Chapter 6 - The Headlights on the RidgeThe headlights cut through the frosted windowpane like two lances of white fire, sweeping across the grease-stained walls of the kitchen and making the black notebooks on Rocco’s knees look like rows of open graves.
Marta dropped the wooden spoon. It hit the floor with a hollow clack.
Old man Pike didn't jump. He simply laid the double-barreled shotgun across his knees, cocked both hammers with two deliberate clicks that sounded like dry twigs snapping underfoot, and kept his eyes on the warped front door.
"They're early," Pike said, his voice as steady as an old clock. "Gino never did like to wait for his mail."
Rocco looked down at his legs. For the first time since the bullet had shattered his spine in an alley behind the North End two years ago, he felt a sudden, sharp twitch in his right ankle—a ghost-pain so bright it felt like fire. He gripped the iron wheels of his chair.
"They aren't here for the mail," Rocco said.
The heavy thud of boots sounded on the frozen gravel outside. Three pairs—heavy, synchronized, the tread of men who wore custom leather and carried Czech submachine guns tucked inside their wool overcoats.
"Mr. Castellano?" a voice called out through the thin cedar wall. It was smooth, nasal, with the unmistakable flat vowels of South Boston. "Gino says you left your hat in the car. He wants it back before the snow sets in."
Marta reached down and grabbed a heavy iron poker from the side of the stove. Her face was pale, but her eyes were fixed on the door with a terrifying, cold clarity. "They think we're just hill people," she whispered. "They think we don't know what a ledger's worth."
"They're right about the hill part," Pike muttered, squinting down the barrels of his shotgun. "Let's see if they know how much lead a mountain can hold."
Before Rocco could tell them to wait—before the old man could pull the trigger—the front door didn't just open; it exploded inward in a shower of dry splinters and iron hinges.
The man who stepped through the frame was tall, wearing an expensive camel-hair coat with the collar turned up against the cold. He had a gold ring on his left pinky and a short-barreled automatic held low against his thigh.
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It wasn't Gino. It was Ray’s old boy—the scrap yard dealer from Wheeling, the one Gino had bought ten years ago with a single telephone call.
"Evenin', Rocco," the man said, smiling a thin, greasy smile. "Gino sends his regards. And by the way... the car's waiting outside."
