Page 103 of Forbidden Confessions: Vol. 2
“Dude, it’s DFW. She could be flying anywhere. The only thing I know is, the terminal where the driver dropped her isn’t usually one used for international flights.”
That’s not super helpful. But Kristi’s sudden itch to travel is only one of my problems tonight. “Thanks. Keep your eyes open.”
“Sure. Anything else you want me to do from here?”
“Hang by the phone.” If I can’t get a bead on Kristi in the next few hours, I’ll have Ryan break into her place and search it for clues.
“You got it. Talk to you soon.”
I hang up, swear, then flush the toilet and wash my hands for the sound effects. Donzelli, along with a couple of his capos, Sal and Rudy, are hanging out in his suite overlooking the casino floor, eyes peeled like they’re waiting for something to happen.
I’ve got a bad feeling…
Dragging in a steadying breath, I let myself out of the can.
“Everything come out okay, Rafael?” Sal snickers.
I hate answering to that name almost as much as I hate Sal Barone. I shoot him a withering glare, wishing I could dust the son of a bitch. But Donzelli would see that as a personal affront since the old-timer has worked for him—and the organization—for a few decades.
Instead, I sneer. “You asking because you need help these days, old man?”
Sal loathes me, and it shows on his face. Not that I have a fuck to spare him.
“Marco, your new consigliere needs to learn a little respect.” Sal punches his fist into his palm, demonstrating how he’d like to teach me.
His usually silent sidekick, Rudy Pomelli, nods like the hulking, brainless yes-man he is.
It takes effort not to laugh. “You’ve never shown me any respect, asshole.”
“Because you didn’t earn your position. You had it handed to you by your late uncle, who was a good man, God rest him. You’re just a shit stain trying to live up to his reputation.”
Before I can tell Sal that he doesn’t have a bite hard enough or a dick big enough to pull off the shit I do, Donzelli steps in. “Are you questioning my judgement, Sal?”
The old-timer finally has the brains to look nervous. “No. I wouldn’t do that, boss. I’m just saying I think his uncle Luca oversold him.”
And Sal thinks Donzelli elevated me from capo to consigliere out of guilt. He’s probably right, but whatever. It works to my advantage.
“Shut the fuck up. Too bad the feds didn’t use you for target practice instead of him.” I take a swipe at Sal, more because it’s expected than because I think it will shut him up.
“Gentlemen…” Donzelli warns, rising from his leather throne, wearing another one of his custom suits. Since he dropped five grand on it, I’m not shocked he looks way more distinguished than the average CEO. Probably why he gets a lot of ass. Well, his suit and intimidation. He’s damn good at that, along with his old-fashioned mobster shtick. His slicked-back hair with equally greasy manners annoy me. I’m half expecting he’ll call the next cocktail waitress who offers him a refill dame.
“I’m zipping it,” I tell him.
“Ass kisser,” Sal sneers.
He’s a fine one to talk, but I don’t say a word, just raise a brow. The asshole’s day is coming. He deserves a bullet in his brain, and I hope I’m the guy pulling the trigger.
“That’s enough,” Donzelli growls loudly enough to convince Sal that he’s been as lenient as he intends to be.
“Sorry, boss.”
Marco gives him an absent nod, then makes his way across the darkened room to the decked-out wet bar below the mirrored wall. He plucks up a glass and turns to me. “Scotch?”
“Thanks.” I’ll nurse it, but I need to keep a clear head. Not only does Sal look like he’s planning revenge, I don’t like Donzelli’s vibe.
Whatever’s going down, Donzelli is behind it.
He pours me three fingers of the really expensive stuff, then turns to me, eyes bright with speculation. “You know, Rafael, the product we move through our trusted network is the nuts and bolts of our operation. It keeps the cash flowing and the lights on.”
