Page 3 of Power & Punishment

“Yeah,” I yell after him, speeding up my pace.

The last time I saw a Russo man dead on the pavement, I was twelve years old, and my brothers were too scared to do anything about it.

I’m not twelve anymore and I’ve spent the last decade and a half making sure I’d be ready when it happened again.

2

MIA

This place hasn’t changed.

The second I push open the door, I’m bombarded with a familiar mixture of cigarette smoke and stale vodka. It smells like home, but that’s probably because my family lived above this bar for most of my life.

The lead from Vince’s murder had quickly gone cold.

Keith and I spent the afternoon following up on the valet ticket at Ristorante Ottaviani only to get stonewalled by a terrified waitress and a room full of people who’d rather jump off a tall building than talk to a couple of cops.

The only thing I learned was what I already suspected. Vince had been with someone important the night he died. Someone very difficult to track down without a solid set of prints or a license plate number.

It’s almost midnight, but a few patrons are hovering near the bar with a drink clinging to their hands. It’s hard to see faces through the haze of smoke, and I’m thankful for the extra cover.

Being back here slowly stirs up memories I spent the entire day trying to bury. Even the good ones like Sunday dinners with my mom laughing from the kitchen and my brothers arguing over who got the last slice of bread were too hard to relive. Because all those memories ended the same way.

My mom suffering from her disease and my dad desperate to keep her alive, pushing him toward riskier jobs that ended in his demise.

And then there’s the suffocating guilt of how I felt this morning standing over Vince’s body.

I should’ve been devastated.

Unable to contain my emotions.

But grief doesn’t hit me the same way it used to. Now I spend my days surrounded by death, giving closure to strangers that I never got for myself.

I take a deep breath, waiting for my pulse to hammer out of control, but it stays steady. I guess that’s what coming home feels like, except I can’t convince my brain to share the same sentiment.

Instead of making a beeline for the back, I slide onto one of the barstools hugging the counter and order a beer from the young woman tending the bar. She looks perky and full of life. She must be new. Thankfully, I’m catching some luck today.

I scratch the nape of my neck, feeling overheated from the blonde wig I wrangled my messy hair into. It may be a bit over the top, considering I’m barely recognizable from my preteen years, but I can’t risk anyone knowing I’m here, which might make getting to the back room difficult. I don’t even know if Dante is around, but based on the group of intimidating jackets standing in the corner, his crew is here.

My eyes catch on the back corner where a familiar stairwell sits. The last memory I have of this place is Vince helping me carry my suitcase down the stairs in the middle of the night. Then shoving me into a cab and dropping me off at the train station with an address and enough cash to start over.

Keeping my posture loose and casual, I try to pretend like I’m another nobody looking for entertainment in the form of a glass bottle. I use the smudged mirror behind the bar to observe my surroundings. The hallway to the back is clear, but that’s what they want you to think. I have no doubt one of my brother’s guard dogs is nearby looking for a fight.

The bartender slides my beer over to me with a bright smile that feels surprisingly genuine. Where the hell did they find her?

“First time at Stella’s?” she asks, dragging a dirty towel across the counter. The name makes me flinch for a second. This place was named after my mom back when my parents were still madly in love.

“Something like that,” I lie, trying to reel in an ounce of calm energy. I wrap my fingers around the ice-cold bottle to help. She nods before trekking to the other end of the bar to take another customer’s order.

I take a long, cold sip of my beer while contemplating how to get into the backroom without turning too many heads. The only logical way is to create a distraction to lure out the doorman while I sneak by to see my brother.

Except the only plausible idea I can come up with is starting a fight and blaming it on the poor and fully inebriated old man sitting a few bar stools down from me. I’m about to ignore the guilt stirring in my chest until fate decides to throw me a bone.

I hear a loud commotion from the hall as two men arguing emerge.

“I thought we could be cordial, but apparently your brother was the smart one.”

“Don’t you dare talk about my brother, Leo,” a familiar voice growls. I keep my head pointed straight in front of me, but the temptation of looking for two brown irises that match mine is almost too much.