by Hamel, B. B.
She might be right. Dean had that same spark, buried under years and years of danger and death and killing, beneath his father’s conditioning, his brutal life. I could see it, and I wanted to learn more about it.
I wanted that version of him to come out. I got a hint when he stroked my hair, when he kissed me. When he looked at my body and whispered in my ear.
There was tenderness, real tenderness.
I got another glimpse that afternoon when he spoke to his soldiers, consoled them, promised to get revenge. It was there beneath the bravado.
Real caring. Real family.
“It’s okay,” Dean said. “I understand. You grew up in this shit just like I did, except from right outside. You saw the worst of the family, didn’t you?”
I nodded slightly and stared down at my shoes. I pulled my hand away and leaned against the door. “I saw only what my father showed me,” I said softly, staring out the window. “I saw a sad strip club and an asshole that was always one step behind where he wanted to be. I saw a bitter man turn even more bitter and angry. And I saw my uncle growing more powerful and terrifying. I never wanted to be a part of this, you know? I hated all of you.”
“Do you still hate us?” Dean asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
Another silence. This one felt different, like he was considering something. I looked at him and he smiled, and god, he was so handsome. Those eyes had a way of drawing me in, and I wished I could pull myself back out.
“Come on,” he said, pushing the door open, and climbed out of the car.
I followed him. “Where are we going?”
“There’s one more errand,” he said, and walked up the stoop to a simple row house with dark shutters and a big navy-blue door. He took a key from his pocket and opened it, and I followed him into a nearly empty house.
The floors were hard wood, and fancy molding wrapped around the ceiling and along the baseboards. He took me back into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of wine from the refrigerator, which was otherwise empty, and headed back down the front hall to the stairs.
“Sorry for the mess,” he said and laughed.
I followed him up to a front bedroom. “What is this place?” I asked.
“An investment,” he said. “Bought it a couple years ago. We use it as a safe house sometimes.” He cracked open the bottle—a screw top. “Want some? Sorry I don’t have glasses. We’re not good at planning ahead.” He took a long drink and offered it to me.
I took it and sipped from the rim. The white wine was fresh and cold. “What are we doing here though?” I asked.
He walked to the window and peered through the blinds. “We’re watching,” he said, and gestured for me to join him. “See that house there? The one with the red door.” He nodded across the street.
I saw the one he meant. It blended in with the rest of the block. “What about it?” I asked.
“We’re waiting to see if anyone shows up there.”
“Is that another safe house?”
He nodded, took the bottle from me, and drank again. “In a sense,” he said. “That’s my personal place. Another investment.” He craned his neck, looking around, and gave me the bottle again. “Stay here.”
He left me alone for a minute then returned with two mismatched chairs. I sat down and took small sips from the bottle as he paced in front of the windows with the lights off. The room got darker and darker, the shadows getting longer as the yellow street lights cut in through the slats in the blinds. He seemed anxious, and I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I got the sense that it wasn’t good.
“Are we in danger?” I asked softly.
“No,” he said. “Not at all. But I couldn’t leave you back at the house for this.”
“Why not?” I asked.
He only looked at me, but didn’t answer.
I passed him the bottle and he drank in silence. Minutes ticked past. I waited, not sure what was supposed to happen, and each moment that dragged along like a slime-covered crocodile drifting through a swamp felt like another chance for me to get away, or at least to say something. Dean didn’t seem like he wanted to talk anymore, and he kept stopping at the window to stare out at that house, looking for something.
An hour came and went. The bottle was finished. He sent me downstairs for another and had me order food on his phone. The delivery guy came and I tipped him in cash. We ate on the bare floor, barely talking, and it was agonizing, all this mystery.
Another hour came and went. “I seriously can’t do this anymore,” I said finally, standing up so fast the chair clattered down behind me.
He flinched as he whirled on me. “Don’t be so loud,” he said.
“What are we doing here, Dean?” I asked. “You can’t drag me around without telling me what you’re up to.”
He looked pained as he stared back at the house across the street. “It’s mafia business,” he said.
“I thought mafia business was my business,” I said through clenched teeth. I was ready to scream out of frustration.
“Shit,” he hissed, and pressed himself against the wall suddenly. I was tempted to go closer, but he waved me away. “Hold on.”
My heart raced up into my throat. He peered out and sucked in a sharp breath. I joined him, and stretched to look around him, out at the stoop, and saw two men standing at the door.
Two big men in black clothes, with black backpacks and motorcycle helmets.
“Don’t move,” Dean whispered as he carefully got out his phone. He typed up a text and hit send. “Watch.”
I felt pinned to the spot. I stared out the window at the two men. One knelt down and began to do something to the lock—and I realized he was trying to get it open. The other blocked him with his body, looking around like he was scanning for threats.
“What are they doing?” I whispered.
“Looking for us,” he said. “Now be quiet.”
The guy on his knees stood suddenly. Both men turned to the door—
Then it burst open, slamming into the first guy’s face. He staggered back as three men spilled out with guns raised, shouting at them. The second tried to run, but a gunshot screamed out in a wild bust.
