by Hamel, B. B.
Dean grunted. “I thought about that. You’re probably right.”
“Not that I want more strange men wandering around this place,” I said quickly. “But if you’re going to be a target, you should be prepared.”
He nodded and paced again, frustrated, but at least he wasn’t lashing out at my uncle.
“I think it’s a good idea,” Uncle Roy said, getting to his feet. “I’ll look into bringing more men over today.”
“You help him,” Dean said quickly, looking at Hector with a grim stare.
Hector shrugged, got up, and followed after Uncle Roy. The men exited through the back, leaving me alone with Dean and Bea.
She sighed and leaned back against the couch. “I always hate when this happens,” she said.
“Does it happen a lot?” I asked.
“It’s the Valentino family, dear, so yes,” she said, smiling a little. She picked up another mostly-empty whiskey and finished it. “The boys shoot at each other, get all angry about it, yell a whole lot, and my life gets harder. I’ll have to feed those guards, you know.”
“Sorry, Bea,” Dean said, smiling tightly. “It’s for your own good too, you know.”
She waved a hand. “It’s no bother really. I’m just tired.”
Dean glanced at me then stopped pacing and tugged at the shoulder of his button-down shirt anxiously. “I wanted to ask you something,” he said. “Do you know anything about changes at Father Giovanni’s church?”
Bea frowned a little and shook her head. “Your father and Father Giovanni had a long-standing deal. I don’t see why it would change.”
Dean glanced at me and I frowned back at him.
“I spoke to him about that,” Dean said. “Father Giovanni said that Roy told him things were going to be different. That Roy was making other arrangements.”
That surprised Bea. Her eyes widened, and she sat up straight again and glanced over in my direction. I nodded slightly, as if to confirm Dean’s story, and wished I could go over and have one of those whiskies. I supposed I could, if I really wanted, but my hands were still shaking, and my knee pulsed where I fell on it, and I felt terrible all around. Drinking would only make it worse.
“I don’t know why he’d do that without consulting you,” Bea said. “You’d find out eventually.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Dean said and let out another frustrated growl. He stalked over to the small side bar at the edge of the room and poured himself a heavy drink, three fingers of straight whiskey. He drank it back and knocked the empty glass against his temple, eyes squeezed shut.
“Something’s off about all this,” I said, pacing into the middle of the room. Bea gave me an appraising frown. “We talked to Father Giovanni, then as soon as we left the church, they suddenly attack right at that moment? How did they know?”
“Are you saying Father Giovanni sold you out, dear?” Bea asked.
I shook my head. “No, he seemed too eager to make money,” I said. “He was quick to accept it when Dean said the deal would be back on.”
“She’s right though,” Dean said, nodding to himself. “It happened fast, like someone was watching. Could’ve been someone outside, spotting for them.”
“Or someone in the church,” Bea suggested. “It’s a big, old building. Lots of places to hide.”
“Also convenient they’d attack right after we learned about what my uncle did,” I pointed out.
Dean frowned at me. “You think he had something to do with it?”
I shook my head and sat down heavily next to Bea. “I really don’t know,” I said. “But I’m exhausted.”
“I’ll make some tea,” Bea said, patting my knee, then stood up. “Tea’s always the answer.” She shuffled off and I watched her go. I wished I felt the same way—that tea was the answer to anything at all.
Instead, all these questions and problems swirled around my head and I didn’t know how any of them connected. My marriage to Dean, my uncle’s machinations behind the scene, this war with the Healy family. It felt so tenuous and fraught, but somehow connected.
Dean sat down next to me, closer than I would’ve liked. It felt good flirting with him in that church, and the way he looked at me during the service was right along that line of pleasure and discomfort. I was embarrassed that he was staring, and I was sure other people noticed, but it felt good to be looked at, to be really seen. And besides, we were playing the role of a young couple in love.
I wasn’t sure what was an act and what was the truth with Dean though.
