Page 172 of Dagger in the Sea

“Grandpa’s all settled in at the nursing home,” his distinctive, deep grumbly voice filled my ear.

Mishap is in place.

“Glad to hear it. I look forward to seeing him,” I replied.

“I know you are. I got him the minestrone soup. My special recipe. I made plenty for everybody.”

The Italian deli was a go ahead, and Finger had designed the explosives himself.

I was getting the Finger VIP treatment. I was going to owe him in a big way, and it would be worth every fucking cent and particle of sweat off my back.

“You think of everything,” I said. “You’re the best.”

“Oh, hey—” he continued our code conversation. “Our baby cousin showed up just like you said. ”

He got me Little Anthony.

“Great.”

“A friend of mine from the old neighborhood is coming too.”

He was taking the opportunity to involve a member of his enemy bike club, the Smoking Guns, Med’s club, the Tantuccis’ gopher boys. Fuck yes. Like me, Finger was an excellent multitasker.

“Glad to hear it. The more the merrier,” I replied.

“So is your girlfriend coming?” he asked.

“She’s picking out an outfit as we speak.”

The prostitute from my stable who I’d hired for Med’s last moments on Earth was on standby, well rehearsed and ready to do as I’d instructed.

“She bringing her special cupcakes, I hope?” Finger asked.

“You bet. Can’t have a party without those cupcakes.”

I’d gone to the bank earlier and accessed into my safety deposit box. I had saved DNA evidence from Med’s corpse, his clothing, that motel room, all in professional police-grade packets. Saved it for a rainy day.

Forecast for today in Chicago: Clouds. Rain. Heavy thunderstorms.

* * *

The dense muskof salami assaulted me the moment I stepped through the door of the shop. Such nostalgia. I’d always disliked it, that overabundance of cured meat, damp sawdust on the floor, the sour odor of pickled everything in this pre-war grocery, but I’d grinned and bore it. Only Sal’s prosciutto had ever enticed me, the parmesan, of course, and his rosemary scented focaccia. Not today, though.

I felt his eyes on me the moment I stepped through the doorway.

“Hey kid, what can I get ya?” said Sal. His swollen face scrunched in a frown. “Turo, that you?”

A hush fell over everyone, the chewing even stopped.

Mauro sat at his usual table, his close compadres and capos Oscar, Tony, and Beni sitting with him, smoking and drinking coffee and beers. Mauro’s eyes widened as I came to a stop in front of his table. His jowl got fuller, jaw tenser.

“Good morning, Mr. Guardino,” I said.

He took in a deep breath, scanning me from head to toe. Toe to head. He’d expected never to see me again. He expected me to be dead and gone. “Turo,” his voice was sharp, taut, and a shot of adrenaline went through my veins, spiking my pulse even higher. “You’re back.”

“Yes. I wanted to tell you the good news myself,” I said.

“What’s that?” he said.

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