The sound of my silver-plated .38 snub-nosed revolver cleared my holster before Marco’s fingers could even touch his leather shoulder holster. I didn't shoot him. I simply leveled the heavy barrel directly at his nose from six feet away, my sight aligned perfectly between his terrified brown eyes.
"Move that hand another inch, Marco," I said, my voice dropping into a register that made the room freeze, "and your brain will be splattered across those white lilies before your body hits the rug."
Marco froze. His hand remained pinned inside his jacket, his chest heaving up and down in ragged, desperate gulps.
Bruno let out a short, violent bark—a single explosion of sound that made Marco jump.
"Drop the piece, Marco," Tony commanded, stepping up behind him and jamming the barrel of his own Glock 19 hard against the base of Marco’s skull. "Slowly. With two fingers."
Marco’s fingers trembled as he slowly pulled a black Sig Sauer P226 from his holster and dropped it onto the carpet. Tony kicked it away with his boot, sending it sliding across the rug until it bumped against my toe.
"Talk to me, Marco," I said, keeping my revolver steady. "Tell me about the pickup truck. Tell me about Victor Harlan."
Marco’s eyes darted left and right, looking for an exit that didn't exist. Behind him stood Tony and two of my youngest soldiers, their hands already inside their coats. In front of him stood a hundred and twenty pounds of murderous mastiff and the barrel of my gun.
"It wasn't supposed to be her, Carmine," Marco whimpered, his knees shaking so badly his silk trousers fluttered. "I swear on my mother's grave! It wasn't supposed to be the kid!"
"Who was in the truck, Marco?" I repeated, taking a step closer.
"Harlan's boys," Marco whispered, his voice collapsing into a pathetic, broken leak. "They were moving a crate... an unregistered crate from the Flushing piers. Something from the Eastern European ships. I was guiding the escort vehicle. I was just making sure the precinct cars stayed clear of 108th Street."
"Human cargo?" I asked, my blood turning to pure fire.
Marco didn't answer. He closed his eyes, a single tear cutting through the lavender-scented grease on his cheek.
"Answer him!" Tomas screamed from the pews, trying to lunge forward, but Tony’s arm caught the restaurant owner across the chest, holding him back. "Answer him, you bastard!"
"Yes!" Marco sobbed. "Yes, fine! Harlan paid me two hundred grand to look the other way for three shipments! Two hundred grand, Carmine! You keep us on a leash, you give us crumbs while Harlan is making millions with the Russians! I wanted my own piece!"
"I gave you a life, Marco," I said softly. "I gave you a family. I gave you respect."
"Respect doesn't pay for a house in the Hamptons!" Marco spat, a sudden flare of desperate venom rising through his fear. "The little girl... she was coming out of the bakery with her paper bag. She saw me sitting in the lead car. She called out my name! She smiled at me, Carmine! She said, 'Hi, Uncle Marco!'... And then Harlan's driver got nervous. He thought she was going to talk to her father, that Tomas would tell you I was hanging around Harlan’s men."