Pino pulled open the door of Inspired, and the sea of heads in front of him reaffirmed how popular the restaurant really was. Those waiting in line turned to take a look at the new patron joining their ranks . . . And there it was—a collective wtf moment before eyes bugged wide and a path was cleared, the mass of millennials splitting apart to get out of his way.

Just one of the many advantages to having a scary face.

He ignored them all as he walked by, having little time for the generational cohorts with their trendy clothes, pop culture tastes, and thousand-dollar smartphones. Fucking parasites, he said to himself.

Bowing his head to the hostess, he removed the fedora that once belonged to his father and held it tight to his chest. "Antonio. If you please."

She nodded with a smile, no doubt used to questionable customers cutting the line to meet with her boss. "Right this way."

Resentment rose up like bile in the back of his throat. As much as Pino hated to admit it, he missed Augustus. Yes, he had despised the man, but his death meant the end of an era and was the main reason he had to sink to this level—meeting with people like Antonio Ricci. If the Chilvati patriarch had had the guts to stick around, perhaps they could have worked out some agreement, a blending of the families, an arranged marriage even. Either one of the daughters would have suited him just fine. He'd heard the oldest preferred women, but there were always whores willing to fill that wifely duty.

The owner of the fine establishment was seated at a corner booth in the back. He looked the same–pink, round, and sweating, like a Honey Baked ham. The man rose to his feet and threw his hand out as Pino neared. "My God, you never change, Trovato."

"Nor you, Antonio," Pino said, pointing to the man's gut instead of shaking what was offered.

"I know," he said, adding an awkward laugh to shake off the snub. Chubby fingers patted at the protrusion. "It appears I eat all my profits."

And your wait staff by the looks of it.

Antonio gestured toward the booth and they slid their way in. Pino pulled a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his pinstriped suit and placed it on the bench beside him before laying down his hat.

Antonio smirked. "I can assure you it is clean."

That claim might have held more credence without the grease stains decorating the front of the man's dress shirt. Besides, growing up in a house where tracking in dirt resulted in three lashes from your father's belt, Pino had a routine. Old habits die hard.

He gave the fat little man a tight smile. "I'm surprised you are meeting me in such"—his gaze swept about the busy diner, thinking it looked more like an airport lounge with all its televisions, tablets, and communal tables—"a public place."

"Where else could we go? I figured a dark alleyway would have looked even more suspicious."

And likely too private for Antonio's taste. Pino was under no illusion—he did not foster trust in others. Nor did he want to. "True."

"Don't worry about it." Antonio shrugged, making his stomach jiggle. "My customers are far too into their food bowls and mobile devices to notice what goes on around them. It does pay the bills, though." With the mention of money, the man's focus changed and he attempted to turn on the charm. "How are you doing these days?"

Enough with the niceties. Pinot leveled his stare. "Tell me what the feeling is on the street."

Despite his reasoning, Antonio took a quick look around before leaning forward—as far as his stomach would allow anyway—and saying, "The general consensus is our people are nervous. There is way too much heat." He lifted those plump digits in the air and counted out, "You've got the police, the Green Soldiers, the Chilvati daughters—"

"The daughters are of no concern."

"The Chilvati name still holds a lot of power."

Dishes bounced when Pino slammed his palm on the table. "The Chilvati power is gone. It died with Augustus," he growled.

"Okay, okay," Antonio whispered as he took another look around. "I do have an idea, but it will mean getting your hands dirty." His mouth stretched into a stupid grin as he glanced at the hat.

Pino's patience was wearing thin. "Go on."

"I received an interesting email the other day. Do you want me to forward it to your phone?"

"I have no time for emails." Personally, he preferred face-to-face communication, or fist-to-face depending upon the circumstances.

"Well, you might want to read this one." Antonio shifted to the side and reached behind him, pulling out his cell from somewhere in all that back acreage. After a few buttons were hit, the thing was slid across the wood table.

And as much as Pino was hesitant to touch anything that had been stored near the other man's ass, he grabbed it up as soon as he heard, "It's from Gus Chilvati."

)l(

It was close to four P.M. when Robbie pulled into the parking lot of the bar on Beaker Street. SALLY'S the faded sign on the roof read. With its crooked awning and plywood over one window, the place looked about as tired as the two men dressed in denim and work boots having a cigarette by the front door did.

This was her third appointment. The first two "friends" had been a waste of time. Despite the long faces and outrage over Elizabeth's death, neither of the women had been that close to her. Both had touched on surface stuff, things you could learn running into someone at the grocery store. Robbie had seen that type many times before, snack-aisle-only friends she called them. Because they never quite make it to the meat section.

Robbie picked up the file beside her. Joanne Thomas, Elizabeth's college roommate and current owner of Sally's, had been adamant on the phone about meeting at her workplace. Her tone had been clipped, but that was not all that surprising for a busy business owner who claimed she had nothing more to add beyond what she'd already told authorities.

