Three months earlier, New Year’s Eve
Home of Nuncio Veronese (Boston Cosa Nostra Don)
The smell of dried oregano and fresh produce tucked away in wooden crates on the shelves wars with the slight scent of mold hanging in the air. There are no windows, and the only source of light is the single fixture hanging from the center of the ceiling, throwing a yellow glow on a disheveled, sniveling mess of a man. Carlo Forino. Two of my guys flank him, keeping him from leaping off the stool his ass is currently planted on.
I flip a chair around and straddle it, hanging my forearms off the sturdy wooden back while I observe this pitiful excuse of a human. Carlo is breathing rapidly, practically hyperventilating, but he avoids meeting my gaze. He knows why he’s here. And he knows what’s coming.
H
