It was two hour past midnight. The cavernous restaurant was dimly lit and only hosting one patron at the moment. He sat alone at his table slowly working through a medium rare Wagyu ribeye. When the chef had heard that his friend had a three hour layover in LaGuardia, he insisted on opening up his restaurant for him. They weren’t friends, per se. At least not by the normal definition of the word. The patron, a retired hit-man, had recently saved the chef’s and his family’s lives by intervening in a mob related “situation.” An intervention of the permanent sort.
“Can I get you some more wine, Marcello?”
“No thanks, Carlo. This is already too much. How much do I owe you?”
“Don’t insult me! For you, my restaurant is yours. Anything you want, any time, you just let me know and it’s yours!”
“You’re too generous, my friend. I’ll finish up here so you can get home to your family. The steak was marvellous by the way. Best I’ve ever tasted.”
Marcello was finishing up what would have been a three-hundred dollar meal, when his phone rang.
“Marcello, come va?”
“Enrico, I told you a hundred times already, I’m out. I’m not taking any jobs.”
“I know, I know. It’s too bad though, you were the best.”
“It’s two in the morning, Enrico. What can I do for you?”
“Listen, Marcello, I have some information on Sansone’s whereabouts.”
Marcello couldn’t speak. The mere mention of Sansone Vespucci’s name gave him chills.
“Hello? Marcello, you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. That son of a b–”
“I know, that’s why I’m calling you. Look, he’s supposed to be in Vegas, the Bellagio. He’s there till the end of the week.”
“Thanks, Enrico. I appreciate it.” He made sure not to say, “I owe you one.”
“Don’t mention it. You get rid of Vespucci, you’ll be doing me a favor.”
Marcello hung up the phone. He needed to get back to the airport. He had to change his flight.
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