Page 69 of Unholy Union
“What’s the latest?” I ask. My gaze shifts to Cassian. “Have we got any leads on who the fuck it was?”
“I had one of my contacts at the NYPD pull the plate from the street cam. Poor bastard still thinks I’m doing him a favor by keeping quiet about his little sidepiece in Queens,” Cassian muses, tapping the end of his cigar against the ashtray. “Anyway, the SUV’s registered to Mario Pompa. Name ring a bell? No? That’s because he’s a nobody. He’s not a made man or anybody directly associated with any family. But I was able to trace him to some past work he’s done with the Falcos.”
“The Falcos…” Lazaro repeats aloud, his dark eyes narrowing.
I remain silent, accepting my drink from the server without a thank you. I take my first sip, processing what Cassian’s just revealed, and trying to figure out how it fits into the puzzle that’s everything else going on.
Most recently, we had approached the Falcos about working together to sabotage Corsini Construction.
Rudy Mancini had signaled Don Falco was all-in on the operation. Was that nothing but smoke and mirrors? Had the Falcos made their choice to align with the Corsinis instead?
If that were the case, then that would create a whole new host of problems.
Many of which we hadn’t even begun to consider…
The Amaro slides down my throat, the cool bitter taste lingering as much as my thoughts do.
“Keep digging,” I say after a while.
Cassian eyes me in question. “For what?”
“What else? More answers,” I say. “I’m not convinced things are as they appear. In the meantime, reach out to Rudy and set up a sit-down. We need to press them about our proposal for Corsini Construction.”
“You still want to work with them?” Cassian’s forgotten about his cigar, letting it smolder between his fingers.
“I want to see how they react to us still wanting to partner with them. Something somewhere is off and I’m going to figure out what it is.” I drain the last of the Amaro in the glass and then set it down on the table. Rising to my feet, I check the time on my watch. “I’m preoccupied the rest of the evening. If anything else important comes up, Cassian, you handle it.”
Both my brother and right hand share glances, tempted to press me on what I’m preoccupied with, but they don’t get the chance. I’m walking out of the Gotham Club almost as promptly as I’d walked in.
The truth is, I made plans for tonight over a week ago, and I’ve decided I’m going to keep them.
Sabrina’s in pajamas and a green mud mask when I walk in. She’s got a warm mug of tea and has settled against the pillows in our bed, cradling a murder mystery novel that’s ironically thick enough to kill.
If I had to guess, it seems like joining me for dinner and a show are the last things on her mind.
But that’s too bad for her, because I’ve already purchased the tickets.
“Get dressed,” I say, slipping both hands into my pants pockets. “I’m taking you out.”
She arches a brow. It’s one of the only things on her face that’s not currently minty green. “Not interested.”
“Not asking. We have…” I pause to check my Rolex. “Forty-five minutes to make our dinner reservations. Then we’ve got a show to catch.”
“Reservations? A show?” She snorts like I’m some stronzo at a club who’s asked her for her zodiac sign. Her gaze returns to her book. “I’ll pass.”
We’ve barely spoken in days.
But what else is new?
Our latest blow up happened the other night when I tested the waters and tried to have dinner home alone with her.
Things were immediately awkward. Stiff and unnatural.
And then they took a turn for the worse. The forced conversation we were having turned to the one topic that reminds us we hate each other.
The decades-long feud between our families.
All the blood that’s been spilled—her brother Leo and my Uncle Adriano, among countless others.
