Page 74 of Deceitful Oath
When I finally get to his floor, I double-check my weapon and head down the hallway, keeping it at my side. I’m not taking any chances with this—not when I finally have something to live for. I pause in front of his door, listening for movement or sound inside.
Hearing nothing, I knock and wait. The seconds tick by at a snail’s pace as my heartbeat grows more frantic. He could be faking me out, waiting and hiding until I leave. I try the handleto find it locked. I glance left, then right, and line my gun up with the lock.
Counting to three, I shoot, blowing the handle off the door and thanking my silencer for keeping me somewhat inconspicuous. The door swings open when I nudge it with my foot, and I wait, my body rigid, adrenaline pumping through my veins.
Silence. Nothing but silence.
I wander into the entryway, squinting in the darkness. The moon hangs high in the sky, letting in a stream of soft light across the living room.
I press myself against the wall, sticking to the shadows, and canvas the apartment. When I find no trace of Vince, I sigh and tuck my gun away, knowing he’s already one step ahead of me.
I circle back to his office and rifle through his documents and drawers. Nothing incriminating turns up, so I head back to my car.
“I need reinforcements,” I mutter to myself, lighting up a cigarette as I slump in the driver’s seat. I smoke it slowly, savoring the way it gives me a heady rush and reduces the noise in my head. Pulling out my phone, I scroll through my contacts, trying to figure out who to call.
Although I rarely agree with their old-school tactics, my uncles Joe and Rocco are my first choice.My father’s brothers wouldn’t betray their own blood, I reason. I throw them into a conference call and explain the situation. They’re rightfully shocked and thirsty for revenge.
We agree to meet in a small dingy wine bar in Little Italy to discuss our plan of action. Twenty minutes later, I pull around to the back of Lita’s Lounge and park in the shadows.
Steve, the grizzled security guard at the back door waves me in. Lita’s is neutral ground in the mafia world in this city, offering private backrooms and staff who understand that looselips sink ships. I’ve never felt more like a real mafia don than in this moment.
My uncles are already sipping whiskey in one of the backrooms when I arrive. I slide into a seat and drop my head into my hands.
“Here you go, kid,” Joe says, sliding a glass toward me. I shoot back the amber liquid, relishing the burn, and slam it down on the table.
“What the hell are we going to do?” I mutter, lighting another cigarette. Uncle Rocco reaches out and swipes it from my mouth, snapping it in half.
“Dangerous for your health,” he shrugs when I shoot him a death stare. I watch pointedly as he shoots another glass of whiskey and shake my head at him.
“Enzo sent me a list of Vince’s most frequented spots around the city,” I start, trying to make my brain work. “As well as a few of Mancini’s safehouses. I think we should split up and check those first. If you find him, I want him alive.”
“And if we don’t?”
“We will,” I assure them. “He can’t run from me forever.”
“You think he killed your father?” Rocco asks suddenly.
“Maybe he did it when he prepared your father’s coffee,” Joe volunteers, pouring me another drink.
“What?” I grind out, my teeth gritted in rage.
“He always prepared your father’s coffee,” Joe confirms. “You didn’t notice? He added sugar and milk the way Dominic liked.”
“We always thought it was about respect,” Rocco muses. “But you might be onto something there.”
Why hadn’t I noticed? I had lunch with the two of them a million times.
I groan in frustration and smack my fist on the table, sending the glasses skittering across the lacquered wood. My phone buzzes, and I snatch it up to read Enzo’s message.
>>Got a lead. He’s on camera entering Woody’s Bar and Grill two hours ago. No footage of him leaving. Not sure what happened to him.
I spring up from my seat, tossing some cash down on the table to cover our bill and walk out of the room. Joe and Rocco hurry out behind me, stomping down the dimly lit hallway to keep up. We burst out the back door, and I bark out directions, climbing into my car.
I nearly run two traffic lights speeding to Woody’s, Joe and Rocco hot on my tail. We get across town in record time and slip through the back door. Vince is nowhere to be seen.
“Fuck,” I growl, punching the metal emergency door open and stepping into the cool night again.
We spend hours following dead-end leads and scouring every place Vince might have gone but come up with nothing.