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I stand, pacing the room. “Plans can go wrong, Jimbo. Gino wants the Fucina, so he’s probably expecting counterfeit documents. And if they do go wrong, Fee and Lou are the ones who’ll pay the price.”
“All the more reason to get them out of harm’s way,” Jimbo insists.
I stop, staring out the window. “You’re right. I just… I hate the thought of their being away.”
Jimbo’s voice softens. “I know, Angelo. But sometimes, to protect what we love, we have to let it go for a while.”
I turn, meeting his eyes. “When did you get so philosophical?”
He grins. “I have hidden depths.”
We share a chuckle, the tension easing slightly.
“Come on,” I say, grabbing my jacket. “We need to pick up Romero at the airport.”
The airport is a chaos of noise and movement, people rushing to and fro, the constant chatter of announcements over the PA system. I scan the crowd, looking for Romero’s familiar face.
“There.” Jimbo points.
I spot Romero making his way toward us, his face impassive. Whatever news he’s bringing from Chicago, I can’t tell if it’ll be good or bad.
As he reaches us, I clap him on the shoulder. “Welcome back. How was it?”
Romero’s eyes dart around the crowded terminal. “Not here. We need to talk somewhere private.”
Jimbo and I exchange a glance before we head out of the airport and flag Marco down. Once we’re in the car, we speed off out of JFK.
Romero leans forward, tapping Marco on the shoulder. “Take me to the greasiest, most authentic pizza joint in NYC. I’m dying here.”
I raise an eyebrow while Jimbo laughs. “Couldn’t get decent pizza in Chicago?”
Romero’s face contorts in disgust. “That abomination they call pizza? It’s a fucking casserole masquerading as a pie. Howcan they even call it pizza when you need a goddamn fork and knife to eat it?”
Despite the tension, I can’t help but chuckle. “Come on, it can’t be that bad.”
“Oh, it is,” Romero insists. “I swear, if I never see another ‘deep dish’ in my life, it’ll be too soon.”
I shake my head, amused by his pizza-induced rant. But we’ve got more pressing matters to discuss.
“Alright, pizza connoisseur,” Jimbo calls out from the front seat. “What did you learn in Chicago?”
Romero’s face turns serious for a moment, then he groans dramatically. “Boss, I’m begging you. Let me get some real food in me first. I’m fucking starving, and this news… trust me, you’ll want me well-fed before I drop this bomb.”
I sigh, recognizing the stubborn set of his jaw. “Fine. Marco, you heard the man. Find us some pizza.”
Leave it to Romero to prioritize his stomach over urgent business. But I’ve known him long enough to recognize when he’s stalling. Whatever he learned in Chicago must be serious.
We’re back at my place, the smell of pizza still clinging to Romero as he settles into an armchair. Jimbo and I exchange glances, both of us on edge.
“Alright, Romero,” I say, leaning forward. “You’ve had your pizza. Now spill.”
Romero takes a deep breath. “Well, I’ve got good news and… more good news, actually.”
Jimbo’s bushy eyebrows shoot up. “That’s a goddamn first. What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” Romero says, a grin spreading across his face. “Turns out, the Irish want Gino’s head on a platter.”
I blink, surprised. “What the fuck? I thought they were backing him.”
