"Which part?" Dante asked, whipping his car into a parking spot across the street from the blast. "The fact that you're acting like I never had a sister or the fact that she might've died right there? Because I wouldn't say it's weird for me. I'd say it's more fucked up than anything."
Umberto's expression fell as Dante cut the engine. "Look, about Genevieve…"
"You don't have to say anything," Dante said. "The silence told me enough."
"You know how I felt about her. She was amazing. Beautiful. Sassy. But she went another way. She went the wrong way. And when someone turns their back on the family, when they go against the family, what do we do? We make it so they don't exist. You know how it is."
"And that's why it's fucked up. Because she deserves more than that, she was more than that, but we're all too goddamn self-centered to admit it."
Dante got out of the car before Umberto could respond. His hands shook, and he shoved them in his pockets, hoping if they weren't accessible he wouldn't feel compelled to punch anyone. Umberto joined him on the sidewalk, uncharacteristically mum.
"The guys stay in some apartments around here," Umberto mumbled, glancing around the neighborhood. "It's Michael Parsons and his friend, uh, what's-his-face… the one with the glasses?"
Dante cut his eyes at him. Well, that narrowed it down. Didn't matter, though, because Dante knew where to find Parsons. "How much do they owe?"
"Parsons owes three grand, and his friend, about five hundred."
Dante walked down the street, heading for a deli on the corner at the end of the block, beneath a set of decrepit apartments. Umberto stayed in step with him, not asking any questions.
"Take the back," Dante told him, grabbing the door to step inside the deli. It was Sunday evening, nearing closing time, so customers were scarce, the last two leaving right as Dante appeared. Parsons stood behind the counter, cleaning the meat slicer, wearing a filthy white apron and smelling like cold cuts. Dante clicked the lock in place on the glass door before grabbing the open sign, flipping it over.
Parsons turned, smiling in greeting, the expression on his face freezing. Terror drained the color from his cheeks. "Dante, what can I do for you?"
"I think you probably know," Dante said.
A few seconds passed. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Parsons stood, frozen, until self-preservation kicked in.
Grabbing a stash of utensils, he hurled them across the counter before sprinting behind the refrigerated meat cases. Dante ducked from the flying knives, aggrivation stirring up inside of him. Of course the motherfucker would have to make this hard.
Jumping up on the counter, Dante dropped onto his feet on the other side, knocking displays over in his haste to follow. Parsons forced open the swinging door leading into the back storage room, grabbing metal racks and throwing them down, sending things spewing all over the place. Dante went after him, trying not to trip over shit as he ran, catching up to the guy just as he reached the back exit.
Dante grabbed his shirt, yanking on it, sending him stumbling. Parsons turned, panicked, and blindly swung, his fist connecting with the edge of Dante's jaw. The blow was strong enough to make him stagger, throwing him off enough for Parsons to slip from his grip. Son of a bitch.
Parsons yanked the door open, heading out into the alley, as Dante's aggravation turned to fury. He saw red. Springing out the door, Dante tripped the guy, knocking him to the ground, Parsons' face slamming against the grubby asphalt. He cried out, blood pouring from his nose.
Umberto appeared in the alley, pistol in his hand, finger hovering over the trigger. "Get the fuck up, Parsons. Don't do anything stupid."
Dante rubbed his jaw. Too late.
Parsons stood, blood streaming down his chin and dripping onto his apron. He held his hands up in surrender. "Please, don't hurt me. I don't want any trouble."
Again, too late.
"You owe Primo Galante money," Umberto said. "That's pretty much the definition of trouble."
"I'm under protection," Parsons blurted out. "They told me… I mean, they said…"
"They told you not to worry about us?" Dante guessed, stepping closer to him. "Told you if you give them money, they'll make sure no one comes after you?"
"Well…" He lowered his hands. "Yeah."
Dante snatched a hold of the guy's thick black hair, yanking his head down, making him hunch over as he dragged him back inside, to the front of the deli. He