Page 7

Gennaro sat at his kitchen table, stuffing twenties into the automatic bill counter.

The bills were part of that day’s take from his bookie business.

With the punch of a button, the cash began spinning through the machine.

But instead of feeling a thrill at the sound, it only reminded him how much better it would be to have a whole room full of machines, each counting its own thick stack.

The reason it had never been and would never be that way was Carlo “Pinkie” Ramirez.

Pinkie was the head of the Ramirez Syndicate, which Gennaro had belonged to since he was seventeen.

During Gennaro’s first decade working for Pinkie, things had been great.

And then Eduardo Buono had shown up.

Behind Buono’s unassuming facade was the mind of a master thief, with years of successful heists under his belt.

So when Buono needed six men to help him steal a shipment of several million dollars from a currency-handling company located at JFK Airport, he had gone to Pinkie.

Pinkie had tapped Gennaro and five others for the task, telling them that fifty percent of each of their shares would go to him.

Buono had been hyper-diligent in its planning, so it was no surprise that the heist had gone off without a hitch.

It was what happened after when everything went south.

Buono had instructed Gennaro and the other five to lay low and not spend their shares of the money for a year.

They all promised they wouldn’t, then promptly ignored Buono’s directive—paying off debts, buying new cars and clothes, and eating at the finest restaurants.

Just as Buono had warned, their activities drew the attention of the cops, and all six had been arrested.

Each facing sentences of a decade or more, they had ratted on Buono, who was then apprehended and sentenced to more than twenty years in Sing Sing.

In reality, it became a death sentence since Buono had died behind bars.

Gennaro had been the first to flip.

He wasn’t particularly proud of that fact, but he had to do what he had to do.

He ended up spending four years, ten months, and thirteen days in prison.

Once he was out, a couple of the guys he knew told him that Pinkie was still pissed off at everyone he’d sent to help Buono.

That was understandable.

None of the six had paid Pinkie his share before the police had confiscated their remaining cash.

The only person whose share of the take had not been recovered by the cops was Buono’s.

In the end, Gennaro had been the only one of Pinkie’s men allowed back into the syndicate.

And that was only because the two men were distantly related.

Gennaro’s reinstatement had come with restriction, however.

He’d been given a small bookie operation and told in no uncertain terms that any attempts to turn it into something larger would not be tolerated.

Gennaro had assumed that one day Pinkie would untie his hands, but here he was, more than two decades in, and he was still restricted to being a bit player.

Granted, Gennaro had been able to sneak in some side work, like what he’d arranged for Stefan Howard.

But because he couldn’t do things like that too often without drawing Pinkie’s attention, the extra cash he made never felt like enough.

Not a day passed when he didn’t rue being on Buono’s heist team.

The gate buzzer went off in the entryway.

Gennaro barely heard it as he continued to brood over the past.

When it sounded again, Rosa yelled from somewhere else in the house, “Can you get that?”

“I’m doing the count,” Gennaro yelled back.

He could hear her muttering as she made her way to the intercom.

A third buzz was cut off when she pushed the talk button and barked, “What?”

Gennaro placed another stack onto the counter and started the machine again, the noise drowning out whatever the person outside said.

When the last bill flipped through, he entered the amount on his spreadsheet.

“Did you hear me?”

Gennaro jumped at the sound of his sister’s voice.

She was staring at him from the other end of the table, her hair in a shower cap and a towel wrapped around her torso.

“What the hell?” he said.

“Someone wants to see you.”

“Who?”

“Said his name is Brady.”

Gennaro stared at her for a moment.

When she didn’t go on, he said, “Brady who?”

She frowned in thought.

“Who was the president with the peanut farm?”

“Carter?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Brady Carter.”

“I don’t know any Brady Carter.”

“He said you’d say that. He also said to tell you it’s about the reward you promised.” Her eyes narrowed.

“Since when do we have money to pay a reward for anything?”

“I don’t know what he’s talking about. Tell him to hit the road.”

