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Chapter

Thirty-Seven

Bianca

“She can stay here,” Dad told Sandro.

Sandro paused on his way to the door and stared at me, his face expressionless and his eyes flat. It was hard to read him when he consciously masked his emotions.

“It’s up to you,” he said.

Meanwhile, Nico and Matteo had already exited the side door with Trevor, and I was glad they weren’t piling up on Sandro.

“Are you crazy? Our family needs us.”

Dad was about to say something, but I glared at him. “I’m going with Sandro. Please don’t interfere.”

“Bianca…” Dad’s eyes were tortured, but he had to let me support my husband.

“If you’re coming, we have to go.” Sandro pushed open the front door of the café and held it open for me. I hugged Dad and Mom and walked through the door without looking back. I had to be decisive.

The Expedition was already waiting for us. Sticks slid into the driver’s seat while Arnie rode shotgun. Sandro and I were in the back seat.

“Cops just arrived at the site,” Arnie informed us with a phone to his ear.

“Who’s on the phone?” I asked.

“Al. He’s calling on Griselda’s phone,” he replied.

“Wasn’t he guarding them?”

“Yes. He’s also hurt, and his phone was smashed. That’s why he’s using Griselda’s phone.”

“Is Griselda okay?” I asked.

Sandro stiffened beside me. I noticed he was quiet throughout my exchange with Arnie.

“Don’t know. It’s chaos right now. The cops are inside.” Arnie ended the call. “We need to get there.”

“Griselda called me and I didn’t answer,” Sandro finally said, voice hoarse.

Arnie looked back. “You didn’t know. It was Al who was calling you. There’s a lotta confusion about what happened.”

I squeezed my husband’s hand. Sandro wasn’t one for empty platitudes. The guilt would be there and we could talk about this later. As much as Griselda and I didn’t get along, I hoped she was okay. Even if only for Sandro’s sake.

Sandro’s phone rang, and from what I could tell, it was Tommy.

When we arrived, the police had already yellow-taped the area around Raffa’s house. Emergency vehicles crowded the streets and police herded spectators.

“Dammit,” Sandro muttered.

The last thing organized crime wanted was public scrutiny and police attention, but an event of this magnitude, happening in a popular Brooklyn neighborhood, was impossible to keep on the down-low.

“Stay in the car,” he told me. “Sticks, stay with her.”

The Expedition parked at the edge of where the yellow tape started and Sandro stepped out.

I felt Sticks’s frustration.