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Romero winks at me. “You’re not the only one who uses Fucina. She was more than willing to look into this for me.”
My brow furrows at that. Genesis told me nothing about Romero asking for a favor.
“When was this?” I ask, my mind trying to put pieces together. Finally, my brain locks on when I called Genesis after Fee killed Jonah and she was irate that I was interrupting her. “Wait, did you fuck her? Wereyouher mystery guest a few weeks back?”
Romero at least has the decency to look a bit ashamed. “Guilty.”
I could fucking kill him. Not for fucking Genesis—I don’t care what Romero and Genesis do in their personal lives, but to not eventell mewhen I sent him to Chicago to get information?
“Focus, you two,” Jimbo says sharply. “Who gives a fuck about whether Romero was fucking Genesis? What kind of inconsistencies did you find, Romero?”
Romero leans forward, his voice low but his cheeks slightly pink. “The kind that could be explained by certain types of poison. The kind that mimics a heart attack.”
The room falls silent as we process this information. My mind is whirling, trying to connect the dots.
“We need to check out this restaurant,” I say finally, banishing thoughts of Genesis and Romero to the side for now. “See what else we can find out.”
Jimbo nods in agreement. “I’ll make some calls, see if we can get access to the security footage from that night.”
I’m already reaching for my phone. “Marco,” I bark as soon as he answers. “Get the car ready. Now. We’re going to Queens.”
We pullup to Mama Rosa’s, a cozy-looking Italian joint tucked between a laundromat and a bodega. The neon sign flickers, casting a red glow on the cracked sidewalk. The smells of garlic and tomato sauce waft through the air, mingling with the less pleasant odors of the city.
Romero nods toward the back alley. “Kitchen entrance. Chef should be prepping for dinner service now.”
I follow his lead, my hand resting on the gun concealed under my jacket. The alley reeks of garbage and stale grease, our footsteps echoing off the narrow walls.
Romero raps on the metal door. A moment later, a portly man in a stained apron appears, his face flushed from the kitchen heat. “We’re closed?—”
His words cut off as Romero shoves him back inside, me close behind. The kitchen is a cacophony of sizzling pans and clanging metal, the air thick with steam and spices.
“What the fuck?” the chef sputters, stumbling against a prep table laden with half-chopped vegetables.
I lock the door behind us, the click seeming to echo in the suddenly silent kitchen. “We just want to talk, Chef. About Antoni Timpone.”
The color drains from his face, his eyes darting between Romero and me. “I–I don’t know nothing about?—”
Romero’s fist connects with his stomach, doubling him over. The chef gasps for air, clutching at the edge of the table to keep from falling.
“Wrong answer, pal,” Romero growls, his eyes glinting with malice. “Try again.”
I watch, my jaw clenched, as Romero works the chef over. It doesn’t take long before he’s a blubbering mess, slumped against the industrial refrigerator.
“Okay, okay!” he gasps, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’ll tell you everything. Just… just stop, please.”
I step forward, my voice a near growl. “Start talking.”
The chef takes a shaky breath, his mustache quivering. “It was Gino. He… he told me to add something to his dad’s meals. Said it was some fancy seasoning, like saffron truffle powder or some shit.”
I can’t fucking believe what I’m hearing. “And you just did it? No questions asked?”
The chef’s eyes are wide with terror, darting between Romero and me. “He said it was a special thing, from a son to his dad! How was I supposed to know it was… was…”
“Poison?” Romero finishes, his voice dripping with disgust.
The chef nods miserably. “I swear, I had no idea. If I’d known…”
I exchange a look with Romero. This is worse than we thought.
