Chapter 27: Betrayer’s Call (Nico Valenti POV)
Chapter 27: Betrayer’s Call (Nico Valenti POV)
Gia’s at the counter of Rosie’s Diner, a greasy spot off the highway, swirling a spoon in her coffee, her jacket draped over the stool next to her. I slide into the booth across from her, tossing her burner phone onto the table, its scratched screen glinting under the diner’s buzzing lights. “Start talking,” I say, my voice low, my hand in my pocket, thumb grinding my cross keychain to keep my rage from spilling over.
She drops the spoon, coffee splashing, and snatches the phone, swiping through the call log with shaking fingers. “You’re digging through my stuff now?” she says, her voice sharp, but her eyes dart to the door like she’s expecting someone.
“You’re calling Sean O’Connor,” I say, leaning forward, my cap pulled low. “Feeding him Valenti moves. Sal’s dead because of you, Gia. Luca’s next if you don’t come clean.”
She slams the phone down, her jaw tight, and grabs her jacket, clutching it like a shield. “I’m protecting Luca,” she says, her voice cracking. “Sean’s after the $50,000 Raf skimmed. I’m giving him just enough to keep him off you two.”
I pull the receipt Luca found at the bar, $50,000 deposit to an O’Connor front, and slide it across the table. “This your idea of protection?” I say, my voice cold. “You knew Raf was laundering our cash?”
She grabs the receipt, her hands trembling as she reads it, then tosses it back. “I found out after,” she says, standing, her boots scuffing the linoleum. “I’m trying to fix this, Nico. For Luca’s sake.”
I’m on my feet, blocking her path to the door. “You don’t get to use him as an excuse,” I say, my fist clenched behind my back. “Stay away from him, or you won’t walk away next time.”
She stares at me, her eyes wet but hard, then grabs her coffee cup and brushes past, the diner’s bell jingling as she leaves. I lean on the counter, catching the eye of the waitress, Marge, her name tag reads, gray hair tied back. I slide her a ten. “Gia been here a lot?” I ask, keeping my voice casual.
Marge pockets the cash, wiping the counter with a rag. “Every night this week,” she says, nodding to Gia’s stool. “Meets a guy sometimes, big, scar on his neck. They argue, then he leaves.”
I nod, my gut twisting, O’Connor’s thug, same one from the pier. I pull my phone, dialing Marco. “You got Raf’s boat?” I ask when he picks up, his voice rough over the sound of a idling engine.
“Slipped out twenty minutes ago,” Marco says, a cigarette lighter clicking. “Docked at slip 22 now, south docks. He’s unloading crates with two O’Connor guys.”
“Stay on him,” I say, hanging up and heading to the truck. I text Luca: Gia’s lying. Headed back. Stay put. His reply’s quick: Checking Sal’s phone. Marco says Raf’s got a runner named Vinny. I pocket the phone, starting the engine, the diner’s neon sign fading in the rearview as I head for the safehouse, a brick building tucked behind a shuttered warehouse.
The streets are quiet, just a delivery van crawling past, and I park in the alley, grabbing my gun and checking the clip. My thumb’s still on my cross, the metal biting my skin, and I’m replaying Gia’s words, for Luca’s sake, but they don’t add up. She’s been meeting O’Connor’s muscle, selling us out while playing the martyr.
I unlock the safehouse door, stepping into the dim room, the air stale with mildew. Luca’s at the table, Sal’s phone in one hand, his notebook open, pen scratching fast. “Find anything?” I ask, locking the door behind me, my boots thudding on the concrete.
He looks up, tucking a curl behind his ear, his knife flipping open and closed in his other hand. “Yeah,” he says, sliding the phone toward me. “Two numbers, Sean’s, and another, labeled ‘Vinny.’ Texted Marco about it. He says Vinny’s Raf’s O’Connor runner, handles cash drops.”
I grab the phone, scrolling the texts, Vinny’s last message to Sal: Meet at slip 22, midnight. Bring proof. “Sal was closing in on Raf,” I say, pocketing the phone. “That’s why they killed him.”
Luca nods, jotting Vinny, slip 22 in his notebook, his humming soft, that ballad he’s stuck on. “We hitting the docks?” he asks, standing, grabbing a water bottle and taking a sip.
“Soon,” I say, grabbing a chair and sitting, my hand still on my cross. “Marco’s watching Raf. We need to, ”
My phone buzzes, Marco: Raf’s unloading at slip 22. Vinny’s there. Move fast. I’m about to show Luca when I hear a creak from the back door, the one we bolted shut. I grab my gun, motioning for Luca to stay quiet, and edge toward it, checking the bolts, still locked, but the handle’s loose, like someone tried it. “Luca, check the duffel,” I say, keeping my voice low.
He grabs the bag, unzipping it, pulling out our spare clips and a flashlight. “Everything’s here,” he says, but his voice is tight, his knife flipping faster.
I move to the front door, double-checking the lock, then turn back. “Luca?” I call, stepping into the main room. The table’s empty, his notebook open, pen on the floor. The front door’s ajar, the chain dangling, like someone slipped through while I was checking the back. My heart stops, he’s gone.