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I grip his wrist and force him to shake my hand instead. “Corrado Mancini.” I introduce myself and watch for his reaction.
The widening of his eyes tells me this man had no idea who he was dealing with when he junked the car. If I were Franko Monelli, I’d tell nobody whose car that was, for nobody in their right mind would destroy a car that belongs to a founding family.
Actually, if I were Monelli, I wouldn’t mess with my wife’s car at all.
“Mr. Mancini,” the man stammers. “What can I do for you?”
“Corrado,” Michela says from behind the man. I hear her walking over gravel. She reaches us, and I release the man’s hand. My gaze bores a hole in the middle of his forehead. He gets the message that I want him to behave.
“What are you doing here?” she asks as she comes to stand next to me.
“Getting your car as we agreed. Remember our agreement?” When she doesn’t answer, I cut her a gaze. “Well?”
“I remember.”
“So what are you doing here retrieving the car?”
“I didn’t think you’d find it. The towing company moved it here, and this guy”—she pauses and points at the man as if we’re preschoolers on the playground, and she came to me to complain about another boy stealing her doll—“junked it.” She tugs my sleeve, then points at the top of the pile at a white metal mess attached to four wheels.
As we watch, a wheel becomes dislodged and tumbles down the car tower. It rolls away from us, and Michela stares after it, looking defeated.
I turn to the man. “This here is my wife,” I tell him. As his face pales and he swallows, knowing his life hangs in the balance, I continue. “There’s a man in the front waiting for me. On your way out, you will tell him everything you know about how her car arrived on your lot.”
“I can’t say anything.”
I smirk. “I know you can’t.” The price of ratting out Franko is his life, but that’s the price one pays for dealing with men like Franko. The Monellis throw people under the bus and use up their resources like parasites. This is why the Order’s getting rid of them. “Get going.”
The man runs off, and I throw my arm around Michela’s shoulder and squeeze.
“Come on.” I start moving. “You’re a New Yorker. You’ll tough it out.”
She sighs. “I really needed that car.”
“The car is where it belongs.”
“You are such an asshole.”
I throw my head back and laugh. “Baby, that’s my bright side.”
11
BOOM!
MICHELA
Yesterday, I lost the only semi-steady job I had, and today, I lost my car. But hey, I gained an acquaintance with a man who, despite witnessing my distress over the car, walks with a bounce in his step. When he loops his arm around my shoulders, I shrug it off.
Amused, he chuckles.
“I’m glad someone finds humor in this,” I say under my breath as we walk past the gates where the pair of Dobermans bark their heads off.
At the sleek black car, Corrado’s driver awaits. He opens the door.
“You remember Hank?” Corrado asks me.
I nod. “Good morning, Hank.”
“Morning, Ms. Mancini.”
