with thieves.
Except he’d sworn to Danny he wouldn’t kill anyone.
And really, he didn’t like killing people, but killing was part of doing business. Even as the gangs had, at Rothstein’s recommendation, cleaned up their image from street thugs to businessmen, there was still plenty of blood spilled. Carmine couldn’t think of anyone who would let Vincente walk away today.
But Carmine was a man of his word, and he’d given his word to Danny.
So what to do with Vincente?
The city had long ago faded behind them and the sun was getting low in the sky when Fedele slowed the car to a stop beside a field.
Carmine, Fedele, and Sal got out. With a nod, Carmine gave Sal the order to get Vincente out of the trunk.
Sal had bound Vincente’s hands and feet, and he kept the bindings on his wrists before hauling him out of the trunk and onto his feet. The man was rumpled and trembling, squinting against the daylight, and when his eyes had apparently focused, he looked around. As the truth sank in, as he seemed to grasp that he really had just taken a drive out into the countryside, his face lost some color and his eyes got huge.
Turning to Carmine, he pleaded, “Mr. Battaglia, please. I’ve got a family. My wife. My children. And m-my brother! You remember what the flu did to him, don’t you?” He shook his head. “They’re—”
“Did you think of them when you lied to me?” Carmine stepped closer, grabbed a handful of Vincente’s messy, sweaty hair, and forced him to look him in the eye. “Did you think about who’s gonna feed them and get them medicine when you decided to take a cut and turn my security against me? Or when you lied to—”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Vincente blubbered. “I know I made a mistake. I—”
“A mistake?” Carmine gripped Vincente’s hair tighter. “No, I made the mistake when I hired you.” He thumped a finger against Vincente’s chest. “And it’s cost me, hasn’t it? It’s cost me a lot of money. And it’s cost me respect. Isn’t that right?”
“It is, it is!” Vincente was trying to nod, but couldn’t, and tears streamed down his scarlet red face. “I’m sorry! Just…please don’t kill me. Please.”
“It’s not my decision.” Carmine let him go and stepped back, pulling his pistol from inside his coat. “You made the decision, my friend.”
Vincente’s eyes got even wider. “Boss, please. Please, don’t—”
Carmine gestured at Sal. “Let’s go.”
Sal grabbed Vincente’s arm. The man screamed and struggled, but he was no match for someone Sal’s size. While Fedele stayed with the car, Sal, Carmine, and Vincente ventured out into the field.
Carmine stopped.
Sal shoved Vincente to his knees in the fragrant wildflowers at Carmine’s feet. Then he stepped back out of the way.
Vincente’s eyes flicked back and forth from Carmine’s face to his gun. “You don’t… You don’t even have the decency to let me have a priest?”
Carmine laughed dryly. “A priest? You do have a few sins to confess, don’t you?”
“Boss. Please. Mr. Battaglia.” Vincente swallowed, eyes darting to the gun again. “My family! They’ve got no one but me.”
“That right?” Carmine inclined his head. “Do they know you’re willing to let ‘em starve so you can skim off bribes in my warehouses? Did you tell ‘em that?”
Vincente squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t… I don’t know what I can do to make it up, but I—”
“Make it up?” Carmine huffed a humorless laugh. “You played me for a fool, Vincente. You told me to my face you had no idea who was stealing from me, and that you were looking into the problem for me, when in fact”—he dug the muzzle of the gun into Vincente’s forehead—“you were behind the whole thing.”
Vincente’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. The front of his trousers were wet now. He probably didn’t even notice.
Carmine drew the hammer back, and Vincente shuddered hard.
“Please, boss…” he begged. “Please, don’t kill me!”
For a long time—and it probably seemed far longer to Vincente—Carmine didn’t move or make a sound. He kept the revolver’s muzzle against Vincente’s forehead, and the whole countryside was quiet and peaceful except for the distant chirping of birds, the whisper of wind through wildflowers, and the breathless, blubbering pleas from the man kneeling before Carmine in soaked trousers.
“Just… You won’t kill them, right?” Danny’s quiet voice echoed in Carmine’s head.
“On my father’s grave, I won’t kill them.”
“And you won’t have no