The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,165

be enough.

Agosto arrived at last, flanked by enough security to make the small back room feel crowded and stifling. Carmine was already on-edge; being stuffed in here with too many people made sweat trickle down the back of his neck. He pushed back the queasy feeling. The Spanish Influenza wasn’t the danger today, and getting distracted by how much he hated crowded rooms wouldn’t help him help Danny.

After the obligatory handshakes, and after Agosto and James had been introduced, everyone sat back down. Agosto cradled a highball of brandy in one hand. “I understand we have a…situation.”

“We do, Agosto.” Maurizio put down his own drink and folded his hands. “A young man employed by my organization was accosted and kidnapped.” He touched James’s shoulder. “And Father Carroll was injured in the attack.”

Agosto glanced at James, clearly uncomfortable. Carmine didn’t imagine much could unsettle a good Catholic like the sight of a battered priest. Especially with the unspoken accusation that the good Catholic might be somehow responsible for that beating. “And you believe my nephew was involved.”

“Your nephew attacked us both.” James spoke evenly, but with an undercurrent of rage that was surreal coming from a man in a white collar. “Outside a night club. We fought him off, but Danny recognized him, plain as day.”

“Are you certain it was Salvatore who—”

“He told Danny he was there to avenge his brother.” James held the capo’s gaze without a trace of intimidation. “And when we were attacked again—when Danny was taken—it was after he received a message that if he didn’t meet with Salvatore by tonight, his family would be murdered.”

Agosto’s jaw worked. He held eye contact with James, but it was clearly a struggle. “I see.”

“Neither of us wants more bloodshed, Agosto,” Maurizio said evenly. “We only want the Irishman released, assuming he’s still alive, and assurance that his family will be safe.”

Agosto shifted his gaze to Maurizio. “You want my organization to protect a family of Irishmen?”

“I want you to order Salvatore and his men to leave them alone. Nothing more.”

The other capo looked into his drink. He took a deep breath, probably ready to speak, but right then, the back room’s door banged open.

Instantly, everyone was on their feet, guns out.

“What the hell is going on?” Salvatore stormed in, a pistol in one hand, his other arm wrapped in plaster. Half a dozen armed wise guys followed him into the already crowded back room. Waving his gun, he shouted, “This is so predictable. So damned predict—save it, Uncle Agosto.” The gun was suddenly trained on the il Sacchi patriarch, who had opened his mouth to speak, and Carmine’s heart jumped into his throat. Salvatore was unhinged under the best of circumstances, and now he was pointing a gun at the capo of his own gang. His own uncle. Eyes flashing with fury, Salvatore growled, “All of you. Sit down.”

The men exchanged glances. Then Agosto slowly took his seat. Maurizio, James, and Carmine followed suit, lowering their guns but still keeping them at the ready.

Salvatore and his men moved deeper into the room, filling the already small space with scowling faces and broad shoulders. Carmine’s neck prickled, less from being in tight confines with so many people and more from all the fingers dangerously close to triggers and gun barrels ready to point at heads and chests.

“You’re negotiating with them?” Salvatore demanded of his uncle, sounding beyond affronted. “How many more times do they have to slap this family in the face before we shoot them and—”

“Salvatore.” The faintest edge of concern laced Agosto’s voice; probably the closest to a capo showing fear that Carmine had ever heard. “What have you done with the Irishman?”

“That doesn’t concern you. What does concern you is that I knew—I knew, Uncle Agosto—that you and these sons of bitches would try to negotiate.” Salvatore was beyond unhinged now, his voice inching toward that of a maniac. “You’d try to bargain for him, and you’d share drinks and cigars with them while you figured out what to do about the man who murdered my brother.”

“I am negotiating so that you don’t start a war with—”

“The war started the moment he”—Salvatore swung his pistol toward Carmine, aiming it square at his forehead— “hired the bastard who killed Ricky!”

Carmine gulped. Beside him, Sal was tense, hand on his gun, poised to do what he was hired to do and protect Carmine, but like Carmine, he must have known there was no point in making a move right