Chapter Seven
“Cattycorner to Puddin’s is an army surplus store and lucky for us they use web-based surveillance to keep an eye on their property,” Mac said. “Probably a good idea since that’s a shitty neighborhood. What the hell are you doing there, by the way?”
“Never mind,” Slade said impatiently. “Who took my wife?”
“I still can’t believe you’re married.” Rapid-fire tapping on a keyboard came through loud and clear. “Although it makes sense why you never slept with any of the club pussy. I just thought you might be gay.”
“Mac!”
Kix’s laughter could be heard through the speakerphone. “Shush, Mac, before Slade reaches through this phone and strangles you.”
“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with being gay, you know,” Mac said defensively. “I have a few friends who are gay. One is a lesbian … although technically, that’s gay, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t say … what?” Slade shook his head. “Just get back to your internet talents and tell me what I need to know.”
“Right. Anyway. Two black SUVs go racing by at four twenty-three in the morning. I then track them at a traffic camera four blocks away, then a mile later they enter the highway leading them back across the bridge heading toward St. Louis.”
“Tell me you were able to track them.”
“Better,” Mac said smugly. “The street lights highlighted the license plate for a brief moment. I traced it to a limited liability corporation named Italian Culinary Imports.”
The name sounded vaguely familiar to Slade. “And who owns this imports company?”
“Sweeney Barese,” Kix said grimly. “I couldn’t believe my eyes.”
As soon as he heard the name, Slade remembered the night before with the meeting Sweeney had set up. Fury pumped through his veins. What a motherfucker! What goddamn fucking two-faced betraying bastard!
“Son of a bitch!” he yelled. Unable to sit still, he began pacing back and forth. “I stood right in front of that fucking asshole while he gave me his condolences, all the while knowing he was the one who put Tony, Gregory, and Robert DiLuca into the grave!”
“I don’t know any of them, Slade, but if you need backup I’m there,” Mac promised.
“You know he had to have help,” Kix said. “He wouldn’t be able to accomplish something like this without knowing times and schedules.”
Slade’s mind began to run with possibilities. “Greg was Tony’s first lieutenant and Robbie was his enforcer. Normandy was his accountant. If all three kids were gone, that would leave the business up for grabs between three remaining capos.”
“One of those capos betrayed Tony,” Kix surmised.
“Give me names, Slade, and I’ll start digging into their finances,” Mac said. “If this Barese guy paid them off, I’ll find it.”
“I don’t have that kind of time, Mac,” he replied. “Barese took Normandy.”
“Then let’s think this through,” Kix said. “Tell me about Tony’s lieutenants.”
Slade forced his frantic brain to slow down and follow Kix’s calm reasoning. “All right. Tony’s childhood friend pushes pussy. He makes a nice profit on the porn trade. There’s another friend who takes care of the gun running for certain businesses. He’s rarely ever here in St. Louis. And his cousin Harry, who takes care of the drug movement. More into prescription drugs and heroin than the meth we peddle.”
“A cousin would be the logical course to take over the family business,” Kix murmured.
“Yeah,” Slade said. “As soon as I said it I thought that.”
“You need backup?”
“It’s not your fight.”
“If it’s your fight, Slade, it’s ours. Brothers stick together.”
“Sweeney Barese will have an army protecting him,” Slade warned.
“Then it’s better if you have a whole fucking club behind you,” Kix said resolutely. “We’ll be there in two hours.”
“Thanks, Kix.”
“Sweeney Barese is gonna realize if you mess with one brother you mess with all of us.”
****
Slade glided his Harley to the side of the street and turned it off. He kept his sunglasses on and the half-helmet that protected his head, and stared at the breakfast diner that used to be owned by Tony DiLuca. It teemed with customers and through the front window he plainly saw Tony’s cousin, Harry Bianci, drinking coffee and perusing the newspaper. His self-satisfied demeanor was a clear testament that something had rotted in the DiLuca family.
Slade waited, and as he sat staring at the man who probably had committed the gravest sin of all … betrayal … he couldn’t help but remember a time when things had been simpler. He had known his place within the structure of the DiLuca Borgata, a faithful soldier not afraid of dishing out anything Tony told him to do. He’d run drugs or guns, handled millions in cash, and never once had he thought about betraying the man who had taken him under his wing. Tony had become the dad his own father could never have been, and even though the organization wasn’t legit, Slade had learned early on where to place his trust.