“Fuck,” Dean said and ran to the door.
I followed, not sure what was going on, my breath coming ragged. “Dean,” I gasped as we reached the front hallway. “What is that?”
“Come on,” he growled as he threw open the door and ran out into the night.
I recognized the guys, now that we were closer. The man standing over the bleeding guy in black was the bald man from the club, I think his name was Trent. The other two wrestled the other guy in black into the house, and both of them were Dean’s soldiers. I saw them earlier in the night at one of the first visits.
Dean helped Trent carry the gunshot man up the stoop and into the house with the red door. Blood splattered on the sidewalk and dropped up the steps. I stepped in it and left a footprint on the wooden floorboards as I went inside after them and slammed the door behind me.
I stood panting and stared into the front room. The men in black were thrown onto the floor, and the three Valentino soldiers stood around them, guns pointed at their faces.
Dean looked stricken. He paced back and forth, shaking his head, and finally looked at me.
“What the hell is happening?” I asked him, desperate to understand.
“I’m sorry, Mags,” he said. “But I think your uncle wants us dead.”
He walked to me, grabbed my arm, and dragged me out of that room. I walked, my limbs numb, and I let him sit me down on a bare leather couch in the living room, and I stared at the wall with a buzzing in my ear like cicadas climbing from their gooey nests.
17
Dean
I separated the two guys. One was tied and gagged in an upstairs room, and the other was bound to a chair in the basement. I left the light off down there as I paced across the kitchen, staring down at the old linoleum floor,
mind working double-time.
Mags hadn’t said a word since it all went down. She sat in stony silence in the living room watching shadows on the wall. Trent kept an eye on the door while Tony and Oscar guarded the prisoners.
Gian showed up a half hour after we grabbed the guys. He said hello to Mags as he passed and she said nothing in response. I figured she was going through some shit, but my mind was too busy running circles around itself to help her out.
“We’ve got trouble,” I said as Gian entered the kitchen and leaned up against the counter.
“What happened?” he asked, crossing his arms.
I gave him the quick version: that note, the ambush, the two guys. “They say they’re with the Healy family and nothing else.”
“Motherfuckers,” Gian whispered, staring down at his hands. “I swear, it wasn’t me.”
I met his gaze and I saw the anger in his expression. The only people in the world that knew Mags and I were going to be at this location tonight were him and whoever he told in Roy’s crew. It was possible that Gian could’ve ordered the hit from the Healys, but he had nothing to gain, and he’d been the biggest, most aggressive Capo on the front lines. He wanted a fight, not to splinter the Valentino family further.
The only person that could’ve done it was Roy, and that barely made any sense.
“I know it wasn’t you,” I said finally, then spread my hands. “She’s his fucking niece, for god’s sake.”
Gian sucked in a breath and glanced toward the kitchen door. Mags could probably hear everything we were saying. “I leaked to Big Bruno, and he’s high up in Roy’s crew,” Gian said. “But it could’ve been him.”
“Big Bruno’s too fucking stupid to have contacts in the Healy family,” I said, shaking my head, and started pacing again. “What I don’t get is, why this whole show? Why get me to marry Mags, then try to kill the both of us after it was all done with?”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Gian said. “Roy was in a good position before he took your side. If he wanted the Don’s job, then he could’ve pushed for it.”
A creak on the floorboards. Mags stood in the kitchen doorway, chewing on her lip. “I think I know why,” she said.
I stopped pacing and faced her. She looked so small and frail, her face drained of color, big bags under her eyes like she was exhausted. I wanted to go to her and pull her against me but Gian watched with a hawkish expression and I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable with him around.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“He didn’t think he’d win on a vote,” she said, glancing at Gian. “You have more support, right?”
I shook my head. “Probably, but it’s not definite.”
“He didn’t want to chance it then,” she said, nodding to herself like she was getting on a roll. “So he had to take you out. But he couldn’t do that, because it would be obvious, right? And your allies wouldn’t have let him get away with it.”
“Fucking right we wouldn’t have,” Gian snarled.
“That would’ve started a war,” I said, and it started to come together.
“He made it look like you were at peace,” she said, tugging at her hair nervously. “Then he went to the Healy family and cut a deal. Probably as soon as you were dead and he was in power, the war with the Healys would’ve been over.”
“Fuck,” I said, staring up at the ceiling. “I think you’re right.”
“That traitor piece of shit,” Gian said. “Let me go right now. I’ll end this right this second.”
I waved him off. “Can’t do that,” I said. “We don’t have proof yet, and even if we did, there’d still be a war about it. We need to be smart.”
Mags slumped against the wall and let out a soft groan. I ran to her and half knelt down, looking into her face.
Tears welled up in her eyes. They fell down her cheeks, fat and heavy.
“He’s my uncle,” she whispered.
“We don’t know he did it yet,” I said, and glanced at Gian, who only shook his head.
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
“I’m going to talk to that Healy asshole in the basement,” I said. “And you’re going to wait here.”
