His: Tony: The Sabatini Family by Fiona Murphy (mystery books to read .TXT) 📗

arms ache. The buzz from the intercom is lost in the noise of music I have blaring. It takes seeing the flashing red light for me to stop. I hit the volume and press the button on the intercom.

“What?”

“Carlo has called your cell phone twice after sending you a text. He’s now on the house phone demanding to speak to you. You available or not?” Carmela sounds harassed.

Fucking pussy. I tear off my gloves and head upstairs out of the basement into the kitchen. She’s waiting at the top of the stairs, holding out the phone to me.

“I’m not doing it. It’s time for someone else to take their damn turn,” I snarl. “I am not the fucking hitter for this family. If you have a problem with that, then we have a problem.”

He’s quiet. “Okay, okay, this was my problem. I’ll find someone else. No reason to get so fucking—”

I don’t bother listening. I end the call and hand the phone to Carmella. An eyebrow goes up at me, “You ready for breakfast, or you want to go back to punching your demons downstairs?”

Fucking know-it-all. “I’m going to go shower. I need a heavy breakfast.”

“I’ll have it ready.” She assures me.

Out of the shower, I go into the walk-in closet to get dressed. As I do, I wonder if tonight I’ll be putting the bullet proof aspect of my black suit and white dress shirt beneath it to the test yet again. The suits have saved my life from a bullet on no less than six occasions, and once from a knife fight.

There’s a reason why all twenty-seven, cashmere, silk, and wool suits are bullet proof, as well as the shirts that go with them. They were worth every penny of their cost. I also don’t advertise I wear them. My crew and Dominic’s know as we both paid for at least two suits for our men when they became a part of our crew. However, my father had decided it was something we wouldn’t share with the family unless directly asked, and no one has.

Opening the safe in the back of the wall in my closet, I pull out my Adamas knife and strap it around my forearm. I need to replace the gun I gave to Joseph last night. For now, I go into my bedroom and take the gun from the nightstand. A press of the release and the magazine drops. I run my thumb along the side, feeling the fifteen bullets inside. Another bullet is chambered and ready to go. I slide it into the holster on my ankle. My equilibrium is back at the reassuring weight.

Downstairs, I set the sound system to jazz as I go to the kitchen table where my iPad with today’s paper already up and a shot of espresso waits for me. I add a spoonful of sugar, stir, then let it slide down. A plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and fried potatoes is set in front of me, then my orange juice. Before I can open my mouth to ask for it, Carmela sets down a basket of warm bread and the butter dish.

“I’m going up to change your sheets and clean the bathroom. Is Eve back?”

I shake my head, not looking up from the article I’m reading.

She sighs, “Too bad. I liked her.”

I don’t bother responding. Another sigh, and she walks away. As I’m setting my plate in the sink, the doorbell goes off. I check my phone, expecting to see either Vito or Joseph. The camera shows it’s Johnny. He’s come to my place maybe a half dozen times in the last ten years. He likes making people come to him. Johnny loves power plays. This can’t be good, and is no doubt about me hanging up on Carlo after refusing the hit.

Opening the front door, I nod at him. “Johnny.”

He chuckles. “No need to look so happy to see me, Tony. You going to let me in?”

I step back to give him the room to enter. “You want an espresso?”

He shakes his head. I lead him into my office. Avoiding the chair behind my desk, I sit in one of the three leather wingback chairs around the fireplace. He sits across from me.

“Whiskey?” I ask, obliged by manners long instilled in me.

Another shake of his head. A heavy sigh comes out of him. “I’m not mad. I came to apologize.”

I can’t hide my surprise. Johnny doesn’t apologize for much.

His head goes back and he closes his eyes. “Do you hear them too, Tony?”

The question has me sinking into my chair in relief—that he knows why, that he gets it. That I’m not going crazy. Even though his eyes are closed, I nod as my own eyes close. “Yeah, why do you think I always have music or some sort of noise on around me?”

“The dreams. From the beginning, they were bad, but fucking hell. I’ll take them if it would stop the voices. On and on, almost every fucking day, I hear them. It’s usually the same guy I hear. Sometimes...” He trails off.

“I’ll tell you and only you that I agree with your father and grandfather: the innocent civilians, they shouldn’t get hit. He was my first innocent, had five fucking kids with another on the way. Just some guy trying to do the right thing. Trying to teach his kids right and wrong. He was the first one who didn’t beg. Always with the crying, the begging, and trying to make deals—not him. A gun in his face and he took it like a man. Asked me to leave his body where it would be found quickly, his wife would need the insurance for her and the kids. I was supposed to make him disappear off the face of the earth. I couldn’t. A man like that, he deserved to have his last request honored.” Running a hand over his face, he sighs.

“Scusa.” Sorry. He all but whispers the word. “I shouldn’t have ordered