I watched, basking in peace for another second before I went about the cleanup. We had people who did most of the work, but I preferred to make sure there was nothing left behind.

Sound trickled in. It was like a bubble had popped, and I heard the men around me talking and moving.

I stripped out of my clothes and wiped my face clean, getting rid of all evidence. One of our men walked in, holding a fresh pair of clothes. I’d prefer to shower, but it would have to wait. I’d have to deal with the way my clothes clung to my sweat-slicked skin and the way the warehouse stench wafted off me.

“Send it to the butcher,” I said as I slipped the beige slacks on.

The material wasn’t new, yet it grated against my flesh with every touch, setting my teeth on edge. This is not right.

Irritation settled in the pit of my stomach, turning over and over again as I forced myself to push past it. The shirt was no better, a light blue button-up I made sure to tuck in. I was handed the Aosta Italian melton topcoat and glasses that I normally wear.

Everything that normally made me feel calm was doing the opposite.

“Sir?” one of the men called.

I turned to see what he needed. A tiny voice in the back of my head screamed for me to rip my clothes off and burn them. I audibly swallowed and ignored as much as I could.

“Wife is calling.”

The retired cop’s wife. I sighed. Taking the phone, I forwarded the call.

“Make sure she knows to keep her mouth shut.”

He nodded, and I broke the phone handing it back over to him. A million ants were crawling up my arms and legs as needles poked my back and torso. I needed out of these clothes. I could feel them too much.

“And deliver the remainder of the money.”

Johnny had been bought for his kid’s surgery, and the Vitales always kept their end of the bargain. There was a reason no one ever ratted on us. Fear alone wasn’t enough to rule the streets of New York.

Johnny’s car would be returned to his family once it was thoroughly cleaned. Benito didn’t take chances, and neither did I. My car waited for me on the side of the road. Although everything in me screamed for me to run toward it and hurry the fuck up, I kept my movements controlled and measured.

The drive was quick, and I made it back to the hotel. I’d planned to go home, but for some reason, my on-fire brain decided the hotel would be best. I marched through the doors, and the bright lights assaulted me. I squinted through it, swallowing back my discomfort.

“Mr. Vitale, your guest left a message for you,” the receptionist said.

She didn’t question why I was back so soon. Normally when I closed the room out, I stayed away for a month or two. However, even if she’d asked me I didn’t have the answer.