I can see nothing.
The red turns to green, and the car takes off, heading straight through the intersection. I stare at it as it does, seeing a Florida license plate.
Naz sits there for a second, until the car behind us blows the horn. The sound seems to jar him back to reality as he turns, facing straight ahead, and hits the gas, heading the direction of Brooklyn.
"What's wrong?" I ask again, my voice hesitant, when he says nothing by way of explanation for whatever just happened.
I need to know, though, if it involves my friend.
"Nothing," he says again, glancing my way. "Just thought I recognized the car."
It's a small, two story house in Bensonhurst, a neighborhood in the southern part of Brooklyn, not too far from where I live. Brick with pale pink trimming, it appears unassuming, bright and airy, surrounded by a white railing, the closest we get to a white picket fence around here. There's a small driveway right off the sidewalk, barely big enough for one car to fit.
And there it is.
The black BMW.
It wasn't hard to track down. One unannounced visit to Armando and not only did I have an address, but I was given directions right to it. It's amazing to me, the information a man can produce, when you stick a knife to his throat and threaten to slice if he doesn't tell you exactly what you want to hear.
I walk around the car, surveying it, before leaning back against the passenger door and crossing my arms over my chest.
I wait.
Ten minutes pass, then twenty, but it doesn't matter. Patience has always been a strong suit of mine. I'll stand here all day if I have to, but I know I won't.
He'll come out sometime.
It's been about thirty minutes when the front door to the house opens and out he waltzes. Lorenzo. Dressed down, in jeans and a black t-shirt, clutching an orange as he hums to himself. He looks up out of habit, glancing toward the car. His footsteps falter, a look of surprise passing across his face that he quickly straightens out.
I caught him off guard, but he's good at this game, because he didn't let it show for long.
Carefully, he steps off the porch and heads toward me, pausing on the other side of the white railing. Only a few feet separate us. I could reach him if I wanted to.
We both know that.
"Ignazio," he says, nodding in greeting. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm just curious what you're up to."
"Uh, checking the mail," he says, motioning toward the mailbox. "Thinking about what to eat for lunch."
"You know what I mean, Lorenzo. You blow into town and start making waves. You've got people nervous."
"You wouldn't be one of those people, would you?" he asks. "Nervous I might spill some of your secrets?"
"You don't worry me," I say. "I have no secrets left for you to spill."
He stares at me hard for a moment before his expression cracks and he laughs. "Right, right... so you want to know what I want, Ignazio?"
"Yes."
"I want the entire world," he says, "but I've decided to settle for New York."
He says that like it's just that simple, like all of New York can just be his if he wants it. That's not how this works, though.
"That won't be easy," I say. "You'll find resistance here."
"So I've learned," he says. "It's curious, though, considering I haven't gone after any of their territory. Everything I've done has been fair game."
He's right, technically. He's done nothing but take over Ray's old stomping grounds, places that were ripe for the picking. Anybody could've claimed them. He's messed with nobody except Ray's men.
"You planning to stop there?" I ask.
"Of course not," he says.
I'm not surprised by that answer.
I can only imagine what he's planning.
"It's a problem, because they don't like outsiders. You're a stranger to them."
"Maybe you should vouch for me, then."
"I'm afraid that's not happening."
Not now.
Not ever.
I won't vouch for anybody.
Not anymore.
Because once upon a time, I made a grave mistake and vouched for a man that I thought was my best friend. A few months later, he paid me back for that gesture with a shotgun blast to the chest.
"Didn't think it would," he says. "I can't even get you to admit to yourself that we're friends."
I ignore that.
I'm not going to be goaded into that conversation.
There's movement in the house behind him, something dropping in the front room, a curtain shifting. It's just a brief flicker as a face appears before vanishing again. Lorenzo glances that way, frowning, before turning back to me.
He nods his head toward the house. "You remember Leo?"
I do, but I don't. I never knew his name. Never cared to learn it. They called him Pretty Boy back then. He was nothing more than a whiny little toddler the last time I saw him.
Lorenzo's little brother.
They shared a mother.
"Somewhat," I admit. "He's grown a bit."
"Yeah, a bit. He's still a pretty boy, though. He's soft. This life... his heart ain't in it like mine is."
"If that's true, why's he here?"
"Because I'm all he's got," Lorenzo says.
That's the only explanation he gives me.
It's probably the only explanation he's got.
I'm not sure if it's enough, though, not in this situation. Because he's tangled up in something dangerous and he's getting too damn close to my personal life.
I don't like it.
He's dragging me back in.
"Look, I'm only going to tell you this once," I say, pushing away from the car, taking a step toward the railing. I'm already tired of this conversation. It's exhausting. "If my wife gets hurt in any way, I'll kill you, and I can promise it won't be merciful."
He knows I mean it. He's seen me do it before. He stood beside me, in his stepfather's home, and watched as I took the man's life without an ounce of sympathy or remorse.
He nods. "Understood."
"Good."
I start to turn, to leave, until his voice stalls me.
"But I've already told you, Ignazio... I have nothing against you, no reason to target you, no reason to hurt this wife of yours."