Only one way to find out, Robbie said to herself, tucking everything into her attaché.

She nodded to the two smokers as she passed. Stepping into the bar, she stopped, her eyes needing a few seconds to adjust to the dimmer light. A giant of a man with tats instead of hair took one look at her and walked over. With the tight shirt defining all the layered sections of muscle and a neck as thick as his head, he reminded her of a turtle.

"Can I help you?" he all but growled.

Highly doubtful. She wasn't demolishing any buildings. Not today anyway. "I'm here to see Joanne."

His eyes narrowed as he took her in.

Don't do it. Don't do—

"You got ID?"

Damn it. Every frickin time. When was she going to finally look her age? "Yeah, right here," she said, digging in her bag. She pulled out her badge instead of her license, though, and shoved it in front of his face.

He rolled his eyes. "Behind the bar, the redhead."

"Thanks."

Robbie headed in. Surprisingly, the interior wasn't all that bad. Rock-and-roll memorabilia mounted on wood paneled walls gave it a unique but homey feel. The bar itself was packed, every stool occupied, a long line of laborers hunched over beer glasses.

Robbie squeezed her way in between two sets of broad shoulders and watched the female bartenders flip bottles in the air before doing a pour into shot glasses. The redhead, Joanne, was the oldest of them all, but looked very much at ease joking and flirting with the men. She had short spiky hair, her own share of tats, and piercings in a large variety of places. As Robbie watched, the woman leaned over the wood surface to pat a man on the shoulder, her loud, dirty laugh cutting through all the chatter. Bingo, Robbie thought to herself. Now here is a woman of interest, not your average suburban housewife.

"Excuse me!" she called out, trying to get her attention.

"That ain't going to work, girly," the man beside Robbie said . . . well, slurred. "You gotta yell. Like this." He cupped his hands in front of his mouth. "Joanne, hurry your ass up and get me my drink!"

Robbie ignored him. As did all the bartenders.

"Yo, bitches! My drink!" the idiot bellowed again.

A group of men standing behind him snickered.

Robbie turned and glared at him. "How about you shut up?"

Wide-eyed, he leaned back on the stool to look her up and down. "The library called. Your books are overdue."

His cluster of cronies laughed.

Wow. Deciding to move, Robbie dragged her case off the bar, the edge of it hitting the man's glass. Accidently. Of course.

The dregs of his latest beer landed in his lap, and he jumped up, grabbing her by the arm. "You did that on purpose," he spat, his thick body crowding hers.

Another big one, except his giant mass had likely been built on years of hard work, not years of repetitions. She stared down at his broad paw. "Hands off."

He made his voice high and whiny when he moaned, "You gonna cry rape?"

"No, I'm going to kick you in the balls."

There was a burst of laughter all around them, and the man's face turned so red, it looked like he was about to have a coronary. Maybe Paul was right. Maybe she did need to be more delicate. The brute let go of her arm, though.

Only to bring both hands to her neck and squeeze.

Without thinking, she dropped her case, grabbed hold of his forearms, and pushed down hard. Bar guy never saw it coming. The move was fast, unexpected, and let's face it, the number of beers consumed certainly helped. As his body lurched forward, her knee shot up and . . . yup, right in the family jewels.

He ended up at her feet. In the fetal position.

She crouched down over top of him. "I warned you. Maybe the next time you talk to a woman, you'll be a little nicer," she hissed.

"What's going on?" Turtleneck had finally made an appearance.

Robbie blinked up at him. "Where were you? This guy was being rude to your bartender."

"Let. Me. Guess."

Robbie turned her head the other way, toward the throaty feminine voice that had just joined in, bringing red strappy heels and black leather pants into her line of vision. As she drew her gaze up Joanne's long, lean form, the woman crossed her arms and said, "Agent Westcott I presume?"

Robbie stood up as Joanne looked over at her bouncer. "Take him outside." She then yelled down to her customer, "Go walk it off, Ashley."

Ashley? No way. Robbie couldn't resist. "Yeah, Ash—"

"Don't." Joanne stepped closer, getting right up in Robbie's face, raw anger flashing in those shrewd eyes. "You've already caused enough problems."

END OF CHAPTER EIGHT

Gus is emailing? 😳That doesn't sound good. Do you think an alliance could develop between him and Pino Trovato?

Robbie did not make a very good impression on her source, did she? We'll have to wait and see how that pans out🤷🏻‍♀️

Dedicated to @DainaBoredomi for reading, voting, and adding both The Dangerous Ones and The Silent Ones to her Mafia Romance Books. Thank you for including me in your collection of recommended stories❤️

Thank you all for reading and voting and commenting 📖⭐️🗣❤️