Then I put my concern for my younger brother aside. If he needs me, he’ll call. We reach out sparingly because no one we’re double-crossing on this case has any idea we’re brothers or business partners, but Ridge knows I’m here for him. I always have been, and I always will be.
Now, it’s time for me to take care of business, so I point Havana’s ride toward an old garage Ridge and I keep for our toys. I park her car safely and lock it inside, out of sight. Then I pick up some hardware, fold myself into a sleek black sedan with windows tinted every bit as dark as the law allows, and head toward the swanky end of town.
When I roll past Paul’s house, it’s dark inside. The sky is still inky black, and his Mercedes, which probably got scratched to shit last night, is parked out front.
According to Ridge, Paul Carboni is forever trying to get laid and always striking out. Probably because he’s a middle-aged fat fuck whose face looks like it’s been repeatedly slammed into a brick wall. So the likelihood that he’s alone right now is high.
But he’s a paranoid bastard. I won’t get in easily.
On the other hand, once this is done, I should be able to get out clean. Then I can finally tell Havana who and what I am so we can get on with our lives. I’ll have to rethink my future since it’s going to include her—and more children. I swore I’d never get married and do the whole kids and picket fence thing. But I’m more than down for that now. At least a version of it that works for us.
After I park at the end of the street and blend in with the shadows, I double back to Carboni’s house. I spot a newspaper out front. He still gets one delivered? How cute.
I sneak around the side of the ritzy bungalow, avoiding motion-activated lights and mounted cameras to peek in windows, getting a sense of the floor plan, potential entry points, and possible hiding places. A plan begins forming when a light flips on inside at the back of the house.
Shit.
Easing behind a hedge, I hug the fence as the slider to the patio opens. A fluffy gray poodle trots out, heading straight for a half-dead patch of grass in the desert landscaped backyard. Is that prancing little thing Paul’s dog? I pictured him with a pit bull.
The mobster stumbles out in a limp bathrobe with its belt flapping around his knees. He’s got one hand down his pale boxers, leaving his hairy belly hanging over the elastic, as he scratches his balls. After taking a long last drag, he lifts his cigarette away with his other hand while he watches the dog.
It walks in circles, flitting from one spot to the next. Finally, she squats to do her business, then yaps at Paul a few times before dashing back into the house. Paul puts his cigarette out in a flowerpot beside the door and steps back inside.
Time for me to make my move.
Before Carboni can shut the door behind him, I rush him and slam it closed. The dog barks, but I ignore her, hooking an arm around Paul’s neck, then pressing my Glock to the mobster’s temple.
He stiffens. “If you’re a burglar, you’re fucking with the wrong guy.”
“I’m not a burglar, Paulie. I’m a dead man—or at least you thought I was. But I’m going to return the favor and do it right. I want your last thought in this life to be that you fucking failed. And to know that, soon, you, Donzelli, and your whole operation will be nothing but dust.”
“What the fuck—”
In the precious time it takes him to spew those three words, I yank the tie free from the loops of his bathrobe, coil it around his neck, and pull back with all my strength. Immediately, he starts choking, flailing, and fighting. But I’m younger, in better shape, and absolutely determined. Sure, he’s got his survival instinct working for him. And yeah, it would be easier to simply shoot him, but a lot louder and messier and less satisfying. He’s done this and worse to scores of powerless victims. He should go out knowing how it feels to be tortured out of his very last breath.
He grabs at the tie, grunting and kicking as he tries to turn back to me. But I hold firm, twisting the tie tighter and tighter around his neck until his grunts turn to choking coughs. Even in the shadows I see him turning red. The dog continues yapping as Paul’s movements turn sluggish…then stop altogether as he slides to the floor. I tug one last time and hold the noose in place for another couple of minutes before I finally let go.