Five thousand dollars for the hit.
All his money, but what price his daughter’s honour?
His daughter and this bar. That’s all he had. And he would protect them.
A waiter hurried inside. ‘Hey, Rigo. Alley table. Here to see you’
Sparafucile sat outside, fat as the Toscano in his mouth, hands laid out on a briefcase.
He motioned for Rigo to sit down.
“You know what this is?”
Rigo’s mouth went dry; all he could hear was Le Donne e Mobile playing on the jukebox.
“….five G’s, doused in a hitman’s blood”
Sparafucile made to leave. The shadows of two capos drew close.
‘We’re disappointed Rigo…thought we were family.’