Chapter Eight

Campbell

I WAKE UP with both hands cuffed to the steering wheel.

They’re NYPD standard issue, but no cop would bother chaining me to the car when they could have dragged me out unconscious and done the deed at lockup instead. It’s shallow comfort, nowhere near enough to fill the void of agony pounding through my skull or the sheer strain in my neck from impact. My window is shattered, too, but the lattice of glass still holds in the frame, divided into ten thousand little pieces. The driver’s side door is buckled in at identical points, every crash zone absorbing as much as it could bear.

It’s also wide open, but someone’s approach sends more glass scattering across the ground in a high, catastrophic note. The culprit is a Colt 1911 with a forty-five caliber round slotted in the chamber—or rather, the man pointing it at me, flanked by three associates of similar build and dress. Suits dark enough for blood to dry clean at a distance, wide ties with a classic knot. None of them are under forty, and the oldest is pushing retirement age.

I’m always flattered when the people in charge show up for me.

“Good evening, Campbell,” the man with the pistol says. “Can I call you Campbell?”

He has good trigger discipline, but the gun is aimed low, a crippling blow rather than a killing one. Interesting. “Depends on who’s asking.”

“Stefano Galici,” one of his shadows pipes up. “So mind your mouth.”

Galici. I have no idea what tenuous connection of blood or loyalty binds them to Mickey, but I can guess why they want me under the gun. What doesn’t make sense is why I’m presently alive. A car crash could kill me as easily as a bullet, and I was unconscious long enough for them to get these cuffs on.

“There are easier ways to get in touch with me, gentlemen,” I say. “How can I help you?”

“See, I’ve found otherwise,” Stefano replies, keeping his Colt held on me while reaching into his jacket. He pulls out a small stack of photos, professionally printed, and tosses them on my lap. “Because I’ve spent a long time tracking you down.”

The top photo is of me and Sofia at Brunu’s, a restaurant belonging to one of her uncles. It’s more recent than I expect—two years old or so—but the picture underneath presents a much larger problem. I’m dressed in runner’s gear, walking down a Chicago street near the university where Richard used to work. Thankfully, Justine wasn’t anywhere near me that day, but such long-term surveillance happening without my knowledge can only be described as a catastrophic security failure.

“Six years, almost,” Stefano adds. “You seemed like a rumor. A fucking ghost. But one of the last things Mickey told me was what the person who broke his hand looked like. Less than a week later, he was dead.”

I didn’t stay long in New York long after that, studying my trade away from the perpetual panopticon of the city. Once Sofia started to find contracts for me, I was never in the same place more than a month, and eventually my profile went international. Nudging my knee up spreads the pictures wider; none of them seem to be outside the United States, at least.

“Who was he to you?” I ask.

Stefano frowns. “My younger brother.”

Well, that’s unfortunate. “My condolences. But if you expect me to beg before you pull the trigger, just get it over with. Theatrics are boring.”

“This isn’t theater, Campbell.” Embers of arrogance flare in pale green eyes. “You don’t hunt big game without a cage to match, especially when you’re going to set the beast free again. I just needed you boxed in.”

As scare tactics go, I give it a seven out of ten. “Pretty big risk, hitting your prize with sixty tons of force.”

“Cesare is good with cars.” Stefano gestures to the man directly behind him, a scarecrow who has taken too many hits to the face. “There’s an art to doing a hundred grand worth of damage, or so little the insurance won’t cover a thing.”

Cesare smirks at me. “How’s your neck, killer?”

Nothing that some medication and careful stretching won’t fix. “Good enough to drive. Steering is a little difficult at the moment though.”

His glee fades, snuffed out by irritation. Made men are used to soft targets, people who buckle the minute a gun comes into the mix. They don’t respect or fear anyone else but one another, unless you make your point in spectacularly brutal fashion. Intimidation factor was part of why I spent hours strangling Mickey in his own apartment; I wanted whoever found him to know that even a hitman’s hideaway isn’t safe from someone like me.

“Let's get to the point,” Stefano cuts in. “I know you murdered my brother. The only reason you’re not being chopped up on an ice block right now is because you’re useful. Stop being useful, and the first thing I’m taking is your hands.”

“I’m afraid I only specialize in one business.” My eyes sweep over the four men, searching for a motive. “And plenty of people in your family share the same line of work.”

“They’re held to certain rules and expectations.” He brushes the muzzle of the Colt against my brow. “You’re a mercenary.”

Which can only mean one thing. “Killing your own kind is bad luck, Stefano.”

“Sometimes it’s necessary.” The gun retreats, and he takes a step back from the car, confident I’m contained. “But before I give you a name, you should know the rest of my men are currently inside Ms. Cattaneo’s house with her. She’ll be staying in our custody until the deed is done.”

Sofia. Goddamn it.

Of course they want her dead too. She’s the reason Mickey is six feet under, but now the stalking makes sense. Their little smash-and-grab isn’t just about me; the Galicis needed us in close proximity to pull this off. Any farther away and we could have warned each other, or one of us might have gotten away.

“Understood,” I say.