He stretched out his legs and leaned his head back against the couch. “How are you holding up?” he asked. “You hit the ground pretty hard.”
“Knee hurts,” I said, rubbing it. “Otherwise, I’m fine. You didn’t have to do that, you know.”
He rolled his neck to look at me. “Do what?”
“Push me down.” I chewed on my lip. “Cover me.”
“I was protecting you,” he said. “Didn’t think about it much.”
“You’re the Don,” I said. “They can afford it if I die. You’re more important.”
He snorted once. “I wonder about that,” he said and his fingers touched my leg, then slowly moved down to my knee. I was already starting to bruise, and he rubbed it gently, expertly, his rough callused fingers rolling around the muscle and ligaments. It felt good and it felt wrong, and I didn’t know which I liked better. I wanted to brush him away, and I wanted to pull him closer.
I was a mess of conflicting emotions, and I was afraid they’d never settle out.
“I never wanted to bring you into danger like that,” he said, his voice strained. “But I suppose now you know what it’ll be like, living with me.”
“I hope we don’t get shot at every Sunday,” I said.
He smiled slightly. “We won’t,” he said. “I’m not sure we’ll ever get shot at again like that, although we might. It’s just, you should know it’s always a possibility. That sort of thing’s always there in this line of business.”
“Why do you do it then?” I asked suddenly. “You’re smart and handsome. I’m sure your father left you money. Why do you stay?”
He frowned a little bit as if he didn’t understand the question, and he didn’t say anything for a long moment. I looked at his lips, at the stubble on his chin, at the swell at his throat, and his broad shoulders, and I wondered how a man like him survived knowing he might die at any moment.
Maybe there was a liberation in it, when you know with certainty you might not survive to see the next day. That could be freeing for some guys. It’s be a great excuse to let loose, to do things you might otherwise never do.
Like marry a stranger and offer her millions of dollars. Like getting her off on your wedding day.
“It’s family,” he said after a while, and I’d almost forgotten what I’d asked. I was lost in a fantasy, remembering his lips on my pussy again.
“Family?” I asked.
“Even though we’re not blood, all these guys are family,” he said. “We’re bonded in this. The violence, the pain. The risk. It brings you close to people.”
“You seem like you hate half of them,” I said.
He laughed and pulled his hand from my knee. I felt his absence like a weight. “I do hate some of them, but in the way you hate a sibling.”
“I can’t relate to that,” I said.
“I guess I can’t either,” he admitted. “But it’s how I feel.”
“So what will you do now?” I asked.
He leaned toward me and I felt his breath against my lips. “Wait until the others come back,” he whispered. “Maybe take out some of my frustration on you.”
I pressed my hand against his cheek. It was warm and rough. I pushed his face back and he chuckled softly as I stood up. “I think I’ll go help Bea,” I said. “Maybe you can work out that frustration on yourself instead.”
He grinned and stared at me as I left, and an excited thrill ran down my spine.
I stood on the other side of the door just inside the kitchen in the shadows and leaned my head against the wall. He drove me crazy, his hands on my skin, his lips so close. I knew what he could give me if I could only let it go—
But every time I tried, I remembered why I hated him and why I wanted to leave.
The men in my life treated me like nothing. My father, my uncle, they sold me for the family. I was nothing to them, and I couldn’t let myself think I might be something to Dean.
He was the Don, and I was just some pretty plaything. The moment I gave him what he wanted, he’d be sick of me, like a toddler with a new toy.
Cast aside, I’d be nothing.
I only had to keep him interested for five years. Then I could collect my millions and never see this place again.
The whistle of a kettle pulled me back into reality, and I wandered over to spend some time in the comfortable presence of Bea, where for a while I could pretend my world was a tiny bit normal at least.
11
Dean
Mags looked gorgeous behind the wheel of her Alfa Romeo. It was sleek and gorgeous, all Italian curves and luxury, just like her. She guided the car down into the city like she was born to it, and I could tell she was having fun, weaving through traffic on the edge of reckless. My bodyguards in the car behind were probably losing their shit.
