Forced Out Read Online Free Page A

never have been stupid enough to bring a gun into Marconi's home. Do that and you might not wake up the next morning, even if you hadn't meant Marconi any harm. Marconi had neither the patience nor the compassion for mistakes. When Goliath was satisfied, he knocked on the door.
    "What?" from inside.
    "Bondano."
    "Yeah, okay," came the raspy Italian accent. "Let him in." Marconi had lived in Sicily as a youngster. At fifteen he'd lost his homeland when he was forced to flee the country after gunning down three boys of a rival gang in broad daylight outside a crowded cafe. But he never lost his accent.
    Goliath opened the door, and Johnny moved swiftly past. It was no Oval Office in here, but a lot of people in New York considered Marconi every bit as powerful as the president. Just an average-looking bedroom with cheap furniture from the seventies and a maroon shag carpet, it always reminded Johnny of a hospital. It had that disinfectant medicinal smell, and there were so many vials and bottles stacked on and around a bureau in one corner of the room you could barely tell it was a bureau. Since the death of his wife, the seventy-two-year-old boss had supposedly become a hypochondriac. Weak in the mind, people on the street were whispering more and more often. Maybe even delusional. But Johnny knew better, knew the whole thing was an act. Marconi's stranglehold on power hadn't waned at all over the past few years. In fact, it had strengthened. Even though he was officially the number two man in the organization, he was just as powerful as the don. More so in some people's eyes.
    Johnny moved to where Marconi sat in his big easy chair, then leaned over and kissed the back of his hand.
    "Hey ya, Deuce."
    "Hey, Angelo." A rerun of Family Feud was playing on the old RCA.
    "Take care of that," Marconi ordered in a raspy voice, pointing at the TV. He grimaced and touched his neck tenderly. "I think I'm coming down with something." Johnny moved to the TV and turned up the volume just as the studio audience broke into a loud laugh. Now the authorities couldn't hear the conversation if somehow they'd managed to run a wire into the place during the past few days. Which was all the time there would have been, because Marconi had the entire place swept for bugs every few days. The row houses on either side of this one as well. He owned them, too. His sons lived there. Marconi was nothing if not careful.
    "Sit, sit." Marconi gestured toward the other chair in the room. "Pull it over here next to me. Close, you know? So we can talk, Deuce."
    Johnny noticed that Marconi had gained weight since the last time they met. At least twenty pounds. He wasn't tall--just five seven, a half inch taller than Johnny. But he had to be pushing two-fifty. And he still did that terrible comb-over thing with the few strands of straight, thin, oily black hair he had left. As if people couldn't tell he was almost bald. At least it was better than wearing one of those crummy toupees you could spot a mile away, like a lot of the older Lucchesi people did.
    Marconi pointed at the TV. "That guy who's the host there. He's dead. You know that?"
    "Nah, I didn't."
    "Yeah, he committed suicide." Marconi shook his head. "He seems so happy on the show, always joking with the people."
    "I guess you never know."
    "Nah, you don't. Maybe he couldn't handle being such a little fucker. It gets to some men after a while." The old man reached over and patted Johnny's hand. Let a smile crease his olive-skinned, bulldog face. "But it's never gotten to you, Deuce." Johnny took a deliberate breath, trying not to show how much the remark had irritated him. "No, it hasn't."
    They were silent for a few moments.
    "Why'd you want me to come over tonight, Angelo?" Johnny finally asked in a low voice. He'd learned how effective it was to speak softly now that he carried a big reputation.
    Marconi patted Johnny's hand again. "I always liked you, Deuce. I always wished you could have been a