“Good. Does the name Miceli La Rosa ring a bell?”

Enough bells to shatter the Sistine Chapel. “The head of the Commission?”

People enjoy the image of capo dei capi, a gangster powerful enough to keep entire families in line by sheer force of will, but in practice, it breeds resentment. When only one man can sit on the throne, the rest can’t dream of anything but what the crown would feel like resting on their head. Decades of war between bosses almost did the FBI’s work for them until they established the Commission. Like a board of directors—and as nakedly capitalist. No one inside family lines dies without their consent.

Disgust wrinkles Stefano’s nose. “She told you everything, didn’t she?”

Sofia isn’t my only source, but that’s beside the point. “I research my targets. You’re nowhere near as hard to find as you think you are. No one’s untouchable.”

“I’m counting on that.” Stefano glances down to check his watch. “Because I want him dead in three days.”

Who knew he had a sense of humor? “That’s impossible.”

“Then you die first,” Cesare snarls.

“I’m not refusing the offer,” I say, looking Stefano in the eyes. The more I ignore Cesare, the more riled he seems to get, which will be useful in a minute. “But I give a two-week window to all of my clients. I can cut that in half, but seventy-two hours isn’t long enough to kill anyone clean, much less a man like La Rosa. And I assume you want it clean.”

“Spotless,” Stefano confirms, eyes boring into mine. He’s searching for weakness, some hint of a lie, but right now, I have nothing to hide. “No one knows that it’s us. Or that it was foul play. Because if they catch on, I’ll point every capo in New York at the rat that killed Mickey Galici.”

Chances are he will anyway, but that’s a problem for the future. “Then give me a week. I can’t skimp on the groundwork.”

He looks back past Cesare to the two other mobsters—the oldest, specifically. Something passes between their eyes before the gray-haired one nods. Stefano isn’t the one running the show here; he’s second-in-command at best, with a personal investment to keep him loyal. The kind of man who would risk taking a shot at the top of the chain as some kind of vindication for what happened to his brother.

“A week,” Stefano confirms, eyes flickering back to mine. “But Sofia will be with us until he’s dead, so the longer it takes, the more ideas we might get.”

Anger gets the better of me, almost. Before the flame can grow, before every explosive instinct in my body can come to bear, cold calculation takes over. Malice, hard and shining as diamond, sharp enough to cut through anything. The sealed-off part of my mind that’s immune to pain but capable of unleashing every strain of depravity violence has to offer.

“I’ll kill him,” I say, calm and empty. In moments like this, the stitches of the world are obvious, points of division that part under my hands with the lightest pressure. “But we have to come to an understanding first.”

“About what?” Stefano asks.

Four on one is fair odds if my hands are uncuffed, but in this case, I need to earn their fear the only way I can. Even for those indebted to organized crime, certain threats are unthinkable, the behavior of an animal that should be shot.

Stefano thinks he’s caged me, so I look him in the eye, unblinking.

“If you threaten Sofia that way again, you’re going to wake up in a room one day with me and a knife and nothing else. I’m going to carve you into a screaming, helpless piece of flesh. Once you’re begging like your brother, I’ll cut you out of existence.”

Rage conquers Stefano’s face, hand tensing around his gun, but Cesare is the one I look to next, summoning a smile to my lips. “Nice wedding ring. You have kids?”

“Like I’d tell you,” he spits.

That’s a yes. “Well, I hope they don’t see what I’m going to do to your wife. It would ruin them forever. And they’ll know their father was a spineless deadbeat who couldn’t do the first thing to protect her.”

I have rules against collateral damage, but they don’t know that. Wounded ego does the work for me as Cesare lunges past Stefano and tries to wrap his hands around my throat. I push back against the seat and slam my knee up into his nose. Cartilage gives with a wet snap before I hook one arm around his head and turn the steering wheel, trapping him in a chokehold against the console. He gags, kicking and thrashing, but there’s nowhere to go with the cuffs around my wrists refusing to give.

“You motherfucker—” Cesare chokes out. “Stefano—”

The Colt is pointed at my head now, but with Cesare’s body blocking mine, there’s no guarantee his aim will be clean. “You’re making a big mistake.”

“What I’m making is a point.” My elbow turns inward, and Cesare convulses, pain warring with his need to breathe. The fact that Stefano hasn’t executed me is proof I’m too valuable to replace.

“You want La Rosa dead? Fine. He means nothing to me. But touch Sofia, hurt her, or happen to say something that offends her sensibilities, and every single one of you goes on my list. I don’t care what family you belong to or what friends you have. You’ll lose everything that matters to you.”

Cesare claws at my hip, trying to leverage himself up with the seatbelt, but there’s no strength left in his hands. Every breath he takes is starved and shallow, smaller and smaller bursts of air. I keep my eyes on Stefano, knowing he’s going to try to wait me out, but he has less than thirty seconds before Cesare goes from blackout to brain dead.

“Stefano,” the silver-haired man says. Every syllable is Sicilian thick, weighed down with command. “She is unimportant.”

