Page 38 of The Sting of Love
One last time.
* * *
It’s nearly six.
P.M.
I ball my fists at my sides as I enter my office to keep from slamming them both into the wall.
Gibbs is with me. He’s just come in and closed the door. I don’t want him to see me lose it. He has a certain respect for me, and I don’t want to lose my shit in front of him because things are out of control.
All fucking day, we’ve been looking around for Mario, and we got nothing. The address turned up with shit, and who was there wasn’t talking. I sigh and turn to face Gibbs when I get to the desk. He looks at me and inclines his head to the side.
“I don’t want to say this, Donny, but I don’t know if we can trust these guys here. I know it’s shit to point fingers, but fuck, the guy disappeared like someone warned him we were coming,” Gibbs states, and I frown because he’s fucking right.
Warnedis exactly what I thought when we got to the house and saw no sign of Mario. Except for a room with a sofa bed and a broken tv where two idiots had been sitting watching the news, the place was cleaned out. Looked like no one else had been there in months. His scent was there though. Mario’s motherfucking scent of whiskey and cheap cologne. I’m like a shark, out for blood and I picked up on his scent like a predator from hell stalking its prey. That’s how I knew he was there. The most I could do was give those two fuckers who denied knowledge of his existence a damn good beating they’re not likely to forget.
They were spies, or part of the shit. There’s definitely still more where they came from.
“No need to be wary of saying stuff, Gibbs. I definitely believe you’re right,” I tell him with a nod.
The thing about spies is, they always reveal themselves eventually, but it’s that in-between stage you have to worry about. The part where shit happens, and you have to try and guess who it is.
“It was a done deal. I saw him myself. He’d just gone to bed, and by the time we rallied, he was gone. The fucking bed wasn’t even there anymore. We should have busted his ass when I first saw him,” Gibbs scuffs.
“No Gibbs you did the right thing by contacting me.” He did. Gibbs might be a tough ex-navy man but he’s not about fighting. He’s in his late fifties and hasn’t needed to get into any kind of fight in years. It was just him and a camera guy who saw Mario. They would have needed backup.
The time we all took to get there too was nothing. It took me an hour and a half so I can’t even blame myself for that last time I indulged in Willow. The fact that Gibbs told me Mario had just gone to sleep is also fucking suspect, and highlights the fact that it must have been someone from our group that gave him the heads up.
“The fucker got away.”
“Fucker had help,” I hiss. I’ll bet the fucking spy stood right next to me and knew we weren’t going to see shit. Going on a mission that would come up with nothing. “Gibbs, we can’t trust anybody here. No one who was already working here. I think we need to keep this amongst Chicago. That means apart from Claudius and the capos, we speak only to each other, Lois, and Saul. That’s it. Nobody else.”
“I agree. What now though?”
What now?Getting a call from Alex and one of the other guys is fine. We chill, and we’re friends. Getting a call from Claudius himself is something else. He doesn’t speak to me unless he has to. Under the old setup, I ran with his brother Lucien. Then Lucien gave up the business to live a normal life, or what could be classed as normal, for his girl and his kids. Claudius took over and rules with an iron fist. I never question it because the man knows what he’s doing. When he has reason to call, it’s not good, and it’s not a good look for me.
“The boss wants him dead,” I answer. That’s what Claudius said.
It’s clear by now that Mario is guilty as fuck, or we’d at least be able to talk to him. The days for talking are over. It’s time for action. Time to eliminate the problem.
A shout steals my thoughts. It’s in the hallway outside the office door. A few more shots echo and cursing, then the door bursts open.
Lois and Saul come in dragging a fat Eastern European man by his arms and the little hair he has left on his head. I’ve seen this guy before. He works the kitchen, washing the dishes. He’s begging for his life. Lois pulls his shotgun on his ass, and the man shuts up. Saul bares his gold teeth, looking a sight.
The man drops to his knees and starts shaking.
“Lei parla inglese?” I ask him if he speaks English because he sounded like he was speaking Dutch when he was shouting, and my Dutch is shit. I figured he must speak some Italian and English if he works here. English would be better for him if he wants to live.
“Yes,” he answers.
“Good,” I say and pull my trademark knives from my pockets. The fucker starts shaking all the more when he sees them. These are Pa’s hunting knives. He gave them to me when I joined the business.
“Please, I can’t help you,” he begs.
“Let me be the judge of that.” I smirk. “Let’s hear it, boys. Why is this fat fuck in my office?”
“His name is Dushkin. You need to take a look at his phone,” Saul replies with a wild smile that even I think looks evil, like he’s been possessed. “You’re gonna love this.”
