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“Someone tried to kill L’Uomo,” Mother blurts.
I stop as I grab the doorknob with my eyes wide in shock.
“I didn't want to tell you in the room. But someone is trying to kill your father,” she adds.
I turn to face her.
“How, Madre?”
“His meds were all mixed up and I found a few pills of fentanyl in them.”
“Who do you think got into his room?”
“I have no idea. I only stepped out for an hour to meet with Xander and discuss his delivery,” she answers.
“I’ll have more men come to the house to watch over him.”
“Hmmmn.”
Letting go of the doorknob, I walk back to her and kiss her on the forehead. “Take care of yourself, Madre.”
I leave my father’s house and slip into my car.
When I check my phone, I see five missed calls from Nick. We do business together in downtown New York City. I start the car and drive out of my father’s place. I make a quick dial back to inform him I’m on my way.
Nick is my only option right now to get my father the supply he needs. Unlike my mother, I have searched for reasonable alternatives to solving the supply problem instead of forcing myself to marry Adriana Gustavo, who I’m sure still hates me, by the way.
It’s a bit upsetting that she feels that way, though, given how I’m beginning to get fond of her. After all, her body is a sight to die for. Especially those damn titties and that fucking tight pussy I was first to devour.
Nick answers my call on the second ring. “I’m on my way.”
“Third Avenue. T’s warehouse. Hurry,” he replies, ending the call.
I dial Daniel’s number to inform him of the location but he doesn’t answer.
As I make a turn into Manhattan, I pull down the window, and I’m welcomed by Manhattan’s air. I can almost taste it.
The streets are busy with bars open and strippers lining the walk paths.
I drive through to Third Avenue, dialing Daniel’s number again. He picks up this time.
“Ale.”
“I came to meet Nick on Third Avenue. I hope I get the supply all sorted out.”
“Is it safe? You know how they can be over there.”
I look out the window, watching the men in black hoodies make an exchange. Could be drugs or guns.
“I can handle it.” I grab my gun from the car safe and slide it into the back of my jeans.
“Call me if anything goes wrong.”
I end the call and dial Nick’s number.
A stranger walks out of the brick warehouse with the placard “T’s ware.” The other letters are faded. He is in a tight black leather jacket with only a black singlet underneath and black pants. I pull up the window and walk out of my car—my father’s old red sedan.
“You must be Alessandro,” the stranger says. He is dark-skinned with a buzz cut.
