Page 21 of Texting My Mafia Boss

She looks shocked for a moment that I’d thank her, but how can I not when she’s bringing me closer to my daughter. I take one last look at her made-up face. I want to compliment the effort. But that would mean crossing a line. Instead, I hurry from the house.

My chauffeur takes me to an upscale bar in the city. Mark is waiting for me at the entrance. “Morning,” he says, nodding.

“You said we were meeting with a detective,” I grunt. “Some prick who might’ve helped those fellas who hit our store.” He called early this morning, before my alarm.

Mark looks at me closely. I can almost hear him thinking,Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed…

“Yeah.” He nods. “In here.”

The detective is easy to spot, a haggard man with bags under his eyes. A cliché if there ever was one.

“Mr. Bellandi,” he says, offering his hand. He withdraws it when I just glare at him.

“This is Detective Tuffin,” Mark says.

I gesture to the booth, waiting for him to sit. Mark sits. I don’t. I stand over them, waiting.

“Well?” I growl when they take their sweet time.

We use police. Every Family does. Some more than others. But I’ve been suspicious of them ever since my ex-wife died in a car crash that was deemed an accident. Nothing in the mob world is an accident. It’s not like I’m mourning some great love. Vera and I married for duty. It’s more the thought that, if they’re willing to lie about that, what else will they lie about?

“Tuffin has got informati?—”

“Let him tell me,” I say, glancing at Mark.

He sits back and folds his hands.

“The Families aren’t the only ones who have friends in the police department,” the detective says. “Before this stunt at the jewelry store, I got word the Cartel was poking around.”

“How did youget word?”

“The grapevine,” he says awkwardly.

I look at Mark, shaking my head. He nods without me needing to say anything. We both know this isn’t enough information.

“What Cartel? Who was behind it? Why?”

“I gather they want to test your response.”

“Do you have any proof?” Mark goes on.

“What proof could I have?” the detective snaps.

“Give us the name of your contact.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t do that.”

This is normally the part where we’d drag him away somewhere and make him squeal. Innocent people could’ve died in that jewelry store, even by accident, even if the attackers didn’t mean it.

“You’re less than useless to us then,” I snarl, turning away.

“What a joke,” Mark grunts, then stands and follows me.

Outside, we lean against my car. Mark lights a cigarette.

“I thought you quit,” I say.

“I did,” he replies, then takes a drag. “What do you think, Ettore?”