14

Thirty-Six

New York, New York Monday, December 22 3:00 p.m.

H e’d been picked up in the alley behind the restaurant by the giant goon known as Atlas, blindfolded and driven around for what felt like hours before L’Uomo met him at the door to the riverfront warehouse. L’Uomo dismissed his driver, and held the dirty steel door for the visitor. L’Uomo was polite on the surface, if nothing else.

They made their way through a brief warren that ended in a door. To the right was a second door, and L’Uomo went to it, turned the knob and gestured to his guest.

“Please.”

This had better be worth it, the younger man thought. He walked through the door and down a long hallway toward a steel door with an inset window. He got closer. L’Uomo was behind him, gestured for him to look. As much as he didn’t like turning his back in the man’s presence, he didn’t have much of a choice. Magnifying glass, his mind registered.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust. On the floor was a body. A man’s body. What the hell?

He turned to L’Uomo.

“You brought me all the way back from the dead to show me a body? What kind of sick joke are you playing now? Is this just another threat? Because I don’t care anymore.”

L’Uomo looked confused for a moment, then rushed to the glass.

“Goddamn it! Where is she?”

He rushed out of the observation space and into the room. The man called Dusty was crumpled in a heap on the floor, his back to the ceiling. His head was turned three-quarters of the way around, obviously not in its proper place.

L’Uomo screamed in frustration. He wasn’t a man prone to losing control, but this obvious alteration of his Machiavellian plans was the last straw. “She broke his neck. I can’t believe it. And managed to get out of here. This is not good. This is not good at all.”

The man’s eyes were full of fury, and he turned on his guest.

“Son of a bitch, Win. Your fucking daughter killed my man. This will not go unpunished.” He swept out of the room, leaving Win Jackson to stare into the milky-white eyes of the dead stranger.

Taylor? Taylor was here? Taylor had done this? Jesus, she must have been pissed off. A state she was perpetually in when it came to Win, anyway.

Son of a bitch was right. If Anthony Malik had decided to bring Taylor into the scheme, he was going to have bigger problems than he knew.

L’Uomo returned, calmer, his blue eyes troubled.

“Your precious little girl made it to the 108th. We need to clear out of here immediately. Do you still have the boat I arranged for you? Yes? Let’s go.”

He clicked open a cell phone, hit a single digit, spoke tersely to whoever answered. “I need a cleaner at the warehouse. Now.”