focused on anything as he was on erasing Dylan Devlin from the face of the earth. The 3 million dollars Herman Hoffman had requested for taking Devlin out was chump change considering what was at stake. Sam would have given far more, and gladly. Devlin could steal from him the one thing Sam Manelli valued more than anything—his freedom.
Sam heard the sound of approaching footsteps and braced himself. A young guard with a blond crew cut stopped at the door and peered inside at him. Sam stared back, keeping his expression neutral. The guard took his hand out of his pocket and held out a small black object. Sam slipped from the bed, crossed to the bars, and took it.
“This is yours from midnight until two A.M., ” the guard said in a whisper, even though the cells on either side of Sam were unoccupied. “It's totally safe to use.”
Sam nodded. The guard walked away.
He sat on the cot, punched in the numbers, and pushed SEND . After two rings a familiar voice answered.
“It's me,” Sam said in a low voice. “You sure this thing's clean?”
“Squeaky,” Russo said. Sam didn't believe any electronic conversation was safe. He'd been speaking face-to-face and in code for so long he didn't know how to say anything incriminating.
“So, how's things?”
“I had a red thing leak dye in the washer ruined the gowns,” said Johnny.
Sam's heart sped up. Someone was stealing. “Red thing leaking dye” was the code for red ink—someone skimming. Gown was high-dollar prostitution.
“I'm gonna bleach it out tonight.”
“Is the old man cleaning the pool?” He was referring to Herman Hoffman.
“His boys are handling it. Soon as I know how it looks I'll let you know.”
“Good.”
“Can't wait to see you back home.”
“You and me both,” Sam replied grimly. He pressed the END button.
Johnny Russo was family by his marriage to Sam's niece, but Sam had known Johnny for all of the young man's thirty-nine years. He had stood as Johnny's godfather, and even though he wasn't a religious man, had taken that responsibility to heart. Johnny's father, Richie Russo, had been Sam's chief enforcer, a man he had been close to since his childhood. Richie had died in a warehouse fire when Johnny was ten. From that day on, Sam had sent Richie Russo's wife a nice monthly check and called it a pension. It was just a necessary business expense. He had genuinely cared about Richie, but Johnny had not made it into the son-he-never-had category.
When Johnny was fourteen, Sam had hired him to work at one of his amusement companies, beginning with odd jobs and granting him more responsibility as he grew older. Johnny had been a polite kid, a hard worker who never made the same mistake twice. Always smiling, always ready to show Sam that he wanted to learn more. Sam's father had trusted only Italians, but Sam had discovered that limited business. Sam had ways of determining who was trustworthy, who would keep the necessary secrets and remain loyal. “Family” was a relative term, and ethnic lineage didn't ensure omerta. Sam had a system of rewards and punishment, both of which had to remain certainties in an uncertain world.
Johnny ran the rackets effectively, but Sam had stayed on top of the business, making sure things ran smoothly under Johnny's care. The trust Sam had in the young man hadn't come easy. He had set a hundred traps over the years, hoping he wouldn't catch Johnny taking advantage of him, and, to his amazement and delight, he never had. Sam had rewarded Johnny by degrees, turning over more and more of his crime enterprise to his protégé, until he was competent enough to handle the day-to-day demands. From the start, Johnny had handled Sam's business and dealt with Sam's enemies like they were his own. Sometimes Johnny could get carried away with the violence, but a man's reputation was what kept people in line.
Sam paid millions each year to the people who would otherwise arrest him and to those who knew when
Sam heard the sound of approaching footsteps and braced himself. A young guard with a blond crew cut stopped at the door and peered inside at him. Sam stared back, keeping his expression neutral. The guard took his hand out of his pocket and held out a small black object. Sam slipped from the bed, crossed to the bars, and took it.
“This is yours from midnight until two A.M., ” the guard said in a whisper, even though the cells on either side of Sam were unoccupied. “It's totally safe to use.”
Sam nodded. The guard walked away.
He sat on the cot, punched in the numbers, and pushed SEND . After two rings a familiar voice answered.
“It's me,” Sam said in a low voice. “You sure this thing's clean?”
“Squeaky,” Russo said. Sam didn't believe any electronic conversation was safe. He'd been speaking face-to-face and in code for so long he didn't know how to say anything incriminating.
“So, how's things?”
“I had a red thing leak dye in the washer ruined the gowns,” said Johnny.
Sam's heart sped up. Someone was stealing. “Red thing leaking dye” was the code for red ink—someone skimming. Gown was high-dollar prostitution.
“I'm gonna bleach it out tonight.”
“Is the old man cleaning the pool?” He was referring to Herman Hoffman.
“His boys are handling it. Soon as I know how it looks I'll let you know.”
“Good.”
“Can't wait to see you back home.”
“You and me both,” Sam replied grimly. He pressed the END button.
Johnny Russo was family by his marriage to Sam's niece, but Sam had known Johnny for all of the young man's thirty-nine years. He had stood as Johnny's godfather, and even though he wasn't a religious man, had taken that responsibility to heart. Johnny's father, Richie Russo, had been Sam's chief enforcer, a man he had been close to since his childhood. Richie had died in a warehouse fire when Johnny was ten. From that day on, Sam had sent Richie Russo's wife a nice monthly check and called it a pension. It was just a necessary business expense. He had genuinely cared about Richie, but Johnny had not made it into the son-he-never-had category.
When Johnny was fourteen, Sam had hired him to work at one of his amusement companies, beginning with odd jobs and granting him more responsibility as he grew older. Johnny had been a polite kid, a hard worker who never made the same mistake twice. Always smiling, always ready to show Sam that he wanted to learn more. Sam's father had trusted only Italians, but Sam had discovered that limited business. Sam had ways of determining who was trustworthy, who would keep the necessary secrets and remain loyal. “Family” was a relative term, and ethnic lineage didn't ensure omerta. Sam had a system of rewards and punishment, both of which had to remain certainties in an uncertain world.
Johnny ran the rackets effectively, but Sam had stayed on top of the business, making sure things ran smoothly under Johnny's care. The trust Sam had in the young man hadn't come easy. He had set a hundred traps over the years, hoping he wouldn't catch Johnny taking advantage of him, and, to his amazement and delight, he never had. Sam had rewarded Johnny by degrees, turning over more and more of his crime enterprise to his protégé, until he was competent enough to handle the day-to-day demands. From the start, Johnny had handled Sam's business and dealt with Sam's enemies like they were his own. Sometimes Johnny could get carried away with the violence, but a man's reputation was what kept people in line.
Sam paid millions each year to the people who would otherwise arrest him and to those who knew when
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