by Karina Light
It’s been four long days since finding Aidan, but the image of his face as pulp still pops out from my subconscious when I least expect it. It makes sleep almost as elusive as his killer.
Nolan chuckles and brushes at his jacket, smearing a clump of cigarette ash across its sleeve. “The Bratva fucks might help with that. I don’t know any girls with a hole wide enough to park your dump truck of a dick in.”
Barry rumbles with a laugh and sits, the last of our men to arrive at the meeting. The rundown boardroom isn’t the same without Aidan. It doesn’t feel right to see Nolan in his chair, and as he puffs away on a cigarette, I miss Aidan’s obnoxious, overpriced cologne. I might go buy a bottle and spray it around.
Pop’s too busy drinking his life away at home, so we’re stuck filling in for him and Aidan most days, whether it’s at the docks, the car lot, or in the field. We even sat with Ma to plan Aidan’s funeral that’s set for tomorrow morning. Pop was too trashed to make the trip, failing her when she needed him most.
Sitting there looking at casket after casket in some chintzy pamphlet was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But it paled compared to telling Ma that she couldn’t have the open casket viewing she wanted. She lost it, and Nolan and I had to finish the rest of the planning ourselves.
“Obviously, it’s been a fucking week,” Nolan breathes, scanning the oak table surrounded by our top men—Lorcan, Craig, and Trevor, from Pop’s era, and Barry, Ike, and Ollie from ours. Each fills a specialized role in our operation, whether it’s Barry handling security here at the docks, or Trevor running the vehicle sales at the car lot. “And we’re all left holding our dicks and bracing for what’s next.”
A round of ayes sounds from our men.
“A lot of what we were working on doesn’t seem as important anymore, ya know?” he says, rubbing a hand over his jaw as his voice constricts with emotion. “But we will move on and we will come out stronger.”
Another round of ayes circles the table, this time with the addition of a few of the guys drumming on the wood.
Nolan smiles at the rise in enthusiasm amongst the usually stone-faced men. “We will find who did this, kill the motherfucker, and show the world who we are!”
Cheers reach a fever pitch, and a swell of heat rises in my chest. I want his words to come true so much that it physically aches. Hearing the rally of our men makes it feel like a possibility for the first time since finding Aidan.
The mood cools as Nolan rattles through the usual housekeeping bullet points. The next hot shipment’s contents. Movement of cars to the lot. Security updates about the latest Bratva fucks—two of which gave Ollie a hard time last night on the way over. A positive note that the Italians have seemingly stopped their creeping. It goes on in a drone of regularity until suddenly it doesn’t.
“We’ll be increasing our hot shipments from only Wednesdays to Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. There’s a spike of demand coming in now that the streets are on edge.”
What the fuck?
I flick my eyes to his, but he’s looking down at a piece of paper, his notes scrawled in black marker.
We didn’t discuss any of this with Pop yesterday, and this is major. We can’t triple our intake overnight. That’s insanity. It’s an easy way to draw heat from all sides.
I clear my throat to draw his attention, but he doesn’t look at me. He’s already onto the next bullet point. “As far as our Lombardi issue, I want traps installed. It’s time we catch them like the rats they are when they come back. I’m sure they’ll start singing information about Aidan with a leg in a snare.”
I glance around the table, finding nothing but serious faces lacking surprise. Did I fucking miss something? Have a stroke? How is no one questioning this shit? This is the exact opposite of how we run our ship.
“Nole.” I eye him.
He continues to ignore me, breezing through his list without a care in the world. He’s slid into this new role better than I imagined, though his eyes lack the twinkle of humor they usually do. “Next up is the Lombardi girl. He has a million-dollar bounty out on whoever took her and another million on her return. I want information, and I want that finder’s fee. Two million will go a long way here, and it’s two million less in his pocket.”
Two million? Oh, fuck. This just went from bad to worse.
“Nole,” I say it louder this time, and he shushes me. He fucking shushes me like a child.
“That, or we kill her,” he declares, shrugging. “If we find out he’s had anything to do with Aidan’s death, it’s the fairest option. After we get the money, obviously.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
I push my chair out and stand. “Nolan, a word?”
He finally looks up from his scrap of paper with a smirk. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”
Our men laugh, and for the first time, I feel like I’m looking at a stranger rather than my twin.
Our men shuffle out when the meeting is over, but I block Nolan’s path before he can slip out and slip his dick into a whore or his lips around another bottle of booze.
“Oh, no you don’t,” I say, boxing him in when he goes to stand. “We need to have a little chat, brother.”
He smiles. “Come on, man. You know I’m just fucking with you.”
“You don’t fuck around during meetings in front of our men,” I grind out. “Especially about any of that.”
“We’ve talked about ramping up intake for a while,” he breathes, rolling his eyes. “Is that what you’re mad about?”
That, and so much fucking more.
I cock my head at him, feeling the furious heat hit my face. “You’re planning on tripling it with our current crew and numbers? Does Pop know about this or are you trying to make moves to impress him? Because this is the wrong fucking way, dude.”
