The man’s head is down. He’s wearing a gray hoodie, dark jeans, and sneakers with the laces removed. Nobody I recognize, which I’m sure is exactly the point. This isn’t a high-value target or a rival or someone who wronged the family in any meaningful way. This is a test with a pulse. A pop quiz Lukas put together over dinner to see if his son still has the stomach for the family business.
Afon pops the glove compartment and hands me a Makarov with the serial number filed smooth. I check the magazine out of habit and chamber a round.
“Who is he?” I ask needlessly.
“A rat. Fed some names to a detective in the sixty-eighth precinct.” Afon picks something from under his thumbnail. “Your father wants it handled tonight.”
“Yeah.” Afon looks at me for the first time since we left Manhattan.
