His: Tony (The Sabatini Family 2)

I blush all over again. “Yes, okay. Done.”

She hugs me so tight it’s hard to breathe for a moment. “I love you. Be careful.”

“Love you too. Thank you. For everything.”

“I want to tell you not to do it before I get back, but I don’t want you to lie to me. Be careful. You’re beautiful, strong, you deserve to walk away from this in one piece.” Her phone starts ringing. “I have to go.”

Once she’s gone, I pick up my phone and bring up the reading app she had shown me. I’m blushing at some of the covers alone. Read the day away and masturbate, talk about a plan. As I consider everything I learned today about Tony from Gertrude, I study the print of Water Lillies on the wall above the couch.

Woman with a Parasol is on the opposite wall behind the television that I never turn on. Both of the Monet prints were ones I’ve had forever. Summertime by Cassatt, is in my bedroom on one wall and one of the many haystacks by Monet is on another. There are several Renoir and Degas prints in the extra bedroom that’s basically storage. This two-flat is much smaller than the large house where I filled almost every room with a print of some kind.

Hearing Gertrude talk about Tony, made him...I don’t know, more real to me. A man who loved art as much as I did, an avid reader like I had once been. It was clear he was an escape artist, as my brother Jason called me for getting lost and escaping into books then later art. While I was reading, I was the brave, strong person in the book. There was a happy ending and the bad guy got it in the end. As I consider it, I can’t help wondering what would Tony Sabatini need to escape from?

***

Tony

“You’re telling me you think this is the best place to take the hit down?” I frown at how fucking open it is. There is no damn cover. The street is clean and busy even at almost ten-thirty at night on a Tuesday. Streetlights run all the way down the block. I’m in the backseat behind Vito who, as usual, is driving. Joseph is beside me, reading through the information on the hit.

“Yeah, he comes here for dinner then goes home from his second shift job. His wife has to be at work at five in the morning. She’s already in bed. He’s up for another two or three hours in front of the television, where he falls asleep most nights. It’s either here or at home. Getting him in the afternoon won’t work. He’s up at ten in the morning and doesn’t leave until right before his noon start time. He’s on the El, then takes the bus here, and walks the four blocks home.”

Considering my options, I let loose a curse.

“Boss, I’m telling you. I can take care of it. I’m good with it. There’s at least two cameras from here to his home. I don’t want you spotted on them. You’re too damn memorable. I know you prefer to be hands-on, but this is what I’m here for.”

I’m aware Vito and Joseph are often frustrated that after more than thirty years of them being with me, I remain hands-on.

It’s the way I was raised as a Sabatini. Our motto tattooed into our skin: It will be done. Leaving something to others, there was too much room for something to go wrong. In handling things ourselves, we could always guarantee we kept our word. If something went wrong, it started and ended with us.

“Take me to his place. What’s it look like outside? How hard is it to get into?”

Vito drives the short distance slowly. I eye the route for any nooks I could hide in. Nothing.

Joseph points it out. “His place is the blue two-flat. The lights stay off. His upstairs neighbor is quiet, a woman who keeps to herself. I wasn’t able to get her schedule. Last night after we got the order from Johnny, I drove by and her lights were out. They stayed off for the hour I sat here. With them off again, it’s likely she’s already asleep. It’s not hard to get into his place. The best way in is the backdoor. Simple jimmy of the lock, the wood is rotting away from the jam. No pets. The backdoor puts you in the kitchen and you pass their bedroom to get into the living room.”

Sounds good to me. “Park, Vito, up the street.” The black Cadillac Escalade we’re in will get attention in this neighborhood. While the area is in the middle of a rehab, and there are a few nicer cars—right now, the Escalade is memorable. Which is a bad thing.

Vito finds a spot halfway up the block between a ten-year-old red Camry and a shiny brand-new black Hyundai. Taking a deep breath, I consider my options. “Okay, let’s go over what Johnny gave us on this guy. Frank what’s his name, again?”

“Simpson, and he owes Johnny fifty large.” Joseph shows me the screen of his phone. On it, is a picture of a skinny guy who looks like he’s been up for days on a bender. Black hair, eyes, and a scar on his right cheek. I nod once I’ve committed his face to memory.

“He thought his dad dying would net him a payday, so he borrowed against it. There were two insurance policies, but only one of them worth twenty grand was paid up. The rat bastard is going CI on Johnny with the hope something he gives the feds will buy him a new life. Johnny’s contact in the FBI says the guy hasn’t given them shit, but what he has given them could get them a phone tap if they went in front of the right judge. The contact is pushing for them to get the wrong judge. The right one is due back from vacation in two days. We need to ice him now.”

“How clean does this hit need to be, is what I’m trying to figure out. Johnny said make it look like a robbery, get his wallet, and put a bullet in him. With all the traffic on the street and cameras, I can’t do it without someone seeing something. I’m thinking I need to get into his place and hit him there. With the wife there, I’ll need to use a silencer. Which screams it’s a hit.” Closing my eyes, I focus on slowing my breathing. Touch the ice, breathe it in, let it wash over you. Exhale cold. Inhale colder.

The alert is loud. I don’t open my eyes. Joseph sighs with relief. “Johnny says do whatever needs to be done to keep him from talking.”

Joseph hands me a silencer. I take it and pull out my Sig P226 from my ankle holster. Threading on the silencer, I eye the quiet street. It’s almost eleven now, most of the lights are off inside the houses. Taking off my suit jacket and tie, I hand them to Joseph.

“You’re wearing your bulletproof shirt, right?” Joseph asks, always looking out for me.

Nodding, I undo the top two buttons. Without the silk jacket, also bulletproof, I don’t stick out quite as much if someone were to glance my way. The shirt is dark blue and won’t catch the light. All my clothes are cut to fit—they have to be. Even if they weren’t made to be bulletproof, my measurements are not off the rack.

I take off my watch and hand it to Joseph. The gold Rolex attracts too much attention. I would have long ago gone with a less flashy watch, except it was a gift from Dominic—bought with his first big payday. Anytime I considered changing it out, I remembered his pride when he gave it to me and couldn’t bring myself to take it off.

“Boss, he should be leaving the restaurant now. It only takes him about ten minutes to get home.” Vito warns me as he hands me my leather gloves, made for me and always worn for hits like this.

“Give me fifteen,” I mutter as I get out of the car, putting on the gloves.