He could destroy everything our family’s worked for. Everything that ever mattered to Aidan. Everything that matters to me anymore.
“You might know more about his feelings on the matter if you didn’t storm out of our meeting the other day in a fucking tizzy,” he snarls.
I explode, gripping the arm of his chair and whirling him so he has to face me. The back presses to the wall, giving him no wiggle room to escape. “Because Pop likes to throw around accusations, much like you apparently.”
“I haven’t made any accusations!” he defends, trying and failing to stand as I knee him in the chest.
I keep the joint pressed snugly to his sternum. “You told our men you want to kill Lombardi’s daughter if he was involved in Aidan’s murder. You can’t plant those seeds of doubt without proof. That’s asking for trouble.”
All it takes is one misguided vigilante and we’re fucked.
“Did you not say the same fucking thing to Pop?” he shoots back, grabbing at my knee to create space I have no intention of giving him.
“No, I asked if they were connected. I didn’t go spouting off about killing a woman.”
The brunette may be a grade-A pain in my fucking ass with a mouth the size of Texas, but she’s innocent. She doesn’t need to die.
“She’s a Lombardi. She doesn’t count.”
I shove off of him, disgusted. “Every woman counts,” I correct, fighting the urge to connect my fist with his jaw. Who is this person? “We don’t even know if she’s alive. What if the same person who killed Aidan killed her?”
He rolls his eyes and pushes to stand. “They would’ve left Lombardi a present. You don’t just leave one family with their relative’s face looking like a squeezed orange. Someone has her or she ran away. Like Pop said, it’s a little too fucking convenient.”
“Then the Lombardi theory makes no fucking sense,” I snap. “Lombardi wouldn't kill Aidan and leave his kid up for grabs.”
Nolan shrugs. “Unless he wants to be free of her. Wiping us off the face of the earth makes his life easier. A dead daughter justifies that to the other families to avoid a war.”
I consider it for a moment,
chewing over the details as I study him. It still doesn’t explain whatever Torin heard to make him think someone Irish wants her dead. A dead Evangelina wouldn’t do anyone favors, especially those of us with the Tully name. It’d just put a huge fucking target on our backs.
Nolan’s expression is unphased. “Think about it, Fal. Stop raging and acting like a wild man and start treating this like a fucking chess match. Not everything is black and white in our world. You know that.”
“The intake increase is,” I say, pushing Evangelina to the back burner. “It’s stupid. The schedule that Aidan set up has worked for years.”
He lets out a sigh, sliding an exasperated hand over his face. “Well, his way didn't exactly work out for him, now did it?”
8
Fallon
The wind off the water is unforgiving in the morning, a storm threatening Aidan’s service with gray skies as far as I can see from my place in the receiving line. The family’s spread throughout it, with Ma and Pop graveside, Nolan in the center, and me at the start. Countless flower arrangements fill the space between us, the tethered decorations giving each of us room to mourn.
I appreciate the buffer.
I need it more than ever.
Nolan might’ve thought his joke about Aidan after the meeting yesterday was funny, but it was too far, even for him. I haven’t talked to him since, and I don’t intend to for a while. I need time to think. He’s clouding my judgment with all his Lombardi talk. I’m crossing wires that shouldn’t be crossed. Seeing shadows that aren’t there.
The entire service is being held at the cemetery, the venue chosen to keep tensions low. Stuffing a bunch of crime families into one space is never a good idea. At least the open sky gives everyone’s ego a chance to fit in the door without feeling pinched.
The casket hovers over the hole in the distance, a stack of white roses resting on its lid. Like the floral arrangements, they’re tied down, the wind only growing fiercer as we stand here in the open field overlooking the river surrounded by death and sorrow.
I haven’t been here since Pop’s father passed, a bullet to the throat taking out Ciaran Tully at his sixtieth birthday party. Sprayed blood all over the cake and everything. Fitting for him. Bloody end for a bloody man. The crazy old bastard probably would’ve lived to be a hundred if he didn’t fuck another man’s wife. And to think, he ruled for years without catching heat until he touched a woman who didn’t belong to him. He’s probably rolling in his grave seeing this Evangelina shit play out.
The line of mourners stretches into the street, and the police are directing traffic to make sure rubbernecking accidents don’t put anyone else in the ground out there. People from all walks of life dot the stream of bodies. Irish. Bikers. Jamaicans. Bratva. I’ve shaken more hands and given more hugs today than I have in my thirty years on this planet. I can’t even tell who’s here because of Aidan and who’s here because they’re afraid of Pop. I’d like to think it’s split fifty-fifty, but I know better.
This one in front of me—Buddy Bianco—he’s the real deal. Our families have been tight for years, and genuine tears shine in his eyes when he gives me a hug and firm handshake. The portly patriarch of an Italian crew out of Jersey, he’s the kind of guy you could listen to for hours while he rattles on about the old days with a fat cigar in one hand and an amaretto sour in the other.