She straightened up suddenly, and I stepped back as she shook her head, eyes sharp and angry. “No way,” she said. “Uncle Roy wants me dead too. I’m not getting left behind.”
Gian laughed sharply. “She’s got a point, Dean. She’s in this too.”
“I don’t want you to see what I’m going to do to that guy,” I said softly. “You already think I’m a monster.”
“Monsters kill their family,” she said. “You try to save them. There’s a difference.”
I held her gaze for another few seconds. She was right about that—no matter how bad I got, I didn’t kill my own. I wouldn’t hurt my flesh and blood, no matter how distantly related. Roy was a monster, truly a power-hungry animal, and he would do anything to get what he wanted.
That bastard. That sick bastard.
“Come on then,” I said and walked to the basement door. Gian followed with Mags bringing up the rear. I snapped on the light and the three of us descended down the rickety wooden stairs.
Philly basements were all alike. Damp, moldy, rat-infested. This one was waterproofed at some point, and everything was painted a slick gray. A water heater sat in one corner, and a single small window looked out to the street.
In the center of the space was a man. He was tied to a simple wooden chair taken from the table upstairs. A sock was shoved in his mouth and held in place with duct tape. He breathed big, ragged breaths through his nose, and he struggled as I walked toward him.
I ripped off the tape. He spit the sock out with a moan, then spit a few more times.
“Get him water,” I said to Gian, who disappeared back upstairs.
The Healy guy was young, twenties at most, with dark copper hair and a square jaw. His brown eyes squinted at me and I saw the fear there.
“If you’re going to kill me, just do it,” the guy said.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
He hesitated. “Connor,” he said.
“All right, Connor.” I paced in front of him. “I don’t need to murder you. Frankly, I’d rather not. It’s a pain to get rid of bodies and this basement’s clean. I’d like to keep it that way.”
“What do you want from me then?” His eyes flipped to Mags, who stood near the stairs.
“Don’t look at her,” I said, bending over in front of him to look directly in his face. “It’s just me and you.”
Gian returned with water. I took the glass and poured some into Connor’s mouth. He sputtered and spat, then drank a little more.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Now, let’s chat.” I put the glass down. “Who sent you?”
“You know who,” he said.
“I want to hear it from you.”
His expression slacked as he stared down at the floor. “Colm Healy,” he said.
“And how would Colm Healy know about this place?” I asked.
“I’m a soldier,” Connor said. “I do what I’m ordered to do.”
I glanced at Gian, who only stared with his arms crossed.
“Listen, Connor, I’ll play this straight with you. I think your boss got some information from my crew. I think you know something, but you’re not telling me.” I got right in his face, inches away. “This can be easy if you skip all the dramatic parts.”
“I’m a soldier,” Connor said. “I don’t know a goddamn thing.”
I leaned my head back then rammed it into his nose. His skull snapped back and blood spurted out into his face and mouth. He sputtered and coughed, groaning and struggling against his bonds. I straightened and walked away a few paces, sighing as I wiped his blood off my face with my sleeve.
“Try again,” I said, and snapped my fingers. Gian took a large knife from his pocket. I unfolded it and held the blade up in front of Connor’s fa
ce.
His eyes went wide. “Please,” he said. “I don’t know.”
I jammed the tip into his thigh then slowly pushed down. He groaned, then screamed when I turned the blade and rotated it around.
“I want to know,” I growled in his face. “How did you know about this place?”
Mags let out a yelp, then walked to the stairs. She ran up and disappeared into the kitchen. I pulled the knife from Connor’s leg and watched her disappear, then caught a look from Gian. I nodded at the stairs, and he left to go check on her.
Connor sobbed. Fucking baby.
I only broke his nose and stabbed him once.
The really sadistic shit hadn’t even started. Normally, I had guys that specialized in getting people to spill their guts, but I needed to keep this operation as small as possible. Right now, my biggest advantage over Roy was the fact that I knew he was a traitor, and he didn’t realize his plan hadn’t worked yet.
I turned on Connor again and he spit blood onto the floor.
“Ready to talk?” I asked.
“Fuck you,” he hissed.
I spent the next twenty minutes cutting him. It wasn’t fun. I didn’t have a great time, making the poor kid scream with pain and blood. But eventually, after I kicked him over onto his side and started slicing up his arm, eventually he told me what I needed to hear.
“A guy showed up,” Connor said, sobbing. “Showed up earlier, god, please, stop. He showed up and told Colm something, I don’t know what, he didn’t tell me what. But the guy definitely wasn’t in the Healy family.”
“What did he look like?” I asked. “Describe him.”
“Big guy. Dark hair, dark eyes, looked real Italian. Had on this like bright blue shirt and baggy jean shorts. Cursed a whole lot.”
I clenched my jaw. “Did he go by the name Big Bruno?”
“Bruno,” Connor said, nodding over and over. “That’s the name, Bruno. I heard Colm say it. Yeah, that’s the guy.”
I sighed and slumped back against the steps. It could still be that Big Bruno was working on his own, but I truly doubted it. More likely, Roy sent him as a messenger.