Four of Mick’s men were waiting at the doors too, all fully armed with automatic weapons: his personal army of protection. One of them hurriedly flung open the double doors, and Mick walked in.
Mick was cautious as he and his men entered Flo Durant’s home. Nothing was amiss at first glance. Not even a vase was overturned. But Leo Barone, Mick’s senior security chief, stood at the top of the stairs.
“They’re up here, boss,” he said.
But Mick ignored him. He, instead, began walking around the great room downstairs with a calmness his men could not share. They were ready to run, to turn this place upside down, to find out what exactly happened here. But Mick Sinatra ran this show. And he was more interested, not in what happened, since it already happened, but why.
He moved slowly, looking at corners, at cushions, at little things no one else would have given a second thought. His men looked at each other. The bodies were upstairs. What was he doing down here? But they had nothing in their arsenal that could persuade their boss to get a move on. They looked upstairs, at Leo. But Leo had next-to-nothing persuasively himself. He might be their boss, but Mick was his boss, and Mick didn’t allow anybody to take liberties with him. They were going to just have to wait.
And they waited. They waited as Mick walked around that room as if he was a police detective in search of clues. They waited as he moved like a man in conflict with himself. And when he stopped walking, and stood in the middle of the room, his face so serious they wondered if he had suddenly discovered something, they just knew he was in it for the long haul. This was going to take a while. But as quickly as he had stopped, he started again. Only he didn’t pace the room this time. He hurried out of the room and up the stairs, his white coat flowing behind him as if his very movements created its own breeze.
“Where?” he asked Leo as he approached him.
Leo escorted Mick, and his men behind him, to the master bedroom. Flo was lying across the bed, on her back, with a bullet hole through her forehead. Mick stood there, watching her. Her deceased husband worked for him, and he died in the line of duty. On his death bed, he begged Mick to look out for his wife and son. Mick hired Flo, at Sinatra Industries, and provided for her son the way he provided for his own children. He never liked Flo, she was too unreliable for his taste, but he respected her husband. Unlike downstairs, he was out of that room in seconds.
Leo escorted him and his men to a second bedroom. This room held three bodies: two ladies and one man. Relatives of Flo’s. All three shot in the head too. It was a bloody scene, with blood splatters on the walls, as if they all fought for their lives to the bitter end. But they were dealing with pros. They never stood a chance. Mick was out of that room even faster.
The third room was next, but Leo stood in front of the door. “It’s bad, boss,” he said. “I don’t think you should go in there.”
Mick looked at Leo as if he had lost his mind. Who did he think he was dealing with? A fucking flower girl? “Move,” he ordered.
Leo moved.
Mick and his men entered a room filled with young bodies. Five of them. Three children Flo had with other men, one child Mick didn’t recognize, and Shane. The reason Leo didn’t want him in there in the first place. Flo’s ten-year-old son Shane. The child Flo had with her deceased husband, a man who had been Mick’s friend and security chief. On his dying bed, Flo’s husband asked Mick, begged Mick, to take care of Shane as if he was his own.
When Mick saw Shane, piled on the other young people as if he was discarded rubble, or, more likely, the cherry on top, his knees buckled. He nearly fell. But he didn’t fall. He, instead, lifted the young man and held him. He removed his blonde locks from his forehead and cradled him in his arms.
He took it to the head too. But two shots, not one. He was the message. The kill shot. The understanding that everybody would get it one way, but this one, the great man’s son, would get more.
Mick took the boy, laid him on the bed, and placed his arms folded across his stomach. And stared at him. He was not Mick’s biological son, but apparently the killer thought he was. Which got Mick thinking again. His eyes were so intense as he stood there, that his men looked at each other, fearful of what would happen next. But nothing happened. Mick just stood there, watching Flo’s child. He was not close to the boy. He saw him whenever he could, which was almost never, and provided financial support. But he was still a kid. Who would hate Mick so much that he would kill a kid? He stared at Shane, as he fought back tears.