Modern: faux-tasteful antique furniture, paintings as forgettable as they were expensive and packaged decorator color schemes that might have come straight from the set of some overwrought Mafia film. The floors were polished hardwoods covered in expensive Persian rugs. Pierce, who wore hard-soled, Italian-leather shoes, seemed to delight in grinding his feet into the rugs, as if he thought them as tasteless an affectation as Bolan judged them to be.
One more note for the mental file, Bolan thought.
In an anteroom at the end of a long hallway, another pair of hardmen stopped them. Pierce looked more annoyed than usual as he and Bolan approached. “Stay steady and don’t kill nobody if I have to get a little rough,” he whispered to Bolan. “Things usually get a little rocky between me and Dumb-Dumb over here. He’s a nephew of the Corino family, and he figures he should have my job, not guard duty outside the sanctum sanctorum over here.”
Bolan shot Pierce a glance.
“Well, well,” one of the two guards said when Bolan and Pierce were in earshot. “If it isn’t Davey. Hey, Davey. I been meaning to ask you a favor.”
“Yeah, Seb?” Pierce queried. “What’s that?” His tone did not match his words. He sounded angry, as if he knew what was coming and didn’t like it.
“Yeah. I was wondering if you could take this magic ring back to the evil mountain where it was forged.”
Bolan’s brow furrowed. Pierce, meanwhile, didn’t say a word for a moment. Finally he said, “We’re expected. Open the door.”
“You know,” Seb said, as if he hadn’t heard, “because you’re short. Short like those guys in that thing.”
“That narrows it down,” Bolan said.
Now it was Pierce’s turn to look at Bolan. Seb took a step closer and put a finger on the Executioner’s chest. “Look, dim bulb, maybe you don’t hear so good—”
That was the last word he got out before Bolan reached up, grabbed his finger and hand, and twisted, applying a joint lock that made the big thug howl in agony. Before Seb’s partner could step in, Pierce put himself in front of Bolan and Seb, blocking the way.
“Nope,” Pierce said. “Keep it in your pants, Joey.”
“Seb?” Joey asked. “What you want me to do?”
But Seb wasn’t in a position to answer any questions. Bolan continued to apply pressure to Seb’s finger joints and wrist, turning and twisting. “Here’s a free piece of advice, pal,” Bolan said quietly. “Never reach for another man. Never put your finger anywhere near him unless that finger is backed up with the rest of your arm. You can spear a guy in the throat. You can poke a thumb into his eye. Hell, you can grab a man’s eye socket like it’s a bowling ball, if you want. But never just put your finger on a man’s chest. You’re just looking to get hurt real bad.”
“What he said,” Pierce muttered, still eyeing Joey.
“You get me?” Bolan asked. “Or do I add a little pressure and make your nickname ‘Lefty’ for the rest of your life?”
“Nah,” Seb ground out through his teeth.
“I can’t hear you,” Bolan said, twisting.
“I said no! No!” Seb yelled. “I get you! I get you!”
Bolan released him. The mobster collapsed to the floor, grabbing his injured hand with his opposite palm and curling into a fetal ball. Pierce looked down, smiling, and shot Joey a disgusted look before he gestured to the doorway.
“After you, Mr. Harmon,” he said with a flourish. “And thank you.”
“De nada.”
They found Aldo and Rose Corino in a study decorated in the same manner as what Bolan had so far seen in the house. The appointments were opulent and over the top, as if it was all for show. Bolan ran the implications through his mind. The Corinos cared about being perceived as powerful and wealthy. Their images mattered to them. When an enemy’s ego put style over substance, that pointed to weakness. Which could be exploited and would ultimately be the fissures through which Bolan would crack and tear apart the Corinos’ armor.
“What was all that grab-ass in the hall?” the elderly Don asked.
“Nothing, Mr. Corino,” said Pierce. “Nothing at all. Uh, sorry for the interruption. And it’s very nice to see you again, Mrs. Corino.” He bowed slightly to the matriarch of the Corino family, perhaps even unaware that he was doing it.
One look at the dour, wrinkled, battle-ax face on Rosa Corino and Bolan could understand why. She had the permanently pinched, furrowed look of someone who wielded a lot of power...and who wasn’t particularly happy about it. She wore a neatly tailored suit jacket and skirt and surprisingly tasteful jewelry. A pair of half-lens glasses was perched on her nose, attached to a chain around her neck.
If Rosa Corino had a kind of Lady Macbeth aura about her, Aldo Corino was complementary to the role. He was a hunched, gaunt old man, wearing a cashmere sweater over a Ralph Lauren shirt. His slacks were expensive. His shoes, Italian loafers. He looked like he hadn’t gotten up out of his chair in days. He had a turkey neck and the face of a buzzard, with a prominent nose and sunken eyes. The Corino patriarch waved one hand, which bore a large, golden signet ring. The ring might, Bolan mused, be the only genuine antique in this ersatz mausoleum.
“Vincent Harmon,” Rosa Corino said. “We’re told that you were instrumental in driving back the attack by the Torettos today.”
“I was,” Bolan replied.
“You should have seen him, Mrs. Corino,” Pierce stated. “You’re getting your money’s worth with this character.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Aldo told him. From the pocket of his sweater he removed a brass pocket watch. He made a big show of opening and staring at the timepiece before slowly closing it and returning it to his pocket. “He has to prove himself.” The Mob boss put his fist to his gaunt face and coughed several times. He looked to his wife.
“The Torettos,” Rosa said. “They are your first test.”
“I don’t follow,” said Bolan, who followed just fine. He wanted there to be no doubt. He wanted to hear the Corinos explain precisely what they expected.
“All of the Chicago families have been deep in meetings for the better part of a year and a half,” Rosa went on. She kept her gnarled hands folded on her lap as she spoke, never gesturing with them. The absence of motion was what drew Bolan’s eyes. It was very likely, from the appearance of her fingers and knuckles, that Rosa suffered from severe arthritis.
“In that time,” Aldo added, having recovered from his coughing fit, “we’ve all agreed on a list. There are names. There are dates. There are specific places. The plan has been worked out and agreed to so that it benefits all of the families and doesn’t step on any toes. The times and places are nonnegotiable. The dates are nonnegotiable. The list is a list of people we need you to take out.”
“Yeah,” Bolan said. “I got that much. But you’re tying my hands if you expect me to hit these people only in the times and places you specify. It’s bad tactics.”
“That’s
