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CHAPTER7
BRICKER
The minuteI open the door, a familiar wave of stale pizza mixed with fresh cigarette smoke greets us. Max walks in first at my invitation, eyes scanning the room like a hawk; most security guys have the same attitude, and I wonder what he thinks of us Espositos so far. I follow behind, observing him instead of my crew as he takes in the rundown living room.
The walls, white once upon a time, are now a murky gray with peeling paint, and the linoleum floor is uneven. Old, odd furniture is clumped here and there, including our battered couch, covered with an old quilt that was here when we moved in, and an armchair that’s seen better days. An old television, too old to bother stealing, sits in one corner of the room, topped by an overflowing ashtray—that’s Tony the Pony, damn him. It’s not even the fucking stink of it that I object to, but the smoke interferes with some of our most delicate equipment.
I’ll bitch him out later, though. I don’t want to tear them down in front of the Castellani.
And speaking of my crew, they’re scattered around the room, each working on their own tasks. But all eyes are on Pedretti.
“Alright, boys and girls,” I call out. “We got ourselves a guest.” I make a sweeping gesture at Max, who stands tall and unfazed, despite the seven pairs of eyes boring into him. “This is Max Pedretti. He comes from the Castellani Family. He’s a security expert. Let’s give him a warm welcome.”
“Castellani?” Van says.
“Security expert?” Pony scoffs right after.
I’m interested to see if they’ll succeed in shaking Max’s stoic facade. Because that’s all it is, I’m sure: a facade. No one can possibly be so damn chill, not after getting traded to an enemy Family the way he was.
“Pedretti,” Jazz repeats.
“That’s me,” he says.
“Huh,” she says. “I’ve heard of you.” She says nothing more, going back to her task.
“That lovely lady is Jasmine Gavino,” I tell Max. “We all call her Jazz. Ex-marine. Their loss is our gain.” That earns me a dark glance from Jazz, but she doesn’t contradict me.
Max nods, still assessing her. He makes no mention of her being a woman, which I kind of hoped he would, just so I could stomp on him for it. Women make up a decent percentage of the Esposito Family—something that must be very different from the Castellanis.
“Good to meet you,” he says, and he actually sounds as though he means it.
I motion for him to follow me as I introduce him around. “Rook and Giddy, our tech guys.” Or trying to be. They’re pretty fresh. They both grin happily at Pedretti, and then cut the wattage by half when they glance my way.
“How you doing?” Pedretti asks, shaking their hands.
“Over there is Tank Tauriello, our weapons specialist. Tony Palombino, that guy glaring at you, he’s our wheelman. We call him Pony. And over there—”
“I’m Beatrice!” she says, jumping up with a big smile. “But everyone calls me Honeybee.”
“Cause she’s so sweet,” her companion says.
“And that’s Nico,” I finish, pointing at him, and hoping my face doesn’t give anything away. But Max doesn’t seem to notice anything as he nods at the two of them. “Honeybee is tiny enough to fit into just about any little nook or cranny,” I say, smiling at her.
“I spent time in a circus,” she tells Max, and she does a backbend to show off her contortionist skills. She moves into a tall, steady handstand before coming upright again, perfectly controlled. “Ta-da!”
For the first time, I see Max smile. “That’s some skill,” he says.
Honeybee beams, and I can’t help feeling glad that Max likes her as much as the rest of us do. She’s hardnotto like, that bubbly exterior always there despite her darker history before she joined the Family.
“And you, Nico?” Max asks, turning to him. “What’s your story?”
“I’m the brains of this whole operation,” he says with a nonchalant shrug. “Right, Bricker?”
“Nico’s the one who thinks he can get away with anything,” I say drily. “But he’s got a lot to learn.”
I usher Max over to have a word with Tank and Pony, who greet him with varying degrees of suspicion and curiosity, but Max maintains his composure, nodding politely at each of them.
“And this is Van,” I say, raising my voice to get Van’s attention. “Van Delligatti. Tactics, and my second in command.” Van is also my closest friend and I hoped he might show a little more interest in the proceedings. But he stays where he is, standing in the doorway from the kitchen, glaring at Pedretti as though he could get rid of the interloper with the power of his mind alone.
