“He’s not here. If he had stayed, maybe we shouldn’t have had to ask for Ferrari, but he didn’t stay. I’ve got to save the organization. There’s only one man who can do it for me — Ferrari!”
The name Vito Ferrari struck a chill into Seigel’s heart the way the name Inquisitor must have struck a chill into the heart of a heretic in the Middle Ages.
Vito Ferrari was the Syndicate’s executioner. Fantastic and unbelievable tales had been told of his cruelty, his ruthlessness, his crimes and his lust for blood. He had become a legendary figure in the underworlds of the world.
Seigel knew that if he ever stepped out of turn, it would be Ferrari who would be sent by the Syndicate to kill him. To have asked Ferrari to come to Pacific City was like asking for Death itself to pay a visit, and Seigel stared at Gollowitz with horrified eyes.
“You must be crazy!” he said.
Gollowitz again spread out his fat hands.
“It is either he or the organization. I didn’t want to have him here. If you had shown you could handle this thing, do you imagine I would have sent for him?”
Seigel started to say something when a knock came on the door.
Seigel started, then spun around to face the door, his eyes sick and frightened.
“Come in,” Gollowitz said.