And neither would Corrado, for that matter.
“There’s a big shipment coming in by boat in a few days,” Sal had said about a week ago. “They’ll load it onto trucks then leave. The trucks will stay parked there, just sitting there all night, begging to be stolen. A crew comes in and takes their pick. Easiest job there is.”
Carmine had blown it off at the time, figuring it had nothing to do with him. He hadn’t been integrated into their hierarchy, hadn’t been put into a street crew or assigned a Capo. Since the moment he had arrived, Sal had just used him for odd jobs, taking him wherever he went and involving him in his personal schemes, but this was different. This simple message—The docks, Third and Wilson—changed everything.
This wasn’t just Carmine being dragged into other people’s messes—this was him creating the mess. He was no longer the accessory after the fact. He was about to be the goddamn perpetrator.
Pulling a chilled bottle of vodka from his otherwise empty freezer, Carmine tore the top off and took a long swig, letting the burn make its way through his system. Liquid courage, people called it, but he was starting to think of it as Stupid Shit Serum. Grey Goose got him through quite a few rough nights since arriving in Chicago, giving him the strength to do things he was certain only an idiot would truly enjoy doing.
Tonight, he ventured to guess, would be one of those times.
He grabbed his gun from the top of the kitchen cabinet where he stored it and slipped it into the waistband of his jeans before leaving the house. His brand new Mercedes was parked in the driveway, shining under the gleam of the streetlight. He had leased it a week before, the same night he had had the conversation with Sal.
Carmine slid into the driver’s seat, taking a deep breath before starting the car. The drive through town was quick—too motherfucking quick—and he pulled up at the docks just a few minutes later. It was dark there, barely lit by moonlight, but he could make out the rows of white delivery trucks parked behind a flimsy chain-link fence. The gate was secured with a chain and lock, but there was no sign of any security beyond that.
Carmine parked and surveyed the trucks, unsure of what to do or where to start. There had been no planning, no instructions, no explanations, but he knew without a doubt there were expectations. And if he didn’t deliver, he would be the one to pay.
He climbed out of the car and started toward the gate when a car wildly whipped from behind a nearby building, sending gravel flying as it headed for him. The headlights were blacked out. Through the darkness, Carmine couldn’t see who was driving.
Jumping back, his heart thumped violently against his rib cage as fear coursed through his body, fueled by strong adrenaline. He reached for his gun, terrified, as the car came to a sudden halt and the doors flew open. Two guys jumped out, one from the passenger seat and one from the back. The doors had barely closed again when the car was thrown into reverse, skidding backward before speeding away.
It happened fast, mere seconds passing before the two guys approached. Carmine had his gun by his side, his finger hovering on the trigger, when a voice cut through the night. “DeMarco? That you?”
Carmine loosened his grip on the gun, his shoulders relaxing a bit. “Remy?”
Remy Tarullo stepped out of the shadows and into a sliver of moonlight. He was dressed all in black, a ski mask loosely sitting on his head. “Hey, man! Good to see you again! Mr. Moretti said they were gonna be sending you out, you know, having you join the crew. Told us to show you the ropes.”
Relief washed through Carmine, rinsing away his unnerving fear. He slipped his gun back away. “My uncle sent you?”
“Yeah. He’s our Capo, you know . . . guess he’s yours now, too.” Grinning, Remy slapped him on the back. “You aren’t nervous, are you?”
“No, I just . . .” He didn’t know what to say. He was nervous, but he couldn’t admit that. “. . . I figure it’s better to not go at it alone.”
“I get it,” Remy said, pulling out a pair of gloves from his back pocket and slipping them on. He pulled his mask down, covering his face, before reaching into his coat for an extra set of both. He tossed them to Carmine, who put them on as Remy’s friend did the same. “You don’t happen to have any bolt cutters in your car, do you?”
“Uh, no,” Carmine said, slipping the ski mask over his face. He suddenly felt short of breath, suffocated by the thick material. “I didn’t realize I’d need any.”
Remy shook his head slightly. “You really did come unprepared.”
Understatement of the fucking year, Carmine thought. “Can’t say I’ve ever stolen anything.”
“No big deal,” Remy said. “You probably never had to, being a DeMarco and all. You even get to shadow the Boss all the time . . . man, you don’t know how many of us would kill for that chance.”
There was no hostility to Remy’s voice, but the words made Carmine’s hair bristle. He didn’t doubt there were people out there who would kill him if they thought it might get them closer to the top.
Remy looked around briefly, as if searching for something, before pulling some small tools out of his back pocket. He jogged over to the fence, easily and methodically picking the single lock. He ripped the chain off before shoving the gate open, him and the other guy running inside. Carmine was right on their heels, dashing inside the lot behind them.
“Split up,” Remy ordered, waving at the two of them. “Check those trucks and tell me what you find. Make it quick.”
The men scattered to different sides of the lot, gunshots cutting through the night air as they shot off the locks on the back of the trucks. Carmine followed their lead, pulling out his gun and aiming it. He winced when he fired his first shot, his hand shaking and throwing off his aim. He had to shoot it three times before he hit his mark, hearing shouts through the lot as the men shared their loot.
Carmine flung open the back of his first truck, squinting in the darkness to read the boxes. “Uh, laptops.”
“Try the next one,” Remy ordered. “Too risky. A lot of them can be traced.”
Carmine moved on to the second truck, getting the back of it open with the first shot. “TVs.”
“Hot-wire it.”