The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,87

motioned toward the door.

“Of course. Thank you. Again.” Carmine stepped aside and broke eye contact, and Danny seized the opportunity to leave before his mouth or his eyes got him into more trouble. Like staring a little longer at Carmine, or saying something he oughtn’t, or…

He left. Quickly.

Moments later, he was out of the office, out of the butcher shop, and walking down the street, wondering when exactly he’d turned into such a bumbling fool over Carmine. Probably around the same time he’d agreed to go to work for him.

That thought was a cold gust of wind to the face. No matter what went on inside his head whenever he looked at Carmine, or touched him, or listened to that smooth voice, the fact was, Carmine was who he was. He was a dangerous man working for even more dangerous men, and Danny would be wise to keep his distance.

Except, was that even possible anymore? Maybe he could stay back and ignore the strange pull Carmine had on him, but he was already in much too close to the Pulvirenti family. To a gang. To Sicilian gangsters.

To one Sicilian gangster in particular. One with whom Danny had shared a few companionable drinks and long looks in that tiny office, and who Danny believed—God help him, he believed—when he said he wouldn’t kill the man behind the thefts.

As he walked, he thumbed the bundle of cash in his pocket. It was a lot of money.

But Lord, it felt like he was getting deeper into this world. As if every time he did work for Carmine, every time he took a paper-wrapped dollar from the man’s hands, he was selling another piece of his soul.

How long before the Devil came to collect?

Chapter 18

Carmine stepped out of the car outside his warehouse and put on his hat. As he strode toward the door with Sal on his heels, Charlie, one of the supervisors, gestured inside. “They’re in here, boss.”

“Thank you.” Carmine followed him into the warehouse, and into an office in the back. There, two terrified men were tied to chairs, and they stared up at him with wide, pleading eyes.

“Please, sir,” one of them begged. “I’m just…I’m trying to feed my family, and I—”

“So you’re stealing from me?” Carmine growled. “Or should I say, taking bribes to look the other way while other people steal from me?”

Both men closed their mouths. The fear in their eyes was palpable. They’d have been mortified if anyone else saw them that way, and they may have been mortified now, but there came a point when even the toughest man couldn’t hide his fear. It was unsurprising that facing down the gangster they’d crossed and stolen from was one of those times.

Carmine stood before them, looming over them, and glared at each of them in turn. “What’re your names?”

They both gulped. Neither spoke.

With a heavy sigh, Carmine turned to Charlie, who handed him some papers. Carmine skimmed over them; they detailed the men’s names, how long they’d been working for the Pulvirentis, and when they’d been working over the last few months, with an X to indicate the nights when thefts had occurred on their watch.

“Mikey Caruso,” Carmine read aloud. “And George Ricci.” They each winced at the sound of their own names, answering easily enough who was who. Handing the papers back to Charlie, Carmine said to George and Mikey, “You worked the last time someone broke in, and several other times, but not every time.” He narrowed his eyes. “So, what? Is everyone on my security payroll letting thieves bribe their way into my warehouses and steal my merchandise? And helping them steal that merchandise? Is that something you boys thought to do on your own? Or is there something else going on here?”

No response. They both shifted their eyes away, and they squirmed as much as their bindings allowed, but they didn’t speak.

“Someone better start talking,” Carmine growled. “Or I will get answers out of you. Is that what you want? For me to start breaking fingers and busting legs until—”

“N-no, sir,” Mikey said. “Please, no.”

Carmine fixed his gaze on the bald, trembling man. “Then what is going on?”

Mikey swallowed. “It ain’t us that started it all. It—”

“Would you be quiet, you idiot?” George snapped.

“I ain’t getting my kneecaps busted over this!” Mikey looked up at Carmine. “It was Vincente. Vincente Andresano.”

George swore and hung his head.

Mikey went on, “He told us from the start that if someone breaks in, and they’ll pay