my style. But something in that look tells me she’d give me what my body undeniably wants from hers. She’s fucking with my head, and right now, I need focus more than I ever have in my life.
I have to know who took out the contract before I can make any kind of move, but I’m so fucking isolated here.
I lean against the shingled side of the widow’s walk, kick my foot onto the rail, stare at the list I’ve made. It’s too short. I haven’t dared contact Pop yet because the Feds catching wind I did is a one-way ticket out of WITSEC for all of us. But if I’m going to exact my revenge and secure my place at the head of the organization, I need guys loyal enough to kill for me . . . to die for me. Out of the entire Delgado crew, I got three I know I can trust. Me and three guys against the Savocas or any of Pop’s associates equals four dead guys.
I bang the back of my head hard against the shingles and wonder what Pop knows. He can do a lot from inside, but if there’s no one on the outside protecting his interests, his reach is limited. There’s also the problem of the wider community losing a whole bucket load of respect for him when he broke omertà, the Mafia code of silence, and turned evidence on Victor Savoca. No one trusts him. He’s damaged goods.
No one would have ever considered Felix Delgado a good guy. Well . . . except Mom. She always had a blind spot for all the crazy shit Pop was neck deep in. The truth? When she was alive, he wasn’t quite so power hungry or bloodthirsty. That all changed the night she was run down outside the Bienville. It was a clear message to Pop. The Delgados had been horning in on Savoca “territory.” Strong-arming their connections. The Savocas couldn’t let that stand and save face. Any shred of decency Pop had died that January night on the cold Chicago pavement along with his wife.
That was five years ago today.
Mom’s murder was labeled accidental, but that’s only because the Savocas have guys inside the Chicago PD. Everyone knows it was them. That was the point.
Which is why, when the FBI took our dad down for racketeering, he made sure Victor Savoca, the head of the Savoca family, went down with him.
People don’t realize all that shit still happens. They watch Goodfellas and think the mob is ancient history. They think the only gangs they need to worry about now wear tats, gold chains, and low-riding jeans. They’re wrong. The Mafia still rules Chicago. Probably always will. The violence isn’t as in-your-face as it used to be, but plenty of people still “disappear.” Pop’s responsible for his fair share of them. Hell, so am I.
I keep hoping whoever did this will show themselves somehow—maybe try to take out Pop or Savoca in lockup . . . something public that will clue me in to which side they’re on. But the longer I sit here with my thumbs up my ass, the harder it’s going to be take Chicago back.
I need answers.
I pull up my contacts, hit the number I’ve been avoiding.
“Callahan, FBI,” the disinterested voice says through my phone.
“I need information.”
“Who is this?”
“Your worst nightmare,” I tell him.
“Delgado. Just what I fucking needed today,” he mutters under his breath. “How the hell did you get my private cell number?”
“From Ulie. You don’t remember your hard-on for my sister, Agent Callahan? When you gave her your card after Pop’s trial and said ‘anything you need, give me a call’? Or have you moved on? Out of sight out of mind—”
“You know we have nothing to do with any of your WITSEC benefits,” he cuts in. “If you think you need more money, or you don’t like where the US Marshals Service has located you, you need to take that up with their office or the DOJ.”
It’s the FBI who promises you the world when they’re talking you into Federal Witness Protection. What they don’t tell you is that they’re not the ones who are going to see that shit through. The US Marshals Service are the poor bastards who get stuck with that detail. But this FBI douche has the information I need, so today, he’s going to deal with me whether he likes it or not.
“I need to get my family the hell