The Steel Kiss (Lincoln Rhyme 12)

Definitely not one of native son Al Capone, though.

A shadow over him and Nick rose.

"Vittorio Gera." A thick man, both olive-skinned and ill-colored at the same time. His suit was one size too big and Nick wondered if the reason the restaurant was on the block was his poor health. Probably. The perfect hair, gray, was a piece.

"Nick Carelli."

"Italian. Where's the family from?"

"Flatbush."

"Ha!"

Nick added, "Long time ago, Bologna."

"We've got Italian on the menu."

"The lasagna's good, I hear."

"It is." Gera sat. "But have you ever had bad lasagna?"

Nick smiled.

The waitress brought the coffee. "Anything for you?" she asked Gera.

"No, I'm fine, Hannah. Thank you." She turned and left.

The man brought his weathered hands together and lowered his head. "So, I'm Vito."

"Well, Vito, I'm interested in your place. Very interested."

"You ever done restaurants?"

"Eaten in them. All my life."

Well, most of my life...

The large man laughed. "They're not for everybody."

"It's the sort of thing I'd like to do. Always have. A neighborhood place, you know. People can hang out here. Friendly. Socialize. And whatever happens to the economy, people still have to eat."

"That's all true. But hard work. Hard work." Looking him over. "Though you don't seem to be the sort of man who's afraid of work."

"No, I'm not. Now, I've gotten the deal sheet from my lawyer and I've looked it over. Seems good. And the asking price? I've got some money I inherited from my mother when she passed--"

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you. And I'm talking to a couple of banks. Now, we're in the ballpark. About the price. A little horse trading and I'm sure we can c

ome to an agreement."

"Sure--you pay what I'm asking and it's an agreement." The man was sort-of joking, sort-of not. This was business.

Nick leaned back and said confidently, "Before we go any further I have to tell you something."

"Sure."

"I'm an ex-con."