I’m pacing around the office of Sole Nero. The phone keeps ringing in my ear. Again, there’s no answer. I don’t know what game Giraldo is playing, but it’s gone past far past pissing me off now. My blood is boiling and there’s this tension in my head like my forehead might just crack down the middle.
Giuseppe gave me the news when I got into the club. Apparently, one of the King Kong shipments we received was cut with a bad strain of heroin, really bad stuff, and now several college kids are in the hospital. I immediately sent the soldiers out to retrieve as much of the shipment as they could. But that’s a fool’s errand, and we all know it. There’s no putting the toothpaste back in the tube.
And Giraldo still isn’t picking up the phone.
I kick my desk—the one I bought to replace the one
