Deep (Pagano Family #4)(12)

When he cocked his head at her, conceding her point, she misread him and thought he was humoring her. “What, you want to arm wrestle?” She made a fist and flexed her bicep. Her muscle tone was obvious. And she had a tattoo on the inside of her right wrist—two feathers, light and delicate.

“No need.” He finished his ale. “I believe you.”

“Good.” She walked past him, around the dividing counter, and into his living room. “Your place is nice. Bigger than mine.” She gestured with her half-empty bottle toward the interior wall of glass, separating the living room from his office. “I like that—did you take the wall down, or was it an option when you bought?”

It was one thing to chat as a means to get a read on someone, but Nick had no use for purposeless chatter, and it seemed to him now that she was simply stalling. She wore her interest in him like a flashing red sign over her head. He was attracted, too, surprisingly so. He had two choices here: exploit that and f*ck her, or send her on her way.

Though he wanted to get his hands on those tits, that ass, he hadn’t cut ties with Vanessa yet, and cheating was some messy bullshit that he did not need in his life. He’d cleaned up many a mess for Pagano Brothers men whose wives and comares had crashed together. He had only a mistress, no wife, but he didn’t need the drama. And Beverly lived across the hall. That was drama with a bonus package.

So there was only one choice, then. “It’s time for you to go.”

Surprise was clear in the way she spun back to him. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t mean to overstay.” She was blushing again, and Nick had a moment of regret for his plain speaking.

“Finish your beer first.”

She handed him the bottle. “It’s India Pale Ale, remember? And I don’t like it that much. Okay, well, I’ll see you in the hallway, then.” She went to the front door, and he didn’t follow her to see her out—it was only about fifteen feet. As she opened the door she turned back and smiled. Still beautiful, but the light was a bit dimmer than earlier. “Good night, Nick. Thanks again for the help.”

“Good night, Beverly. You’re welcome.”

She left, and he finished her IPA. Then he picked up his glass of scotch and continued his evening as he’d expected. Alone.



oOo



Early the next afternoon, Jimmy parked Nick’s SUV along a broken curb on a weedy street near the Providence Harbor. Most of the lots had been taken over by slapdash commercial interests; the few residences left were little more than squats. The Paganos kept one of the old houses for a certain kind of work. They had other locations for similar work—storage lockers, a seemingly abandoned warehouse, an old barn. Nick chose the location based upon the subject.

He used to choose the location. Now, because he had refused to offer up any name but Brian Notaro’s as his replacement, and Ben had cleaved to tradition and refused to promote a half-blooded Italian, J.J. Nicci, Julie’s son, was capo in charge of enforcement and information. Nick thought it was a bad fit, not least because J.J. had no interrogation experience. He was a knee-capper, with no finesse. But Julie had fought hard for his son, and he’d hit the right chord with Don Pagano.

Nick was keeping tabs, because he thought the don had made a mistake.

J.J. had brought the subject here, and that was stupid. They were only blocks from the guy’s own turf.

Jimmy got out, buttoning his jacket as he walked around the car and opened Nick’s door. It was a small thing, but this was a way that extra security rubbed at Nick—not even opening his own door. He felt the restraint as if it were an actual leash. No point in bitching about it, however; it was necessary, and this location was unstable. He got out and buttoned his jacket, appreciating the weight of his Beretta under his arm. Brian was already out and getting a kit from the back of the SUV.

They had parked near the building. Nick scanned the area. A primer-grey van was parked on the lawn behind the house; he could just see the back end. It looked as though it might have been there for a long time.

“They’re set up already?”

Seeing the van, Brian nodded. “Looks that way, boss.” Nick didn’t like hearing Brian call him ‘boss.’ From anyone else, he’d expect it, but he and Brian went far back, to second grade at Christ the King School. Still, he was the boss, and Brian was only a soldier.

“Okay. Let’s see what J.J.’s got.”

In the middle of what was left of the living room, a short, morbidly obese man was tied to a metal folding chair. First mistake. Folding chairs folded, and bindings gave more easily.

He was naked—that was good. A naked man was easier to intimidate, easier to hurt, and less likely to flee if the opportunity presented itself. Shame was a powerful inhibitor.

He was gagged with a rag tied around his face—rookie move. As evidenced by the wordless ruckus the guy was making, a gag like that made a man only incomprehensible, not truly quiet. And this was supposed to be an interrogation. They needed him to talk. There were other ways than gags to keep a man quiet.

He was sweating profusely but not bruised or bleeding, so J.J. had waited for him. Good. This would be his hands-on training—for him and his crew. Nick set aside his frustration at his uncle for the mistake of making J.J., thirty-five years old and only five years made, a capo, especially to replace him.