Vendetta(85)

“Before you kill them?” I asked. Though I already knew, I wanted him to say it so it would kick my fuzzy brain into gear.

“Of course.” Felice smiled, revealing two long rows of sharp teeth. “Head start or no head start, we always catch up in the end. And sometimes, I daresay, the chase is the best part.”

A shudder rippled up my spine. Finally, and unpleasantly, the urgency of the situation had settled on me; I had more people than just myself to think about. “Why did you send my uncle the Gift of Death?” My voice cracked, and a wave of fear careened over me. “If it has something to do with revenge for what my father did, he didn’t mean it.”

Felice raised his finger to hush me. “The death of my beloved brother Angelo at the hands of your father was, of course, regrettable, but I don’t believe there was any ill intent on your father’s part.”

I felt my shoulders dip. “That’s good.”

“That is not to say, however, that this situation is not about revenge. Because,” he said, standing to his full height, “of course, it is.”

Felice’s tallness suddenly seemed so much more formidable. He began pacing up and down, and I got the sense he did this all the time — intimidation by theatrics. He probably had a special suit for every occasion. His neck scarf cascaded behind him as he glided back and forth.

“I think it is reasonable to ascertain now that you are clearly unaware that your uncle, Jack Gracewell, is a pivotal member of the biggest drug cartel in the Midwest. The Golden Triangle Gang, as they so eloquently call themselves. Would I be correct in assuming so?”

I gaped at him. It couldn’t be true. It had to be part of his theatrics.

“Among other things, they have recently begun dealing a hybrid narcotic that, when taken, elicits effects similar to those associated with extreme intoxication, and can lead to an array of unfortunate aftereffects, including paranoia, memory loss, paralysis, and my personal least favorite, death.” He shook his head at the world outside, like all the birds and flowers had let him down at once.

“No” was all I could muster. Words were failing me. I was dumbfounded and Felice could see it; worse than that, he was thriving on it, like a well-dressed parasite.

He started pacing again. “Of course, we’ve been monitoring your uncle and his not-so-esteemed business partners for nearly four years — right back to the time when he began using the diner, your homey family establishment, to stash drug shipments between deliveries.”

“What?” I spluttered back into life. “Jack used my father’s diner for drug trafficking?”

“Well, I would have thought those two dots would have been easy to connect, but maybe I’m too close to the situation, so it’s easier for me.” Felice hunkered down so he could be closer to me. “Initially there were just three pivotal members of the Golden Triangle Gang operating on this side of the Atlantic, each one positioned at a different key point in the Midwest; points that, when drawn together on a map, form a perfect triangle” — he made a triangle in the air with his fingers — “of ill-earned profit.”

I felt a bee buzzing dangerously close to my ear and jerked my head on reflex.

“Careful,” Felice warned. He sprang to his feet again. “As the Falcone boss, my brother Angelo was principally in charge of ending this chain of unlawful activities. It was no mean feat, but we have always said, ‘The falcon does not hunt flies.’ Together we were to change the face of the Midwest narcotics underworld.”

Felice’s movements turned fluid, one hand tucked behind his back wistfully, as though he were taking an evening stroll down a quiet street.

“My brother was successful in coordinating the demise of founding fathers one and two of the Golden gang in relatively quick succession, not to mention several key members of their respective crews.” He widened his colorless eyes and looked toward the ceiling like he was talking to someone beyond it. “And if I may say, the family made quite an artful job of them, but I would hate to offend your sensibilities, Persephone, so I won’t go into the details.”

I remembered the newspaper article with a jolt. It had mentioned the Golden Triangle Gang. Angelo Falcone had been suspected of their murders — their brutal murders — but was never charged. I didn’t know whether I could bring myself to believe it, but before I could stop myself I was saying, “And Jack was number three.”

“And Jack Gracewell was the elusive third point on said triangle,” Felice confirmed, his expression suddenly somber. He cracked his knuckles, one by one, and I noticed they were stung just as badly as his face. “Miss Gracewell, I have yet to meet a more slippery, unconscionable individual than your uncle.”