Nobody wanted to do business with the Salamander.
“The guy who owns the casino grew up in Manhattan,” the Capo explained. “He’s under protection. We can’t funnel money through there without approval, and they ain’t giving it. Not to you.”
“Make them,” Sal said. “Don’t let them say no.”
“Start another war? Over a casino?”
Sal shook his head, taking a small swig from his glass. “It’s principle.”
“It’s suicide.”
A dry, unmistakable laugh cut through the room. Corrado turned his head to where Carlo stood, casually leaning against the wall. “Since when are we cowards? We don’t back down or ask for permission. We take what we want.”
Sal nodded. “I’m glad someone here gets it.”
“Of course,” Carlo said. “And don’t worry about it, Boss. You need their cooperation? I’ll get it. I have ways. You know these kind of deals are my specialty.”
A sinister smile twisted Sal’s mouth. “I know I can count on you.”
Murmurs filtered through the room in waves, but Corrado remained silent, waiting until Sal dismissed them with a flippant wave of the hand. He stood up, nodding to the boss before heading out of the mansion.
Corrado drove straight home, finding his house dark and quiet. There was no sign of Celia anywhere, and for once, Corrado was grateful to return to an empty home. He packed a bag, not even bothering to turn on a light, and scribbled a quick note to his wife.
Don’t wait up for me.
Celia wouldn’t. She didn’t anymore. She knew if he hadn’t arrived by a certain hour, he likely wouldn’t make it home that night, so she would go to bed with nothing but hope in her heart that she would see him the next day—alive and well and about as whole as a man like him could possibly be.
* * *
Corrado headed to the airport that night, buying a ticket on a red-eye flight to Washington, D.C. His plane landed close to dawn and he rented a car, driving to a small diner on the other side of Arlington, Virginia. He had been there twice before, years ago, in the company of the man he was looking for that morning.
The quaint diner was fairly empty at that early hour, all of the booths vacant, with a few customers scattered along the stools around the bar. A bell above the door chimed when Corrado walked inside, everyone casually turning to look at him except for the one he was there to see. Corrado slid onto the stool beside him, their elbows ever so slightly brushing. The man tensed, a cup of coffee halfway to his lips, as his eyes slid toward Corrado.
Corrado tipped his head slightly in greeting. “Senator Brolin.”
“Uh, Mr. Moretti.” He set his cup down before glancing behind him, cautiously surveying their surroundings. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to speak to you,” Corrado said.
“How did you know where to find me?”
Corrado shook his head as he peered at the man. “You come here every morning for coffee, two creams but no sugar, and a wheat bagel with a bit of strawberry cream cheese before heading into the city for work.”
Shock registered on the man’s face. “How . . . ?”
“Oh, give me some credit, Senator. You think I don’t do my homework?”
Senator Cain Brolin hailed straight from New York City, born and raised near Hell’s Kitchen in Manhattan. He hung with the wrong crowd growing up, had befriended some unlikely men before running for office, and it was through those men that he had crossed Corrado’s path. He, along with another senator from Illinois, had been involved in a labor scheme years before with the New York and Chicago families, rigging bids on government construction sites so Mafia-controlled companies got the jobs for a hefty profit.
They still did it, as far as Corrado knew, but Salvatore had been cut out of the scheme long before, deemed too much of a risk.
A waitress walked up before Senator Brolin had a chance to respond, interrupting their conversation. “What can I get you, dear? Coffee?”
Corrado shook his head. “Just water. I—”
“He doesn’t drink coffee,” Senator Brolin said. “It upsets his stomach.”
Corrado stared at the man as the waitress walked away. “I see I’m not the only one who pays attention.”