“What’s her name?” I don’t know why I care. This time tomorrow, she’ll be dead anyway—if she’s lucky.
Arno grunts. “The fuck if I know.” He raises his bottle to his lips again and takes several long pulls, draining it in seconds. With a belch, he slams the bottle onto the counter and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “I just need to get this shit over with,” he growls. “That fucking bastard... Hewillpay.”
“Parish—”
Arno flinches at the sound of her name, and I feel something that could be guilt burn through my chest.
“The video didn’t... How do you know for sure that she’s dead?”
It’s no use beating around the bush, and Arno shrugs, his expression grim. “The video came with the address of a morgue. She was one of their Jane Does. Dead three hours by the time we found her. Apparent overdose.”
I exhale sharply. “I’m—”
“Don’t,” Arno snarls. He curls one of his hands into a fist and slams it hard against the counter. “Don’t say anything. Just fuckinghelpme.”
“All right.” I take another swig of beer and face the row of shelves behind the bar.
It’s decently stocked. Arno wasn’t kidding when he boasted about having good booze. He’s done well for himself, it seems—but every mad dog knows that a nice pile of bones has to come from the body of another beast.
“Who is Stacatto?”
A dangerous sound rumbles up in Arno’s chest. “A dead man,” he says. “Some asshole punk who fell into good fortune. He used to run with Capella, back when the bastard was living. Was his little pet prick. When Capella’s ‘organization’ folded seven yearsago, Stacatto took over the shitstorm that remained, and now, the asshole thinks he runs the fucking city.”
“Capella.” The name holds a flavor of recognition. I picture a face: old and worn with a mole on the chin. “I remember him.” An Italian bastard who liked to think of himself as the last bastion of the old mob.
“May he rest in Hell,” Arno growls, spitting onto the floor. “Vinny used to be content with his side of the fucking river. But, now, he’s starting to overstep his boundaries. Needs to be taught his goddamn place in the pecking order.”
I nod. Arno not only got territorial—he got greedy.
“What did you do?”
“I...” He clenches his fists and shakes his head. “I sent him a littlepresentthat he didn’t take to kindly to.”
“You tried to kill him.” I scoff and take another sip of my beer.
He doesn’t deny it. “It’s business. But the asshole crossed a line with Parish. You don’t—” He breaks off, gritting his teeth so fiercely that I can hear them grinding together. “There are just some fucking lines you don’t cross.”
It’s all bullshit, of course. Something he tells himself out loud to relieve the burning sting of guilt he feels for his sister. But, if he were given the chance to do it all over again, I know that Arno wouldn’t hesitate. A mad dog has to fight for his share of the junkyard, after all.
“So, your idea of revenge is torturing his fiancée.” While not exactly my method of choice, I can’t fault the bastard for flair. An eye for an eye; a woman for a woman.
Arno chuckles darkly and swipes a mass of red hair from his face. “It comes with the territory.”
Vincent Stacatto.He’s the same man Van Hallen was bitching about, apparently for good reason.
“I guess there’s a reason why you haven’t shown that video to the cops?”
Arno gives me an odd look. “Stacatto owns the fucking police.The bastard’s even got judges in his pocket. They’d arrest my ass for possessing illegal pornography or some shit without even touching Stacatto.”
“Hmph.” I digest that newest tidbit of information while downing another sip of beer. Van Hallen didn’t bother to mention that.
“So, where is she?” Arno asks suddenly. He stands up and begins to pace. Something tells me that part of what kept him up all night is plotting ways to use her to make Stacatto suffer.
I jab my thumb at the ceiling. “Upstairs.”
“Alone?” Arno raises an eyebrow. “You lock her in a closet or something?”
I shake my head, feeling no need to lie. “She’s in the room.”
