Page 45 of Cardinal House

“He ferries around a suit,” the barman says, grabbing a cloth and absently wiping down the polished wood.

“Contractor?” Thorne queries.

“Solicitor,” he rests his hands on the bar, palms flat, fingers splayed. “One of Vito’s personal legal team.”

“And this Carlo, he drives the man when?” Hunter asks, but the man keeps his eyes on Thorne, and my brother, he just lifts one dark brow and the barman sighs, rolling his eyes.

“When Vito calls legal meetings.”

Thorne nods, tapping the wood of the bar with two fingers, and then he slides off of the stool, throws down a crisp twenty and turns away. His obsidian eyes scan everyone in the room as we head back out of the doors we entered through. And I know when he sees Carlo Costa because he blinks, just once, shuttering those frightening black eyes, and then we’re all back inside the car.

Waiting for Carlo Costa to make his grand exit.

Chapter 20

Wolf

Carlo Costa is a simple man, with a normal wife, a well paid job consisting of ferrying important men to and from discretely chosen venues. Which is probably why he doesn’t expect someone like me, an unholy monster, to be in his back seat on a normal weekday evening.

I cut off his scream with a simple slap of my hand across his mouth, oh, and my other arm barred across his throat, but it stops him from making a fuss, something I’m not particularly in the mood for.

“Settle down,” I grunt into his ear, applying pressure to his windpipe with my tensed forearm. “I just want to ask you a couple of questions, and I’ll let you get on your way home to your wife, Suzie.” He whimpers, his nostrils flaring wide as he sucks in panicked breaths, both of us watching each other in the rearview mirror, his eyes wide, mine almost drowsy looking, I’ve been sitting in this car quite a long time. “I’ll let you go now, but only if you promise not to scream.” He mumbles beneath my hand, attempting to nod his head, I think, but I squeeze his throat just a little harder once more before I release him completely.

And just as I predicted, he grasps the handle of the door, thrusting it open before it comes ricocheting back towards him, bouncing off of my younger brother.

“Jesus, fuck, you shithead,” Hunter snarls, booting the door closed in temper on the guy’s foot that he threw out of the gap in his haste to escape.

“Ahh!” Carlo cries out, snatching his foot back inside the car and gripping onto it tightly.

Me, I just lean back in the centre back seat, stretch my arms across the length of it and wait. Once he’s finished snivelling, which to be fair to the guy isn’t overly long, he sniffs hard, his breath catching, and then his eyes come back to mine in the rearview mirror.

“What do you want?” his voice trembles, and I smile at him, this manic sort of psychotic, snarling, grin.

“You drive for Vittorio Gambino,” I state factually, cocking my head. “More specifically, you drive around one of his solicitors.”

“Look, Vito would kill me if I told you anything, and I don’t know anything! I don’t ever get the drop off addresses for meetings until the hour of!” He panics, sweat running down his temples, his dark hair sticking up in all sorts of directions as he shoves his clammy hands through it.

“Mm, well, you see, Mr Costa, it must just be your lucky day, sir, because all I want is the address for the solicitor with the surname Beaumont.”

“I- I see,” he stutters, one of his hands moving towards his suit jacket.

I cluck my tongue sharply before reaching forward and slamming his face into the dashboard, “Hands where I can see ‘em, shit for brains.”

“Ahh!” he cries out again, “I was just going to retrieve a handkerchief!”

“Don’t care, you’re lucky I didn’t fucking shoot you.” Carlo quivers, still staring at me in the reflection of the mirror as he cups his bloody nose. “Both hands on the dash, Costa.” His hands fly up, splaying over the dashboard. “Now,” I start, but he interrupts me before I can finish.

“Yes, yes!” he squeaks pathetically. “I know the address! Big money house up in Oakwood. Huge, pillared thing, peeling paint, rusty railings. I can give you the address!”

“I want his full name too,” I tell him, reaching forward with a notepad and pen.

“Yes, o-of course!”

“And the woman who lives there, what of her?” I ask numbly, trying to remain detached.

“What?” he trembles, staring at me hard in the mirror.

“The young woman, you collected her from the hospital only a couple of weeks ago, surely your memory is not so poor that you are unable to remember her?”