[Intel 1: Old Man Martin Bonanno's wife, Sofia Bonanno, attends mass at St. Mary's Church every single Sunday without fail.]
[Intel 2: Old Man Martin Bonanno still has one direct blood heir alive somewhere in the world.]
[Intel 3: The FBI has officially opened an investigation into Martin Bonanno Jr.'s murder.]
The first two pieces looked damn useful—especially the one about Sofia hitting up St. Mary's every Sunday for prayers.
Tomorrow was Sunday. If Lawson could get eyes on Sofia Bonanno, he'd already be halfway done with the job.
As for the FBI poking around Little Martin's murder… did that mean he could lean on Neal for backup?
Problem was, handing the video over to Neal meant losing control of the whole play. Once the Feds took the wheel, Lawson's cut of the benefits would shrink fast.
He wanted to run this one himself and squeeze every last drop of profit out of it.
Still, he could use them as a tool.
After scanning the new intel on the Payday app, Lawson already had a solid game plan forming in his head.
All he had to do now was execute it right, and this three-star job should wrap up quick.
By then Lawson was starting to feel the long night catch up. He stretched out on the couch and let sleep take him.
While Lawson, Megan, and Franklin were all sawing logs, the whole city of Los Angeles was already churning with dark undercurrents.
Little Martin murdered. Old Man Martin in the ICU after a stroke. The Bonanno family was now a live grenade, and nobody knew when the pin was gonna get pulled.
The LAPD sure as hell didn't want that grenade going off. Best-case scenario, it stayed a dud.
Too bad things in this town rarely went the easy way.
Even though Luca had ordered every made guy in the family to keep their heads down, the hotheads were already bumping heads with the Irish Mob.
Simple truth: the guys at the top and the soldiers on the street never see the game the same way.
Luca and the old guard had the full picture. They could make calls that were best for the family's long-term survival.
The young guns downstairs? They saw a chance to make their bones.
War meant bodies. Bodies meant promotions. Promotions meant moving up from soldier to capo.
After years of the family playing it low-key, a lot of these young Italian guys were starving for action. Nobody wanted to still be a street soldier at forty-five.
So yeah, some hot-blooded soldiers were definitely gonna test the waters.
For the LAPD, that was a fucking nightmare.
They'd already taken a massive L on the May 1st freeway chase, then tried to save face with the underground race sting on May 28th… only to eat shit again.
Burned through tons of manpower and only bagged a few small fish. Lawson, dead Little Martin, Dominic Toretto—all of them slipped the net.
The only one they caught was Johnny Tran, whose car got wrecked by Lawson's Viper and broke down. Guy was sleeping it off in a holding cell right now.
Hilarious part? LAPD had invited NBC to film the bust live for PR… and ended up broadcasting their own humiliation.
So the last thing the department needed was the Bonannos and the Irish going to war. Another mess like that and a lot of brass would be looking for new jobs.
The LAPD brass were burning up the phone lines, warning both families' leadership to keep their soldiers on a short leash.
How much that would actually work? Nobody knew.
In the end, everything hinged on finding whoever really killed Little Martin Bonanno.
And that case had just landed in the FBI's lap. Sean Archer and Jane Banner were now running point.
They'd originally been on the Pacific Standard Bank robbery, but David Abbott stonewalled them hard. With Little Martin's murder being time-sensitive, Sean shifted priority.
Lucky for them, only half a day had passed since the killing and Old Martin's stroke.
They still had time… as long as nothing else blew up.
8:00 PM. David Abbott's house.
David sat in his living room, one finger in a splint from the break Sonny Black had given him. It still throbbed, but his mood was excellent.
Sonny had delivered the punishment, and the FBI had been sent packing.
The Feds were bound by rules. They couldn't touch a man with David's social status without ironclad proof.
As long as the four guys who hit the bank got caught, David could disappear into the background and stay clean.
"Stupid fucking FBI, thinking I'd actually help them investigate. Hah! With Sonny's crew on it, those bastards should already be in a ditch. Maybe I should bring Annie and Britney home next month?"
David hummed a little tune and poured himself a glass of brandy. At his age, the stamina wasn't what it used to be, and after seeing the morning news he figured LA might get ugly tonight. Better to have one drink and turn in early.
That's when the lights in the room flickered a few times.
"Goddamn it. Wiring going bad again? This fucking house costs a fortune to maintain every year, and I still pay a mountain in property taxes! They say bankers are bloodsuckers? The federal government is the real vampire!"
Bloodsuckers never think they're sucking blood, so David naturally blamed everything on the Feds.
Glass in hand, he moved to the living room to catch the late news before bed.
Unfortunately, his favorite Fox News channel didn't have the hot blonde anchor Megan Kelly on tonight. He flipped over to NBC and settled for another busty female host.
The broadcast was covering the underground street race that had gone down in the early hours.
"What a bunch of idiots! I pay all these taxes and this is what I get? Worthless!"
David cursed and took another sip of brandy. Sometimes he wanted the cops to be super competent… except when he was the one committing crimes. Then he preferred them brain-dead.
He watched for a while, the alcohol starting to hit, and was about to turn off the TV and head to bed.
That's when the landline rang.
Without thinking, David picked up the phone next to the couch.
"Hello, David Abbott speaking."
"Mr. Abbott… do you remember me?"
The voice on the other end was low, raspy, with a metallic edge.
"Who is this?"
David frowned, racking his brain. The voice sounded familiar but he couldn't place it.
"Guess you've really forgotten. Let me jog your memory. Hand-tailored suit. Joker mask."
David's face went white. He slammed the phone down immediately.