Cold Justice: A Steamy Mafia Revenge Thriller

By Simone Leigh

When your Back’s Against the Wall.

De Palo is dead.

But who killed him? And why?

Does this mean the end of the vendetta?

Or must the family still prepare to defend everything they love?

A Steamy Mafia Revenge Thriller

 

Approx 36,500 Words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simone Leigh Publishing
• Release date: Jan 21, 2024

Book preview

Chapter One - Klempner

In my pocket, the vibe of my phone. When I check the screen…

Fuck…

Haswell, this isn't a good time.

Klempner, shut up and listen. Will Stanton just called me. De Palo’s been found dead. A single shot through the back of the head.

?

Haswell, could you repeat that. I think I misheard you.

You didn’t mishear me. De Palo’s dead.

Hickman frowns toward me. Caproni too. Problem?

I’m… not sure… I tap my loudspeaker. Haswell, I’m putting you on speaker. Did Stanton say any more than that?

He told me de Palo, or what’s left of him, was found just off the belt on the City outskirts. There was barely any attempt made to conceal the body. He says if you want to see it on site, get yourself over there ASAP. He’ll issue a pass for you.

Just me? I scan the room. Hickman’s chin lifts. James and Caproni look bland. Michael shoves hands in his pockets, stares down at his feet.

Haswell havers. He only mentioned you. If there’s others wanting to come, I think it’s going to be potluck and Will’s mood when you get there. I’ll message through the location.

Hickman catches my eye, head-pointing the quivering Morelli.

Fine, I say. Tell Stanton I’ll be there. But also, I’ll be handing over a prisoner. If he wants to talk to him, he’ll be able to do so.

I’ll tell him.

*****

I drive with Morelli in the back, handcuffed to Hickman, flanked by Decker. James, Michael and Caproni follow behind. The expected confusion of squad cars, blue uniforms and roped-off crime scene awaits us. I take the lead as one of the uniforms ushers us to Stanton.

Face impassive, he scans our group, one man at a time, lingering on the hunched Morelli. Anything any of you gentlemen would like to share with me about this? How about you, Mr Waterman? His gaze shifts. Or you, Mr Hickman?

Hickman stiffens, but I wriggle fingers back toward him…

Cool it…

… and he settles. Silent. Tense.

Commissioner, I say, There’s not a man here who will grieve over the loss of Franco de Palo. Personally, I would love to take the credit for putting him in the ground. But I didn’t. None of us did. He…

Is that right? snaps Stanton. Here you are, every one of you with an excellent motive for wanting to see de Palo dead. And yet not one of you knows anything about it?

We’ve been waiting for de Palo to come to us, I say. We expected him to do so. His men attacked us, but de Palo wasn’t with them.

Stanton scowls. So Richard’s been telling me. It didn’t occur to consult me? You could have done this entirely legally.

I don’t believe we have broken any laws, Commissioner. De Palo’s men sought us out and launched an attack. We defended ourselves and in so doing, took a number of prisoners.

I gesture Hickman forward with the cuffed Morelli. This is one of them. We’ve been… interviewing… him. In de Palo’s absence, he was giving the orders.

"Interviewing?" Stanton nods to a uniform as Hickman unlocks the cuff on his wrist, and hands over our prisoner.

Stanton towers over Morelli. He’s a tall man, and broad with it. A fact not lost on our snivelling prisoner. And what did you learn?

I want police protection, whines Morelli. Look what they did to me… He cradles his injured hand, rests his weight on his uninjured leg. I'm entitled to a lawyer. I know my rights.

I’ll bet you do, Stanton rakes Morelli with his gaze, hovers over the damaged hand and the injured knee, travels Hickman, who maintains a don’t-think-about-asking expression. When you choose to attack men capable of fighting back, he says evenly, injuries are a likely result. If I were you, I'd quit while I was ahead. I’ll have a medic attend to you, then we’ll take your statement.

They attacked us! They were armed.

Attacked you? Stanton turns to me. Where was this? The Haswell offices?

No. Haswell’s beach house.

’S that right? He addresses Morelli again. It happens that I know that beach house. How did you come to be there? Kind of an out-of-the-way spot for you to chance across. You and your…

Eighteen, says James, breaking a grim-faced silence.

Stanton arches brows. "… your eighteen cohorts, randomly wandered into the ground of an isolated vacation home, presumably expecting to meet holidaymakers. And they attacked you? Is that what you’re saying?"

Morelli cringes, mumbling something to the dirt.

Get him out of my sight, says Stanton. Read him his rights. Get him a medic. Stand a guard over him until we can get him into interview.

As a uniform leads the limping Morelli away, Stanton, expression grim, head angled, And the remainder of these eighteen assailants?

You’ll find them at the beach house, I say. We did no more than protect ourselves. We even left them under the medical care of your Dr Anderssen.

Stanton awards me another slow look then gestures us to a quiet spot, out of general earshot. He steers his gaze between me and Hickman. Did he tell you what you needed to know?

