Angelo left the house soon after Nick. It was easy. Just walk out, climb into his old souped-up black Mustang, drive to the gates, wave at the guards as they let him through. Easy. After all, he was a Bassalino, too, so who dared to stop him?
He switched on the radio. Drake. Loud and clear. Great. He felt good, a little high, just enough. Frank’s death had completely unnerved him. A fucking bomb right in the middle of New York—that was one hell of a way to go. But he couldn’t pretend he was heartbroken. Okay. Sure. So Frank was his brother. But he’d always been a mean bastard. There had never been any love lost between the two of them.
The thought of seeing Rio again filled him with elation. She was sending for him. He wasn’t phoning her, groveling for a chance to prove himself. She’d tracked him down and flown to Miami especially to see him.
He put his foot down a little harder on the accelerator. Mustn’t keep her waiting. Rio was not a woman to keep waiting.
He turned the radio louder. The disc jockey was talking in rhyming slang, jazzing his audience up.
Angelo couldn’t help laughing aloud. Usher reminded him of his first scene with Rio. He turned the radio up full volume so the sound flooded all around him in a deafening roar. Revving the engine, he shoved his foot down to the floor.
‘Rio, baby,’ he shouted. ‘Here I come!’ He failed to see the red light ahead. The car plunged through the junction and smashed straight into the side of a massive oil tanker.
Angelo was killed instantly, but on the car radio Usher sang on…