March 18, 1944

This will be the third man I’ve whacked today, and I’ve run out of patience for their useless begging.

Typically, I leave this job to the enforcers in the Salvatore family, but ending a man’s life offers a release unlike any other vice. Cigarettes, whiskey, birds—none of them have the same effect.

It’s their damn talking that threatens the peace I find after making a heart stop.

“No, no, wait! Let me explain!” the kid pleads, his nasally voice cracking from terror. It’s past midnight. The biting air and thick fog have settled around us on the Aurora Bridge.

His desperation gets the best of him, and he attempts to land a blow on my left side. The kid is stupid to think I’m not used to men attempting to take advantage of my disability. I slap his fist away easily, then pop him in the nose for daring to try.

Blood spurts from his nostrils, and while he groans and mutters insults beneath his breath, I loop ropes around his ankles and tie them into a tight knot. Sweat and grease mat his overgrown hair to his forehead, and motor oil stains his navy-blue coveralls, now joined by the blood pouring from his nose. By trade, he’s a mechanic, but his interests have always been in the Mafia. His mother had ties to a family in New York City, but she refused to raise him in the family business. He’s a cugine. For the past few months, he’s strived to be made and has pledged his loyalty to the Salvatores.

A pledge he failed to keep.

Which is why I’ve tied cinder blocks to his feet. If anyone discovers his body, they’ll find a bullet through his mouth—a clear message of his crime.

“You’re a rat, Worm. You were feeding information to the Baldellis,” I remind him dryly. Angelo nicknamed him for his pinched facial features and grating voice. Not sure what his real name is, but I’m sure his obituary in the Seattle Times Sunday newspaper will confirm it, assuming he’s ever found.

The media will recognize the message and know his death resulted from organized crime. And the public will undoubtedly look at the Salvatores.

Angelo has owned Seattle for the last two decades and been declared the capo di tutti i capi. He’s allowed other families to conduct business in Seattle with his permission and, of course, with the understanding that he’ll receive a cut of their profits.

However, five years ago, Don Manny Baldelli found an issue with that. He claimed his great-grandfather migrated from Sicily to Seattle first, making him the rightful owner of the city. After which, word got out that Manny was withholding Angelo’s tribute and dealing guns under the table. Since then, war has broken out, and men are getting burned left and right. Families are choosing sides, and to this day, several bodyguards surround Angelo at any given hour.

It’s a dangerous time, and none of us walk the streets without checking over our shoulders.

“You’re givin’ me a bum rap!” Worm insists vehemently. “I ain’t no rat, Ronnie; you know me! The Baldellis forced me in that car, but I didn’t tell them nothin’. Please, you have to believe me!”

One of our crew, Lloyd, spotted him getting into a Baldelli car two nights ago, and it just so happens Worm showed up in an expensive suit yesterday with a brand-new Rolex on his wrist. The timing wasn’t a coincidence, and the kid made it obvious that the rival family had paid him off.

“Don’t call me Ronnie,” I clip.

It’s the only response I bother to give him. There isn’t any point in arguing with the kid—he’s already marked. If I’m not the one to ice him, one of Angelo’s enforcers will.

Worm opens his mouth again, preparing to plead his case some more, but I take the opportunity to shove my revolver in his mouth and pull the trigger. A car passes, but rather than slowing, they hit the gas.

I make quick work of removing the Rolex from his wrist and stuffing the piece in my pocket. Later, I’ll return it to the Baldellis to let them know their investment has been wasted.

Next, I slump Worm over the railing and lift the cement blocks, tossing them over. His body careens over the edge and into the canal, the following splash echoing in the night air.

Finally. Some goddamn peace and quiet.

I roll my neck, relieving the tension gathered in my shoulders. Not only is their begging useless but quite bothersome, too.

Heading back toward my car parked on the other side of the bridge, I whistle the tune to “Just One More Chance” by Bing Crosby.