“She’s not sure,” I mumbled under my breath. “Not sure? How the fuck can she not be sure?”
In my opinion, we were magic in bed, and didn’t drive each other completely crazy. That was at least two up on most couples who were already married. Her wishy-washy response had cut me right to the quick. I think I almost would have preferred a hard rejection. Then I could have tried to change her mind.
Under the circumstances, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to push her in the wrong direction.
I froze as a black sedan rolled by. The Loggias, coming to finish the job they failed to do in that alleyway?
I thrust my hands into my pockets, feeling for the safeties and taking them off. I didn’t draw, though. I hated to ruin a good jacket, but I was willing to shoot through the pockets if I had to.
The car drew nearer. A glare cast across the windshield kept the occupants hidden. It slowed. I aimed the guns and curled my fingers around the triggers—
The window rolled down, and an elderly man stuck his head out. “Is this the way to Wrigley?”
I almost fainted with relief. After a long, relieved laugh—which drew a strange stare from the older guy—I gave him the directions and berated myself for being jumpy.
I mean, just because people are trying to kill me is no reason to be jumpy, right?
The cold got to me and I popped into one of those giant bookstores what sold coffee. I considered getting a present for Sophie, then remembered her last words to me. Well, if she wasn’t sure how she felt, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to get her a present.
I sat down at the counter and dumped four packets of sugar into the steaming black mug. Shit, I hate that pretentious dark roast crap. Dark roast means burnt as far as I’m concerned.
As I swirled a swizzle stick around and added a dab of cream, my cell rang. You might think being a mobster would mean immunity to robocalls. You can think again. I set up my phone so any unknown number has the most annoying ringtone.
The barista kind of glared at me as it went off, continuously, but I didn’t give a fuck. It ended soon enough.
Only to ring again.
“God damn it.” I dug the phone out and stared at the number. Chicago area code, but I didn’t recognize it otherwise. I almost didn’t answer, but some part of me figured maybe it was Sophie, and maybe she was in trouble. I reached to tap the green icon, but the barista reared his man-bunned head once again.
“Excuse me, sir, but we don’t allow phone use here at the café.”
I cocked an eyebrow at him. By ‘café’ he meant the ten-foot section of bar I sat at with a grand total of five stools.
“Is that right?” I said, and pointedly pushed the button to accept the call.
“Hey!” Man Bun put his hands on his skinny-jean-clad hips and I turned my stool around so his indignation wouldn’t distract me.
“Indro here, what you want?”
“Indro Lastra?”
Oh Christ, it IS a sales call.
“Look, buddy, I don’t want your bullshit, just take me off your damn telemarketer list—”
“Don’t hang up, please. It’s me, Marco Loggia.”
I sat up straight. “Quit fucking with me. Who is this really?”
“I’m the guy who spotted you in the alley offing Diego.”
“Bullshit.”
“You used a switchblade with a skull pommel.”
My blood froze in my veins. “The fuck you calling me for?”
“My witsec guards turned on me. They tried to kill me in my sleep.”
“Bullshit. Then why are you still alive?”
“Because I’m a paranoid son of a bitch. I stuffed my pillows in my sheets and slept in the bathtub. Of course, it was you I thought was going to try and off me, but…”
“And now you’re asking me to save you, right? You think I’m dumb enough to fall for this shit?”
“Come on, man. If you help me out, I’ll recant my witness statement. I’ll do whatever you want.”
I figured it was probably a trap. Hell, I was damn near positive. But I couldn’t pass up a chance to clear my name.
“Fine. Where are you at, Loggia? I’ll come pick you up.”
“I’m in the Stuckey’s in Hyde Park.”
“All right,” I said, standing up. “I’m on my way. Stay where people can see you, and for fuck’s sake, don’t leave.”
“Just hurry, please.”
I stuffed my phone in my pocket and turned around to find Man Bun glaring at me.
“You just bought yourself a lifetime ban from this establishment,” he said firmly.
I stared at him with a puzzled frown. “What’s that on your face?”
“What?”
I threw my cup of coffee in his bearded face and left him sputtering. I had bigger fish to fry.
And if it turned out to be a trap, well… I had the Berettas, after all.
Chapter Forty-Three
Indro
Tiny white flakes pelted my face as I hoofed it to the Hyde Park Stuckey’s. I had a feeling I didn’t want to bring my own car to pick up Marco, AKA Father Gilberti. As usual, I wound up being right.
I spotted the undercover cops from all the way down the block. Picture a clean-shaven, straight-laced public servant, your typical cop. Now throw all that out the window. Undercover boys look like shit. Beard stubble, long, greasy hair, clothes several years out of date. The two men sitting behind the wheel of a black 2017 Nissan certainly fit the bill of undercover cops. Even if they hadn’t been laser focused on the greasy spoon, I’d have known them for what they were.
That alone lent credence to Marco’s story. If the cops wanted to collect him, they’d have used uniformed boys. Undercover meant they didn’t want him to make it to another dawn. That meant they might have been looking for me, too.
Nothing for it but to walk right in the front door. I pushed the metal handle, which groaned with the cold