“ You tell him to hit the road. I’m going to take a shower.”

She disappeared into the hallway, leaving him glaring at her wake.

The gate buzzer screeched again.

“Dammit.”

Gennaro pushed out of his chair and lumbered into the foyer.

He checked the built-in screen on the intercom.

At the gate stood a middle-aged man with a forgettable face.

Gennaro didn’t recognize him.

He pushed the talk button and said, “Whatever you’re selling, we ain’t buying, so take a hike.”

“Mr. Gennaro? Wait. My name is Brady Carter. We met once, a few years ago.”

“I don’t care who you are. But if you push that button again, I have a guy here who’s going to come out and make sure you can never push another.”

Gennaro sneered.

That was a good line.

He’d have to remember it.

Of course, none of the guys he occasionally hired as muscle were around, so he couldn’t back it up, but that hardly mattered.

“Don’t do that! I-I-I saw Johnny Fratelli.”

Gennaro’s brow furrowed.

“What did you say?”

“A few years ago, you came around and said you’d pay for information about Johnny Fratelli’s whereabouts. Is that offer still valid?”

“You saw Fratelli?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Today.”

Gennaro was at a momentary loss for words.

He’d been looking for Fratelli since right after Fratelli had been released from prison.

He pushed the talk button again.

“You better not be lying to me.”

“I’m not.”

Gennaro buzzed the gate, then moved to the entrance.

When he heard Carter’s footsteps reach his porch, he opened the door.

“In,” he snapped.

Carter stepped inside, and Gennaro shut the door.

“You have one minute,” he said.

“Start talking.”

“Okay, um, I was meeting a friend for lunch today, and as I was walking in, Fratelli was walking out.” Carter described what happened in detail.

“You’re sure it was Fratelli?”

“He looks older than he used to, which he would, right? And his nose is different, but I figure he did that on purpose. You know, to change his face. But I swear to you, it was him.”

“What time was this?”

“A little after one p.m., I think.”

“You think or you know?”

“Um, I know. I was supposed to meet my friend at one, and I was about five minutes late.”

“Name of the restaurant?”

“Café Chelsea.”

Gennaro clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, thinking.

If this guy was right, this was huge.

“All right,” he said, then reopened the front door.

“Thanks for letting me know.”

“Wait. What about the reward?”

Gennaro snorted.

“You don’t expect me to just believe you without checking it out first, do you?”

“No…I guess not. But…”

“Carter, was it?”

“Y-y-yes.”

“You got a piece of paper and a pen?”

“Uh…” Carter patted his pockets and came up with a pen but no paper.

“Not carrying any cash?” Gennaro asked.

“What?”

Gennaro stared at him until Carter removed his wallet and pulled out a ten-dollar bill.

“This is the smallest I have.”

“Good for you. It’s still paper.”

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Mr. Carter, how am I supposed to get a hold of you if your information is good?”

“Ah. I get it.” Carter wrote his name and number on the bill and gave it to Gennaro as he said, “Then there still is a reward?”

“If he turns out to really be Fratelli, there is. But if you’re wasting my time…”

“I’m not. I swear.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Now, if you don’t mind.” Gennaro nodded toward the open door.

“Thank you, Mr. Gennaro,” Carter said as he left.

Gennaro returned to the kitchen and pulled a beer out of the fridge, his mind still trying to wrap itself around what Carter had told him.

Johnny Fratelli had been Eduardo Buono’s cellmate in Sing Sing, and the last man to see Buono alive.

Rumor was, Buono had told Fratelli where he’d hidden his share of the heist—a cool seven and a half million.

That money rightfully belonged to the guys who’d been on the heist, not some former inmate who hadn’t had to lift a finger to earn it.

But after two years of searching for him with no luck, Gennaro had given up.

Fratelli had vanished without a trace.

Or, if Carter’s information was correct, without a trace…

until now.

Gennaro went down the hall to his office to make some calls.