“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve been dealing with these little shits for the last twenty years,” I reply. “This is what they do. Pathetic little attempts to undermine my power in this city. They’re not strong enough to come at me directly. So they do this shit instead. They’re wiring up a bomb next to the gate.”
“That’s a bomb?”
“Surely, you’ve had bomb training.”
His expression sours. “Not my favorite thing to learn. Only cowards use bombs. Men look their enemies in the eyes when they kill them.”
“Learn it anyway,” I tell him.
“I can hire someone to deal with that shit for me,” Phoenix replies with the typical arrogance of a kid whose been born into the mob life.
“Yeah? And what happens when you’re staring in the face of a ticking bomb and you don’t have time to call for help?” I demand. “What then?”
“What are the chances of that happening?”
“In this business? High. Very high.”
He grumbles something under his breath but fades into silence quickly.
“I don’t get it,” he says after another moment has passed. “So it’s a bomb. They want to fuck your shit up. Why just sit back and watch?”
“Bombs are tricky,” I explain. “Temperamental. Sometimes, the men that handle them are worse. If I ambush them now, they’re likely to blow up the entire place. A show of force is important, yes—no one is denying that. But exhibiting restraint is just as important. It can save unnecessary casualties.”
“What if they detonate?”
“They’re not going to risk it while they’re here,” I reply. “They’re going to drive off into the distance before they think of detonation.”
“And that’s when you’ll stop them?”
I nod. “Exactly.”
I spot Drago Lombardi bring up the rear as all four men head back to their white van. He’s bulkier and more brutish-looking than his father. But he lacks Giorgio’s guile.
I’m basing that observation on twenty years’ worth of botched attempts on my life. I gave him a pass for the first dozen years or so, citing youth and inexperience and pure, dumb rage. But as I’ve aged, I’m realizing that it isn’t about any of those things. The Lombardi heir is just stupid. A muscle-bound moron fueled by nothing more complex than the need to see me dead.
His last name is an anchor dragging him to the bottom of a very black ocean. For a long time, I’ve pitied him too much to kill him. Lately, I’m starting to wonder whether ending his miserable life might be the more merciful option after all.
“They’re leaving,” Phoenix comments, glancing at me.
Sure enough, Lombardi and his goons are piling into their van with glances all around to make sure they’re escaping unseen.
I see one of them give a thumbs-up and mouth, “Coast is clear.”
All I can do is laugh. The moment the white van takes off, I make a call to Rhys.
“Boss?” he answers.
I stopped mentally cringing at the title years ago, once I’d accepted that—in New York, at least—I’m effectively the O’Sullivan don. America is my kingdom now.
“They’re on the move,” I report. “Make sure you secure the detonator first. Then kill them all. Except the Lombardi boy.”
“You sure?”
I watch as the van disappears around the corner. “Yes,” I sigh. “I’m sure.”
I hang up and get out of the car. Phoenix follows behind me.