When Love Calls (Chapter Thirteen)

CABONI’S ITALIAN RISTORANTE
Manhattan, New York
After Midnight
 
The NYPD, ATF, and numerous FBI Agents walked around the taped off crime scene.
 
Each affiliation photographed, recorded, and collected crucial evidence.
 
The NYPD interviewed the patrons for a descriptive account as to what occurred.
 
Mr. Ramo looked across his ristorante at Mr. Delaro.
 
“That piece of shit over there is going to get his daughter killed.”

Marcus looked over at Mr. Delaro speaking with several FBI Federal Agents.

“Not if I could help it.” Marcus looked at his uncle’s bleeding shoulder. “Uncle Ramo, I thought I advised you to go to the hospital and have your arm checked out.”
“It’s nothing but a flesh wound.”
“Have you heard about the progress of Bobby’s injuries?”
“I spoke to his father a while ago. He was still in surgery. Poor kid did not know what hit him.”
“Yes, a Mexican gang member’s bullet to his gut. Excuse me Uncle Ramo, I need to ask Mr. Delaro, some serious questions.” Marcus looked down at the concealed corpses. “That fuck over there lying under that white sheet, mentioned something about a crate. And if it’s what I think it is, then we have a problem.”
 
Marcus walked across the ristorante.
 
“Boys, I need to ask Mr. Delaro, some questions, can you gentleman excuse us.”
“Mr. Delaro, if you could think of anything else, do not hesitate to call, the card I gave you contains my telephone number.”
“Yes, my good man.”
 
The two FBI Agents walked away from Marcus and Mr. Delaro.
Marcus turned toward Mr. Delaro.
 
“What the fuck was that man talking about when he demanded your life for a crate?”
“I have no idea, what you are speaking in reference too, boy.”
 
Marcus grabbed Mr. Delaro by the flaps off his suit jacket.
 
“Listen, you worthless piece of shit, the disrespecting bullshit, is gone. I ask the questions and you will provide the answers. Do we understand each other, or I take you downtown myself, and arrest you for setting up a hit on a federal agent. Now sit the fuck down.”
 
Marcus pushed Mr. Delaro down in a cushioned chair.
 
Mr. Delaro recaptured his balance, and then straightened his tie. He looked up at Marcus.
 
“I will ask this one more time. What was the man talking about when he mentioned a crate? Which, I assume the contents inside is worth three million dollars.”
 
Mr. Delaro did not add anything.
 
Marcus looked across the ristorante.
 
“Agent Pelican, could you come over here and escort Mr. Delaro, downtown for questioning regarding a possible mur...”
Mr. Delaro watched a federal agent approach from across the ristorante.
“Wait.”
“Hold up Agent Pelican.”
 
Marcus looked down at Mr. Delaro.
 
“This information does not leave this room or go any further until I could check out reliable sources behind this fucking hit.”
 
Marcus pulled a chair up, turned it around, and sat down. He rested his forearms across the top of the chair.
 
“Talk Mr. Delaro.”
 
Mr. Delaro looked around the chaotic bloody scene as numerous law enforcement members combed over the presented evidence. He returned his attention back to Marcus.
 
“My daughter has confided in me she was confronted by several Russian men the other day. One of the men was adamant about a delivered crate.”
“A delivered crate to where.”
“My daughter owns an art gallery in Manhattan. Somehow her assistant called her from the art gallery to come and investigate the shipping mishap of an unscheduled delivery; apparently the delivery was to the right address, but the wrong contents inside.”
“Does Zaniyah still have the crate in her possession?”
“No. She stated she opened it to verify what was enclosed, and the crate contained multiple teddy bears, so she ha...”
“Wait, back up, she stated it contained teddy bears.”
“Yes, the entire contents inside were teddy bears.”
“Yes, a means to transport drugs.”
“I came to that conclusion, myself. The gentleman stated Zaniyah has now two days to return the crate, Or God forgive, what would happen to her. I would move heaven and earth, to protect my daughter, you have to know that.”
 
Marcus palmed his chin down.
 