“I didn’t know you were into driving,” I said as she exited off the freeway and slowed down as she drifted into the city proper.
“I guess I didn’t know it either until you gave me this car,” she said. “I never owned one before, you know.”
“But you’ve got your license?” I asked, tilting my head.
She grinned sheepishly. “You never asked if I had a driver’s license.”
I barked a laughed, aghast at her audacity. I couldn’t believe she’d drive without a license and not bother to tell me about it.
What a hilarious girl, a little wild risk-taker.
“Look at you, breaking the law,” I said.
“I guess you bring that out of me.”
“I like it,” I said, leaning toward her. “Take a right here. We’re going this way.” I pointed toward the west and she shrugged, guiding us down quiet, residential streets.
Deep into Healy territory.
She didn’t know that, of course, or if she did, she didn’t seem to mind. West Philly was packed with old row homes with big balconies and Victorian-style peaks and towers. Some of the buildings were truly magnificent, or at least they were at one point. These days, half of West Philly was rundown and decrepit, and all that incredible architecture was starting to decay. New style buildings were coming up like weeds, these modernist-styled things with square lines, lots of metal and glass paneling on the front, like Lego blocks for an architecture student. I hated that new style, but it was popular, and kept appearing all over the place.
Part of me held a deeply rooted nostalgia for a past I never experienced. That was my father’s generation influencing me. The old mafia men talked about how things were in the better days, when cops were lenient and the city thrived. They had this notion that things were better—but I always found that hard to believe.
Things were always bad. At least for somebody. From what I could tell, life was always getting a little bit better, even if certain groups of people lost some of their old privileges. Those privileges were only spread out to more and more, and eventually everyone would get lifted up and would benefit.
Fortunately, I wasn’t out in West Philly to worry about poverty.
“Pull over up there.” I pointed out a spot in front of a fire hydrant at the corner of the next block. She frowned at me, but obeyed.
“What are we doing here?” she asked, looking around. It was an average residential street, all houses on either side, most of them in decent repair.
I popped open the glove box and took out a gun. I checked the slide and made sure it was loaded before slipping it into my waistband. She stared at me, her eyes wide with surprise.
“Stay here,” I said, pushing open the door.
“Wait,” she said, grabbing my arm. “Hold on. What are you doing?”
I looked back at her. “Taking care of something. Ronnie and Curt will keep an eye on you.”
“Dean,” she said, but I pulled away and stepped out onto the sidewalk. I shut the door hard before she could argue more.
It was midafternoon, a pretty nice day. A young girl walked her little fluffy white dog past me and I smiled at her. She glared at me like I was some creep. Fair enough, probably the right reaction. I whistled to myself as I approached a house in the middle of the block with a big green door and bars on the downstairs window. I pulled up my collar and knocked a few times before turning my back and pulling the gun into my hands.
“Who the fuck’s that?” someone called from inside, the voice of a young man, slightly raspy.
“Package,” I said, looking over my shoulder. “Need a signature.” I was wearing dark dress slacks and a tucked-in light blue shirt and definitely didn’t look like a delivery guy, but people were wired to respond to packages these days, the fucking internet shopping addicts. Not that I was any different.
The door unlocked. “Who’s it for?” the guy asked as the door cracked open. “I think you’ve got—”
I turned and pressed the barrel of the gun against his forehead. His eyes widened as I leaned closer.
“Open up,” I said.
He stumbled inside. I kicked the door open and followed.
The house was clean and barren. The entry hall opened into a living room. Couch on the right, TV on the left. A couple guys were playing video games and beer cans were piled up in front of them. The room stank like weed. I kept the gun on my young friend, a guy in his mid-twenties with tight jogger sweats and a white tank top. His arms were covered in cheap, shitty tribal tattoos, and he was emaciated, all bones and ligaments.