“All right.” A sneer twists Stefano’s mouth before he lowers the gun. “Your point’s been made, Campbell.”

I loosen my grip nice and slow in case Cesare emerges from his fugue with a murderous jolt of adrenaline. He hawks up a gob of blood and bile on my trousers instead, which is pathetic but easier to deal with. My arm relaxes before I push him away from the driver’s seat, holding both hands open so Stefano has no excuse to shoot me on reflex.

Cesare clutches at his throat, bright red and crushed, but whatever curse he tries to spit at me comes out more like a gargle. His superior puts a hand at his back, equal parts comfort and leash, so I dismiss the threat he’s so eager to present and focus on Stefano instead.

“I get a call once a day.” My tone is clear, a statement of fact. “If Sofia doesn’t pick up, or I think she’s being forced to say anything, deal’s off. So I hope your men on the inside are paying very close attention.”

“They will be,” Stefano growls. “You’re a bold bastard.”

“Bold” isn’t the word I’d use. I just don’t like being fucked with. “I was minding my business until you crashed into my car. Digging up old corpses brings trouble for everybody.”

He hands his pistol to the last man, who has maintained his silence this whole time. A knot of scars along a wrinkled jugular is the likely culprit, but he holds the gun on me with a steady grip as Stefano takes out the key to my cuffs. Once they’re undone, I roll my wrists, restoring circulation with a rush of pins and needles.

My thirty-eight is tucked away in my jacket, but it’s of little use. I could overwhelm everyone outside the car soundly enough, but there’s no way to guarantee whoever is minding Sofia wouldn’t kill her before I made it through the door. Bullets bring heat, and any kind of police attention would destroy this deal anyway.

“Anything I need to know about La Rosa?” I ask.

“He’s the most protected man in the city,” Stefano says. “Lives in Ditmars on the water. How you get in there is your business.”

And the clock’s ticking. “Then I’m going to go ahead and make my phone call.”

Sofia’s number is on speed dial, but it takes half a dozen rings before the line actually connects. “Hello?”

They were smart to have her answer, although I imagine it’s under duress. “I’m right outside, Sofia. I’m going to take care of this.”

“Campbell, you don’t understand—”

“I do.” Revenge can wait. I have to be practical. “The Galicis want someone dead. This isn’t an execution, it’s a trade.”

“Fuck.” Wood scrapes tile; they must have her on a chair in the kitchen. “For who?”

I glance at Stefano, but he doesn’t seem disturbed by what I’ve said so far. No reason to hide the truth. “Miceli La Rosa.”

All the air leaves her lungs at once, punctured into a hiss. “Campbell, if you kill him, this entire city will go up in flames. There’s only one reason to kill the head of the Commission.”

Because the Galicis want to go to war and end up at the top of the heap. They’ll be ready the moment news of La Rosa’s death leaks, cutting down whoever is in their way before any kind of defense can be mounted. With the right ambush at the right time, power in the Five Families can flip upside down, putting the Galici clan in unambiguous control.

Guess their last board meeting must not have gone well.

“I don’t really care about that,” I admit. “Unless you’re telling me to say no.”

By the most stripped-down, self-directed logic, leaving Sofia to die is the best option. I could get away and find Justine, take us out of the city before anyone tied to Stefano figures out what’s happened to him and where I’ve gone. She would be upset, sure, but Justine wouldn’t fight if my life was on the line. Being on the Galici hit list complicates matters, but their reach is limited to a few select states and simple enough to avoid.

Six years ago, there wasn’t enough blackmail in the world to make me give a damn about another human being. Everyone was fodder, either irrelevant or in my sights as a target. My allegiance to Sofia began as pure convenience, a way to stay out of prison while building a new life from scratch. Her perceived loyalty to me was entertaining more than anything else.

I’m not sure when that changed. But if there’s a chance of being able to save her, the rest of the city can bleed.

“I’m sorry, Campbell,” Sofia whispers. “Say yes.”

“Okay.” The math is simple. A week is plenty of time for what I need to do. “I can call once a day. You’re not to be touched. Understand?”

“Who knew you were so chivalrous?” she jokes, and I’m glad to hear that absinthian humor back in her voice. “Don’t forget about Taormina.”

The isle where her mother lives, secreted away in Sicily. We made it our code word years ago, a signal to use in case the police were onto either one of us. “I won’t. Talk to you soon, Sofia.”

She sighs. “Good night.”

As the call ends, my phone buzzes with another notification—Justine. I harden my expression, willing every muscle not to move before putting the phone back into my pocket. As far as I can tell, Stefano and his crew don’t know anything about her, which might be my only saving grace.

I pick up the blood-spattered pictures, holding them up between two fingers. “Do I get to keep these?”

“Feel free,” Stefano says. “I still have the originals.”

Of course. I toss them on the passenger seat, and he closes the door for me with a hard slam. A few more chunks of glass fall into my lap. The whole car is going to have to be replaced, as are my clothes. Showing up at Justine’s parents’ place covered in gore wouldn’t make a good first impression.

Stefano slaps the roof of the car as I start the engine. “Happy hunting, Campbell.”