Page 11 of Dagger in the Sea

Both worlds were similar. Both bet and parleyed for the same things. Both needed each other. And I found I enjoyed playing in that long, wide field between the two teams. In fact, the Boss had come to rely on my opinion on a great many things, much to Val’s consternation. I’d found myself savoring that. But after ten years of working for Mauro, making his bordellos major moneymakers and an established system that generated important contacts, I was still not a “made man.” Everyone knew I was only half Italian and half the dreaded Irish. I may have had the sheen of Mauro’s favor and, therefore, accepted, but up to a point. My blood was sullied. Not to be completely trusted.

Over the years I thought things would improve for me on that score by way of the results I consistently brought in. That wasn’t the case, however. Tradition was tradition. A fact Val enjoyed.

“You killed him, Turo. Didn’t you?” That smile stretched across his pretty boy face. Was he waiting for a reaction? He wasn’t going to get one. “Such an arrogant son of a bitch.”

I let out a deep sigh. “Valerio.”

“I’d love to see Mr. Tantucci blow his stack when he finds out that you’re the one responsible for killing his precious meth maker. They’ve been losing big bucks across several states ever since.”

“You have proof?”

He let out a dry laugh. “Your new boy, Little Anthony, is mine, fuckhead.”

Little Anthony was a newbie soldier who’d just joined my crew on the Boss’s insistence. I’d had him checked out. I’d been thorough.How the hell—

Val slid a five by seven photo from his suit jacket and held it up for me to see. Med’s bloodied body strewn on that burnt orange motel bedspread flashed before me. The musty smell of that trashy motel room in southern Indiana on that hot and muggy afternoon came rushing back to me.

I’d snuck into Med’s room as he’d been taking a hit from a pipe, utterly mesmerized as he watched a bikini clad girl, one of my most trusted prostitutes who I’d planted in his path, crush a piece of cake with her ass on the dresser (people’s addictions to fetishes never ceased to intrigue me). While he got busy desperately trying to get himself off, I slid my blade into his neck, pushing him back onto the bed, the smell of him foul. He’d actually smiled, laughed, the high bastard. Then he got pissed, his eyes narrowing, a low growl escaping his lips as his body bucked once, twice. Sweet, sweet panic, that struggle for one more breath, the frantic then slow thump of his heart as I held him down, blood oozing. He gave in to me, and he was finally gone.

“I helped Little Anthony with his mamma’s medical bills recently,” Val said. “He owes me big time. No health insurance is a good thing for some of us.”

What a fucking moron. A moron who had me by the balls at the moment. I shifted my weight. “You think doing this would be good for the family?”

“Don’t talk to me about family, you fuck. I know my father didn’t order this hit, I asked him about it. He didn’t like it much.” He jabbed a finger in the air at me. “You did this. Your head’s too big for your own good, and the sooner my dad sees that the better.”

“Entitled punk,” I shot back.

Val’s chin jutted out and he lunged at me, grabbing at my collar. I shoved him off. “Don’t you fucking touch me,” I said on a hiss.

The boss entered the hallway, and Val moved away from me, his fingers rubbing over his creased forehead, nostrils flaring. I smoothed down my collar, my tie.

“Good, you’re here.” Mauro Guardino’s eyes went from me to his son and back again, his lips set in a firm line.

“Yes, I’m here.” I ground my jaw, adjusting my suit jacket. I was the one who was always here.

Val was a few years younger than me, and was comfortable sitting on the arm of the throne in a well-made suit and his gold chains and diamond Rolex, the family initial on a gold pinky ring, nodding his head and making faces, while his dad made all the tough decisions. Perched there until the moment came when his father would be gone and he would just slide into the seat.

Or so he assumed.

That’s not what it was about. It was about hard work, hours pounding the streets, getting dirty, real dirty, stealing, haggling, beating, making contacts, giving shitheads the time of day, being respected, feared. That’s how you got what you wanted.

Mauro threw a newspaper on his desk. “Look at this shit.”

A column’s headline blared about Med’s “biker assassination” and how the Smoking Guns Motorcycle Club was up in arms as were their enemies. How the Feds were bracing for a war between bike clubs and would be investigating Med’s chapter, and his ties to a host of criminal organizations in the region.

“Not good.” Mauro shoved the newspaper across his desk and it flew onto the floor.

“Why not, Dad?” asked Valerio, his eyes sliding to mine. “If the Tantuccis catch some heat this way, isn’t it good?”

“Not necessarily. These bikers are idiots. What if one of them starts talking to point the finger at the other?”

“Yeah, this gang versus that gang, all hell could break loose,” said Val.

“They’re clubs, not gangs,” I said.

Valerio rolled his eyes. “Who gives a shit?”

“We’ve worked with a few off and on, but never long term,” said Mauro. “What if they all start pointing fingers to make deals to stay alive? This sucks dick. And why leave the body out like that? Why not get rid of it? Was this some sort of vendetta? Jesus, I don’t like it at all.”

---