Page 80 of Unholy Union
Cassian walks beside me, hands in his suit pockets, whistling like we’re headed to a friendly brunch instead of a mafia sit-down. Lazaro flanks my left, silent and hawk-eyed as always, his stride calculated, his shoulders stiff beneath his leather jacket.
Inside, the restaurant smells like garlic and tomato sauce. A hush settles as we step in—not out of fear, but awareness. Everyone in here understands the rules.
This is neutral ground. No weapons drawn, only three representatives per family, and all deals are binding.
The last time I was here, I’d inked my signature in blood, agreeing to marry Sabrina Corsini in the dead of night.
Eight weeks later, I’m back to find out who the fuck has put out a hit on her—or me.
Capo Rudy Mancini is already seated in the back corner table, flanked by two Falco soldiers. He’s pigging out on a plate of fried calamari like it’s any other lunch. His beady eyes flick up the second we walk in, and a broad, toothy grin stretches across his face.
I don’t smile back.
We slide into the chairs across from them, with me in the middle. No one speaks right away. That’s the game at these sort of meetings. We size each other up first, then broach the topics we’re here to discuss.
Predictably, Rudy breaks the ice first, sliding his plate of calamari toward us.
“Well, if it ain’t Mr. GQ himself,” he crows, winking. “Try the calamari. Tastes like chicken. Not in the‘people say it tastes like chicken but it really tastes like old sneakers’kinda way. Nah, this one actually does. Except, y’know… rubbery.”
Before I can answer, he’s already pivoting.
“Oh hey, did you park by that hydrant out front?” He gestures vaguely toward the window, licking sauce off his thumb, then scratching his greasy hair. “Me and my guys saw you walking up, and I was thinking damn, they’re real close to that red curb. Y’know those coppers—they catch a sniff of that and boom, fifteen-hundred-dollar ticket, easy. I make decent cash, don’t get me wrong, but the city’s robbing us worse than the feds these days. Why waste the money, right?”
He chuckles as if waiting for me to agree with him.
But I’m not amused. I’m here for business only, and no amount of Rudy Mancini’s rambling will distract me.
“Let’s get to the point,” I say. “You’re aware why I asked you to meet today, correct?”
Rudy wipes the last of the marinara sauce off his fingers with a napkin, nodding his head. “I heard about the shooting—both of ’em. Jesus, that’s a rough week for newlyweds, huh? But listen, you gotta hear me, Cato. The Falcos? Our hands are clean. We ain’t got jack shit to do with that. Not our style.
“You know us. That flashy shoot-’em-up crap ain’t our MO. We don’t do drive-bys, we do pressure. Permits. Licenses. Paper trails. You think Carlo Falco would risk blowing up months of zoning warfare just to scare a pretty girl in a flowery dress?” He leans forward, raising both brows. “And come on, why would we go after a gorgeous gal like your wife? I happen to like her!”
My eyes narrow into slits.
Rudy notices, blanching and throwing up his hands as if on the receiving end of a gun. “Not like that! Christ, no, not like that. I meant like… y’know… respectfully. Non-sexually. That’s all I meant. Strictly platonic. Wholesome. The way one respects the sacred bounds of mafia marriage and all that jazz.”
He’s sweating as he explains, and I let him squirm, studying him in stoic silence.
Rudy’s a lot of things—slippery, crass, loud—but a liar?
He’s not the kind that can hold it together this long. His mouth runs too fast for rehearsed lines. And for all his theatrics, I’ve watched his tells before. The dart of his eyes and the twitch of his mouth. I’ve seen him bluff badly over cards and botch a cover story over scotch.
Today, I don’t see any of it.
He’s telling the truth. Not that I’ll tell him that.
Letting him stew in my suspicion serves a purpose. I want the Falcos nervous. I want every family nervous. Until I know who orchestrated that hit, everyone’s a suspect—includingthe clown sitting across from me with calamari grease on his shirt and a mouth that won’t shut.
“And the deal?” I press, cocking a brow. “Don Falco still good with delaying the permit approvals for Corsini Construction projects?”
“You kidding? We said we were in, didn’t we?” Rudy asks. “When have we ever gone back on our word, Cato? The Falcos… we’ve picked our side.”
Half an hour later, Cassian, Lazaro, and I emerge from La Rocca with Rudy’s reassurance on behalf of the Falcos that they had nothing to do with the shootingsandthey’re fully invested in aligning with us.
Cassian yawns and stretches as if he’s a lazy cat ready for his afternoon nap. “Well, that was enlightening. I learned that Rudy thinks squid reallydoestaste like chicken, and apparently your wife’s got more admirers than a pin-up calendar in a prison cell. So, what’s the verdict, brother? Are the Falcos full of shit or just calamari?”
“Nobody’s in the clear,” I answer as we reach the Audi and Lazaro goes around to the driver’s side. “Far as I’m concerned, everybody’s a suspect ’til nobody is.”
