March 18, 1944

“The numbskull got sauced and lost three hundred dollars to Tommy, but did that stop him from playing another round? Of course not! Now, he owes Tommy five hundred.”

It’s late in the morning, and I’m on my way to report back to Angelo about completing Worm’s contract last night, when Santino’s words catch my attention, his voice ringing out from the family room in Angelo’s estate. Quickly, I detour in his direction, tucking the rucksack with Worm’s bloody Rolex inside in the inner-breast pocket of my trench coat. I take it upon myself to stay informed when it concerns the family. Tommy and Santino are Angelo’s cousins, so if someone owes Tommy money, that means they owe Angelo money.

I round the corner and lean against the doorframe, catching Santino’s attention. He’s sitting on the sofa next to his mother, Kay, who is scoffing at the sap who’s now indebted to the Salvatores. And for quite a bit of money, at that.

“Who’s this guy you’re talkin’ about?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest.

Santino’s only seventeen, and while he’s invested in the family business, he’s also a blabbermouth. Today, it’s a good thing. But one day, it might get him iced.

If he even comes home from the war after he’s drafted in a few months, that is.

“Name’s John Parsons. He and his detective friend, Frank Williams, been comin’ to the lounge for the past few months. He had the funds at first, but the dip keeps tryin’ to get his money back and can’t pay no more. Tommy challenged them to a game of poker last night, and John couldn’t seem to help himself.”

I raise a brow, surprised Angelo’s cousin was gambling with Frank.

He’s one of the leading homicide detectives in Seattle and is typically the one working on the cases that have resulted from the war between the Mafia families.

He’s also firmly in Angelo’s pocket and is very well-acquainted with the two of us, unbeknownst to John.

“Tommy gambled with the fuzz?”

Santino grins. “No one’s ever called him a genius, Ronnie.”

I’m tempted to bark at him for calling me Ronnie, but learning about this Parsons fella is more important than arguing with a kid about my damn name. I’ve smacked every male member of this family upside the head for calling me that, and every single one suffers from short-term memory loss.

I’ve always hated it. Reminds me of my father, who bore the same name, and even still, it hurts to think about him.

Angelo’s father called me by it as a young boy, and it lived on through his son. The rest of the family follows his lead, despite my misgivings.

“John Parsons,” I state, bringing his attention back to the matter at hand. “Who is he?”

Santino shrugs. “Don’t know. All I know is he didn’t pay Tommy a dime. Promised he’d come up with the money later, but I think we all know how that goes.”

“You know anything else about him?” I question.

“Just that he owns Parsons Manor down by the Sound. He kept goin’ on about it while he was draining a bottle of whiskey,” Santino responds, annoyance in his tone. “Fella wouldn’t shut up.”

I push off the doorframe and head back toward the front door of Angelo’s estate. I’ll report to Angelo later.

“Hey, Ronnie, if you’re gonna whack him, let me come, yeah?” he calls after me.

“Santino,” Kay admonishes.

I don’t bother responding. If I wanted one of Angelo’s crew to handle anyone for me, I sure as hell wouldn’t enlist a kid to do it.

Soon enough, he’ll get plenty of experience pulling a trigger, and he’s better off pointing that gun toward a Nazi than someone like John Parsons.

Santino’s got bigger things to focus on than the organization. He’s got a war to worry about.