and shoot off a text.

How is it going?

You kidnapped the girl, how do you think?

You’re an asshole for a priest, you know that.

Show some respect, I used to change your diapers.

Fucker.

You’d better bring food. Unless you plan to torture her with your cooking.

Shit. I send off a quick message to have one of the guys resolve the food situation.

I’m halfway home when my phone rings again. Gino, my baby cousin with an ego problem. He’s not a bad kid, but he’s young, dumb, and wants to be more important than he is.

“That fucking Irish bastard threatened to blow off my kneecaps!” he yells when I answer.

“Jesus, Gino, I have enough bullshit to deal with. Stop picking fights with your dick.”

“But—but—” he stutters.

“Leave the fucking Irish alone,” I say, and then I hang up on him. The last thing I need is to have to deal with Sean O’Connell. He’s a stubborn bastard and a bit prickly sometimes, but he’s not a psycho. It’s guaranteed that Gino did something to deserve it.

I finally fight my way through the afternoon traffic and pull into the garage. Aldo is again standing watch outside the door.

“Evening, boss,” he tells me.

“Evening, Aldo. How’s your wife doing? It’s almost time, isn’t it?”

He smiles. “Yes, sir, two more weeks.” His pride is obvious.

“This one a boy?” I ask.

“No, thank God. I think my wife would kill me if I gave her a fourth son. A little girl. Claudia.”

I clap him on the shoulder. “That’s a good name.”

Inside, I find my brother, the priest, watching Game of Thrones re-runs.

“Seriously?”

“What?” he asks innocently.

I shake my head and walk to the bar, pouring a drink. “How did it go?”

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