The guys playing games didn’t even look up at first. One was big, muscular, ripped to all hell, with tan skin and fuzzy dark hair. The other was older, probably in his thirties or forties, with the sallow look of a long-time addict, a pug nose, light eyes, scraggly beard, skinny build.
“Guys,” Tribal Tattoo said. “Guys, uh.”
“Who’s the package for?” Old Man said, then looked up. “Oh, fuck.”
He went for something. I didn’t hesitate. I wrapped my left arm around Tribal Tattoo’s neck and held the gun out over his shoulder. I popped off two rounds, the first hitting Old Man in the forehead, the other striking him in the chest. He coughed up blood and toppled to his right.
Big Guy screamed like a fucking scared goat. He scrambled away. Blood covered his skin and clothes as he fell off the side of the couch and landed hard on his elbow. I pressed the warm barrel against Tribal Tattoo’s head again and kept it there.
“Don’t move,” I said to Big Guy. “Or I’ll kill your friend here, then I’ll kill you.”
“Fuck,” he said, sitting on the floor, panting.
“Is anyone else in the house?” I asked.
“No,” Tribal Tattoo said.
“Yes,” Big Guy said, then grimaced and groaned.
Footsteps behind me. I kicked Tribal Tattoo in the knee then spun around, gun coming up, as a gun with an enormous revolver rounded the corner. He got off one wild shot that missed as I squeezed off another two rounds, both hitting him in the chest. He let out a sick wheeze as he collapsed backwards, the wall splattered with a spray of his blood.
I turned as Tribal Tattoo tried to get up and kicked him harder, then shot him in the calf. He screamed as he dropped to his side, clutching his injury.
“Anyone else?” I asked Big Guy.
He shook his head wildly. “No,” he said. “I swear.”
“Good.” I shot Tribal Tattoo in the leg again for good measure. He sobbed in pain and rocked from side to side. “Were you in the car that shot at a church three days ago?” I asked Big Man.
“What?” he as
ked, blinking rapidly, and shook his head. “Fuck, no, I wasn’t on that hit.”
“Who was?” I asked.
“Him,” he said, nodding at the dead guy on the couch. “And the other one.” He nodded at the body in the hallway.
Then his eyes fell on Tribal Tattoo before he looked up at me.
“You poor, dumb bastard,” I said softly.
“Please—” Tribal Tattoo said as I put a bullet in his brain.
A scream back near the door pulled me around. Mags stood in the hall, hands at her mouth, staring at the dead man, then at the man I just killed. Her face was white and her hands trembled rapidly.
“Shit,” I said.
Big Man leapt to his feet and ran. He sprinted to the other side of the room and barreled through the door. I fired at him and missed as he disappeared into the kitchen beyond. I wanted to chase him down and end this, but I had three dead bodies already, and Mags was freaking out.
I shoved the gun away and stalked over to her. I grabbed her arm and dragged her out of there, out into the sunlight. I looked around for neighbors, but nobody was watching. They probably knew better than to get involved when they heard gunshots in this area.
“What the hell?” Mags said, gasping for breath. Panic attack, most likely. “Dean? Dean? What the hell was that? What happened in there?”
I shoved her into the passenger side. Curt pulled up and Ronnie leaned out the window. “You good, boss?” he asked.
“I’m good,” I said. “Head back now. Get moving.”
They drove off as I got behind the wheel and started after them.
Mags shifted in her seat, moving from side to side like the chair was on fire. “What was that, Dean?” she asked. “You killed those guys. You murdered them.”
“Those men were the ones in the car,” I said. “Those were Healy soldiers.”
“What?” she said. “How did you know?”
“Gian found out,” I said. “The fucking bribe was massive, but it led us to that safe house. Gian wanted to do that strike himself, and Matteo was eager to get his hands dirty, but I needed that one for myself.”
“For yourself?” She stared at me like I was a bloody monster, like I transformed into some beast from the pit of hell before her very eyes.