Hickman shrugs. Nothing we didn't know already. He didn’t know where to find de Palo. I’m not convinced he truly knew who he was taking orders from. And once Mr Haswell’s message came through, it was moot anyway.

So… Stanton angles on me. … none of you has any idea who was responsible?

No, I say. We don’t. And it’s not a comfortable feeling.

Why not? If de Palo pissed off someone else enough that they dealt with him for you, what’s the problem?

Who else is operating in the City that none of us knows about?

Stanton blows air… Yeah… … looks aside, looks up. You want to see the corpse before he’s bagged up?

Yes.

Yes.

Hickman and I speak as one. James and Michael hang back, shaking heads. Caproni puffs at a cigar. Happy to let you two handle that. He puffs again. And I’m sure our good Commissioner doesn’t want too many pairs of boots around his crime scene.

Stanton gives him a white-rimmed stare, but Caproni, underwhelmed, merely sucks again at his cigar.

*****

Traffic rushes by. It would be three lanes deep, save for the cordoned-off near-hand lane. Nonetheless, the HGVs rumbling past are close enough that their passage sucks at the canvas partitions screening off the shoulder.

A bramble patch that would have Briar Rabbit drooling flanks the pull-in, rounded by a tiny footpath in the dirt. And barely out of sight, along that path, what remains of the once-feared Chicago gangster lies in the dirt, clothes and shoes mud-and-blood-smeared. A pair of white-suited sweepers stand by, clearly under instructions to wait.

Who ID’d him? asks Hickman, looking down at what’s left of his nemesis.

The officer who answered the call-in when a passing motorist stumbled across the body, says Stanton. I put out an APB on that face as soon as this business arose.

He doesn’t have a face anymore, I point out.

No, heaves Stanton. A point-blank shot in the back of the head will do that. But both wallet and driving license were in the pockets. There was no attempt at robbery. He was carrying several hundred in notes, plus bank cards. No cell phone, but that watch didn’t come from a discount store. Beside which, his fingerprints are clear enough. Whoever murdered…

Executed, says Hickman.

Executed, then. Stanton barks the words, but then regards Hickman with gnawing sympathy. Shoving hand in pockets, he looks glum. I do pay attention to what you tell me, Klem… Mr Waterman.

Happy to be of service.

He rolls a long-look my way. I’ve no wish to see Chicago gangster-hood descending on the City. As I said, after your warning, I put out an APB on de Palo. Every officer in the force was watching for him. We didn’t expect to find him like this, but when the call came through, it was pure routine to ID him.

And how did this passing motorist come to spot the body? I ask. To quote you, Commissioner, it’s kind of an out-of-the-way spot for someone to chance upon. Did you check him out?

Don’t try to teach me my job. Of course, we checked him out. He’s clean. And he’s alibied. Stanton jogs shoulders. Nature calls us all. He pulled onto the shoulder and found a discreet shadow behind that bramble patch. The men who shot de Palo had done much the same. Picking a discreet spot, I mean.

The men who shot him? Hickman turns, twists, angles up and along. Traffic cameras?

Yes. Stanton lines a finger toward the tall post a few hundred yards along. A black-eyed lens points our way. We went back through the footage, of course. But the vehicle had been stolen less than an hour before. The owner hadn’t even noticed it was missing. And the two men with de Palo kept their faces turned from the camera. They frog-marched him out of sight and reappeared in under a minute, minus de Palo and drove off. The car was found abandoned only a couple of miles off the highway. No sign of de Palo’s killers.

Sounds like a pro hit, I comment. Can we see the video? Perhaps one of us will recognise the men?

I was taking that as read. He produces a tablet, taps, scrolls, taps, then displays a grainy black and white feed of the spot we’re standing, seen from on high, passing the tablet to me as Hickman moves closer to see.

It’s dark, I say. This was taken last night?

That’s right, nods Stanton.

Hickman plucks at a lip. So, this isn’t come-back from today’s failure at the beach house.

On the screen, a sedan pulls onto our shoulder. Not new. Not old. Silver-grey paint reflecting orange under the neon lighting.

Possibly the most unremarkable car on the highway, comments Hickman, just as another silver sedan sweeps past us. Who’s going to look twice?

Stanton grunts agreement as two men get out either side of the back, each with a hand concealed in a pocket, each pointedly keeping their back to the camera.

A third, clearly reluctant, also exits from the front passenger seat. Stanton catches my eye, brow raised. Yes, that’s de Palo.

Flanking him, the pair jostle him the short distance along the shoulder, then to the footpath before the three vanish from sight. Less than a minute later, only two men re-emerge, march smartly back to the car and it pulls away.

Didn’t waste any time, did they, says Hickman.

They didn’t, no. I tap replay. De Palo’s moving okay, apart from obviously being scared shitless. He doesn’t look as though he’s been beaten or got anything broken. Returning the tablet to its owner, I check over as much of de Palo’s corpse as I can see. Aside from the single shot, I don’t see any other damage.

Odd, isn’t it, comments Stanton. He fishes into a pocket, producing a cell phone. We’ll know more when we get the pathology report. He gives the nod to