For his entire adult life, Tony had worked for the Marano crime family. Based out of York, Pennsylvania, the family had controlled distribution between New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Trenton, Camden, Pittsburgh, Washington DC, Richmond, Atlantic City, and other Mid-Atlantic cities. At the height of their power, they’d been unstoppable and untouchable. But as Mr. Marano began to age and fall apart, so did the organization. They’d fought off takeover attempts from the Greek, Russian, and Korean syndicates, as well as multiple attempts by the black street gangs. Although they’d come through each battle victorious, the skirmishes chipped away at the organization, little by little. Tony had thought sometimes about getting out— starting a new life. But he knew that was impossible.
Until the Clickers came.
The arrival of the Clickers had been apocalyptic for the rest of the nation. Cities destroyed. Coastal towns decimated. Millions of people dead. The complete—albeit temporary—collapse of the entire American political system. But for Tony, it had actually worked out pretty well. In the aftermath of the invasion, the Feds had figured out who he was. Before he could escape, Tony had been whisked away. They leaned on him. Threatened him with all the crimes they could supposedly connect him to. Tony kept his cool, because in truth, he was more scared of Mr. Marano than he was of anyone from the FB-fucking-I. Tony knew all too well what his options were. He could go to prison or he could drop dime. If he went with the first option, Old Man Marano would have him killed inside prison within twenty-four hours. He would never live long enough to see trial or serve his term. Yes, Tony was loyal, but he also knew too much. The Feds would offer him the world in order to get their hands on what he knew. Marano would never allow that. And if Tony managed to stay alive, and took the deal, Marano would track him down before he ended up in witness protection. Either way, he was a dead man.
Until they offered him a third option.
With Livingston’s help, Tony had convinced the Feds to fake his death. Not a huge, public spectacle splashed all over the newspapers. Just enough of a story to get back to Marano and the rest of the organization. As far as his previous employer was concerned, Tony had died with his partner Vince when their car plunged into the Susque-hanna River. In exchange, Tony gave the government everything he knew about Marano’s organization. In truth, the crime family was on its last legs at that point, anyway. Years of warring with the Greeks, Russians and others had left them weak and disordered. Now the Mexican cartels had moved into the States, using Atlanta as their East Coast hub and spreading their network all the way to Maine—a route that also included York and all of the Marano family’s other territories. As far as Tony was concerned, illegal immigration was the biggest problem facing organized crime. Within another decade, anybody involved in the business would be speaking Spanish.
The ruse had worked. Marano thought he was dead. Tony Genova ceased to exist. Larry DiMazzio was born. The government had set him up with a condo in Arizona. Tony liked the area, especially the fact that it was as far away from the fucking ocean as a person could get. He made a living day trading. His FBI handlers—they preferred the term liaison—checked in on him once a month, but otherwise, life was good.
The only thing he missed was Vince. They had been partners for many years, and they’d seen a lot of weird shit together. Vince had also been the closest thing Tony had to a real friend—or at least what sufficed for a friend in their line of work. Vince was dumb as a rock and fatter than an elephant at an all-you-can-eat buffet, but he’d also been loyal and kind—two qualities that Tony had admired. Vince had been like a pet dog, or maybe a little brother. Sometimes he’d aggravated Tony to the point of violence, and then, the next minute, he’d make Tony laugh. Tony had loved him, in his own fashion. And now he was gone.
And today would have been his birthday.
“Larry,” the girl asked again, “are you listening to me?”
“Sorry, babe.” Momentarily forgetting, Tony slipped into his natural accent—a bizarre compendium of Brooklyn, the New Jersey shore, and Pennsylvania Dutch. “I was off in fucking La-La Land. What’s up?”
If the girl noticed the change, she gave no indication.
“I axed if you were gonna take me out tonight?”
Tony shook his head. “Not tonight. I’ve got shit to do.”
Pouting, the girl—he wished he could remember her name—pulled on her panties and bra.
“You got someone else coming over?”
“No, sugar. It ain’t like that. I’ve got to work. You know how it is.”