It had killed something inside him when Tony had told him he’d never approve of him as a son-in-law. Normandy, he’d said, was a smart girl who’d go far in the family business, emphasis on the word family. What could he possibly give to her, except exile from that family? Kix’s offer of becoming V.P. of The White Death had come at the most opportune time, life support to the heart that had been torn to shreds. Looking back now, he should’ve fought for Normandy. Should’ve fought for their love. But placed in that moment under a microscope, he couldn’t think about anything else than doing what was best for the woman he loved more than his own life. So he’d run back to Rider Pass and had embraced a new destiny.
Or so he thought.
Now he knew he couldn’t leave her again. He wasn’t that strong. He loved his club, was loyal to the patch on his cut, but if it came down to choosing her or choosing The White Death, he had no doubt which would win.
Harry Bianci left the diner and Slade wanted to eliminate that smug smile lingering on his face. He started up his motorcycle and followed Harry’s expensive sports car and when it stopped at a light, Slade pulled next to him and took off his sunglasses. Harry glanced at him, and all the color drained from his face. He mouthed his name and Slade pulled out his gun and aimed it at the old man.
“Pull into the next alley,” Slade called out. “We need to talk.”
Harry wanted to run; Slade could see the indecision on his face and he lifted the gun a little higher. Fear flashed quickly and when the light turned green, he did as Slade instructed. Slade parked his bike behind the car and dismounted, waiting for Harry to get out so they could chat.
“It’s not what you think, Michael,” Harry said.
“Get out of the car.”
Though the tinted windows, Harry fumbled around for a second before exiting his car. Slade waited until Harry faced him before pulling a silencer out of his pocket. As he screwed it on, he kept his gaze on Harry and watched as fear consumed the older man.
“Like I-I said,” Harry stuttered. “It’s not what you think.”
Slade snorted. “I think it’s perfectly clear how clichéd it was to kill your family to rise to the top.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Harry said.
“Of course you didn’t. You wouldn’t sully your hands like that.” He aimed the barrel of the gun at the traitor.
“So what is this, huh?” Harry motioned to the weapon. “You think that scares me?”
“I know it scares you,” Slade said. “I think you’re about to piss your pants, you’re so scared. I also think you told Sweeney Barese the change of plans and where to find Tony, Greg, and Robbie that day, and then he had them killed. Doesn’t make the invisible blood on your hands any less red.”
“You have no proof,” Harry sneered. “You think you’re so high and mighty, so righteous? You walked out on the DiLuca family years ago, so don’t pretend you’re their savior.”
“Normandy is my wife,” Slade announced. He had a brief second of satisfaction when he saw the surprise filter through Harry’s eyes. “And Sweeney Barese has her, so you’re gonna tell me where she is.”
“Normandy is alive? And you married her?” Harry shook his head. “When did this happen?”
“Two years ago. Where is she?”
Harry shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Slade lowered the barrel of his gun and shot out Harry’s left knee. The old man screamed in pain and fell, clutching his leg as blood poured from the wound.
“Where is she?”
“Fuck you!” Harry screamed.
Slade shot out his other kneecap. Harry sobbed, a blubbering mess on the dirty alley road.
“Where. Is. My. Wife?”
Harry held out his hand, as if trying to ward him off. “I don’t know. I swear it. But … but … Sweeney went back to his home in Alton. In Fosterburg. I… I c-can get you the address.”
“That’s all I needed to know,” Slade said. He walked up to the fallen man and pointed his gun down, aiming at Harry’s forehead. “You betrayed Tony for what? A promise to be Boss? You should’ve known you’d have to pay the price for betrayal.”
“No! No … please God, no,” Harry cried.
Slade pulled the trigger and Harry’s cries abruptly ceased. Then he returned to his bike and put his sunglasses back on before taking the silencer off and slipping it back into his pocket. Then he slid the gun inside his holster under his jacket before he pulled out his phone, and called Mac.
“Give me the location of Sweeney Barese’s home in Alton, Illinois.”
“On it,” Mac said. “I’ll text you the info.”
Slade slid the phone in his pocket. Without looking back, he rode past Harry’s body and left the bastard dead in the deserted alley.