“Where is the crate now?”
Zaniyah sent it back to the original sender.”
“Which was whom.”
“My daughter was puzzled, because there was no return address.”
“Your daughter has created more problems than ones solved.”
“I would protect my daughter with my last dying breath.”
“Which most likely you will. The Russian cartel, is not an affiliation I would like to have on my radar.”
“Is my daughter in any danger?”
“What would you do Mr. Delaro, if someone has stolen three million worth of drugs from you?”
“Kill the fuck.”
“Your answer, and hopefully not their doing to your daughter.”
Mr. Delaro looked around the ristorante.
“Wait, where is my daughter?”
 
Mr. Delaro was about to stand.
 
“Rest assured Zaniyah is in a safe place.”
“I hope not at your loft. Or her condominium. I do not trust no one. As you’ve heard, my right-hand man, set this shit up.”
“Is that one of the same two fucks who showed up at my loft?”
“One of them, yes, and I could assume Tango is in this shit.”  
“Listen, I don’t know what type of dealings you are into old man, however, don’t let that shit spill out onto the streets of New York, and as far as those two fucks, whatever, or however you deal with it, keep the shit clean, and do not allow it to involve Zaniyah, in no shape, form, or fashion.”
“You have my word.”
 
Marcus palmed his chin down. He was about to stand.
 
“Oh, one more thing. I hope you’re not trying to shake down my uncle into selling my father’s ristorante. Because, if so, I have in my possession, three weapons confiscated off your hired goons, therefore, if anything remotely comes of ill will to this ristorante. I’m sure Ballistic would be interested to know, what bodies are connected to those weapons, and I will make every available resource to make sure you never see daylight outside prison walls.”
“I think you are working for the wrong person.”
“I already have the girl; I do not have time for the father’s bullshit.”
“You hurt my girl, I swear, I would kill you.”
“Is that a threat, or your permission?”
“Either way, you will deal with me.”
“I cannot disrespect a father’s wishes for my beautiful woman’s safety. Have a nice day Mr. Delaro.”
“What becomes of my daughter’s welfare?”
“You let me worry about Zaniyah’s welfare, when she’s with me, and you are to worry about your daughter’s welfare when she is with you.”
“Fair enough.”
“If needed, since I am a man who trusts no one. I will have Zaniyah contact you. Do you have a secure line? Your camp is polluted and comprised with internal spies. As a man, I suggest you take care of that shit, and quickly, and as a federal agent, discreetly, from here on out the FBI will be monitoring your actions very closely.”
“Thanks for the fair warning.”
“Not so fast. Be advised hired hits will be coming for you.”
“It has already begun.”
“Kevlar vest old man.”
 
Marcus rose from his chair, turned it back around, and then walked across the ristorante. He knew as an FBI director on site of a shooting with fatalities by his hands. He will have to deal with the press.
 
“Uncle Ramo, let me holler at you.”
“Sure thing.”
 
Mr. Ramo walked over to where Marcus waited.
 
“What is it?”
“I’m out of here. I have to go and write out numerous reports this morning, beforehand; I have to deal with the swarming press out there. In addition, one thing to note. You will not have to worry about being squeezed any longer from Mr. Delaro, or any of his men.”
“How...”
“Bart told me he requested to see you.”
“So, you naturally stood at the door and listened. Man, you still do that shit.”
“How you think, I knew you and Pops’ secrets.”
“God, I missed my brother.”
“Yeah me too Uncle Ramo. Now before I stand here and get sentimental, I’m needed back at my office for a briefing.” Marcus glanced around the damaged ristorante. “You do have insurance?”
“Liability at his finest.”
 
Marcus slapped his uncle on the back.
 
“Good looking out. I’ll step through later on, and thanks for the use of the log cabin.”
“With that young and pretty thing under the covers, I may see you tomorrow evening.”
“You know the creed Modarius men live by.”
“Family first, pussy later,” Mr. Ramo recited.
“It’s best to believe it.”
 
Marcus walked out the ristorante, into a net of reporters, and several camera technicians rooted behind a yellow crime scene tape.

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