“Crazy fucking world we’re living in,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I don’t recognize this city anymore.”
“Me neither,” I admit before he releases my hand and goes to shuffle on. There isn’t much time for small talk in a line this long.
Not even a heartbeat passes before a tanned hand grasps mine, its owner practically shouldering Buddy out of the way. I glance up, ready to rip into whatever pompous fuck is rushing one of the most dangerous men in the tri-state when I meet the eyes of the deadliest: Antonio Lombardi.
Nearly black irises burn into mine, just as soulless as Pop said. I’ve never met this man, but I’d know him anywhere. His face was all over the news a few years back when he was on trial for murder, one of the many times he skated free despite a mountain of evidence that’d make Everest seem miniscule.
A formal duster coat covers his crisp black suit, a red tie peeking from the top. Inky hair slicks back into a perfect sheen, not a single strand daring to blow in the near-constant breeze. I see hints of Evangelina in his olive skin and piercing eyes, but I push away the recognition as if he can see it mirrored on my face.
“Antonio,” I greet, shaking his hand. It’s baby soft, which is strange at first, until I remember that this motherfucker doesn’t do any of his dirty work. He pays people to do it now. He has that luxury as the king of the city’s underworld. He wouldn’t even need to wipe his own ass if he didn’t want to. Fuckers would probably line up for the chance. Makes me sick. “Thank you for coming.”
He nods curtly. “My condolences.” It comes out as rough as sandpaper, and rather than move on like I expect, his hand stays in mine for two shakes too many before falling to his side. He plants himself in front of me like a fucking landmine. People move around him, knowing their place in the pecking order.
“I heard about your daughter,” I say, maintaining eye contact. I won’t give this motherfucker an inch. I don’t know if he’s involved in Aidan’s death or not. His designer suit hides a lot of sins, but not enough to cover what he’s capable of. “We have our eyes open for information. No one should have to face this.” I gesture at the coffin in the distance.
Now I’m not a fucking expert in body language or even remotely in tune with emotions, but this man looks every part the broken father at the mention of Evangelina’s disappearance. He maintains the stiff upper lip approach, but he can’t hide the flash of pain in his eyes when he studies Aidan’s black casket.
He clears his throat after a long moment. “I have my eyes open too, Fallon.”
How the fuck does he know me by name?
Most people can’t tell me and Nolan apart unless we’re in street clothes. Nole always looks borderline homeless or allergic to an iron. Today, we’re both in matching black suits, our hair tamed into the same style. Even Barry called me Nolan earlier.
“How do you…?” I start to ask, but he shakes his head.
This is where Antonio shines. Why he’s come to rule a city rife with criminals seeking to be top dog. He’s deadly without flashing his teeth, letting you know exactly what he’s capable of with a glance.
His eyes drift back to me with indifference, like I’m nothing more than the dirt beneath his designer shoes. “I know everyone in this city, Fallon. It keeps no secrets.”
I want to ask what he means by that exactly, but he stuffs his hands into his pockets and continues on in the line. Two massive bodyguards follow close at his heels, making it impossible to pursue an answer.
Two hours of handshaking and hugs pass before it’s finally time for the service itself. The priest is rambling about sins and damnation, and I’m doing my best not to tally Aidan’s as I look out into the attendees.
Pop and Ma are sitting graveside while Nolan and I stand, each of us taking a post behind a parent’s chair while we face the crowd in solidarity. A Tully unit that projects strength despite the fractures pulling us apart from the inside out.
It’s sleeting, and the temperature has dropped enough for every inch of exposed skin to burn. My hands are in my pockets, and even that isn’t helping much. Especially with the wind ripping through.
I feel like Aidan’s getting the last laugh here, knowing how much we all hate the cold. This is his payback for everyone in the family calling him Pretty Boy for all those years.
God, I miss the hell out of him.
Life’s gone to shit since Monday, and he hasn’t even been gone a week. Pop’s eternally hammered. Ma can’t stop crying. Nolan and I are at each other’s throats. I’m terrified to see what next week will look like if someone doesn’t grab the fucking reins and start steering us o
ff this path. We might wind up destroying ourselves before enemies get a chance.
Figuring out who put him in this casket is the first step in getting back to normal, but even as I search the faces of the crowd, all I see staring back at me is pity and Siobhan. It’s impossible to miss her in her head to toe red. She blows a kiss when I accidentally make eye contact, oblivious to the meathead bikers next to her ogling her tits, the two cream melons erupting out of her skintight dress. At a funeral. My brother’s fucking funeral.
I look away, tempted to have someone toss her out, regardless of how pissy it’ll make Ma. She’s got no respect for herself or the dead.
Our men are in a jumble, a sea of black suits spread around with copper carnation boutonnieres on their coat as a homage to Aidan’s hair. I had one earlier too, but the hours of back-to-back hugs left it a mangled mess. Now it’s sitting at the bottom of some old broad’s purse who swears she’s known me since I was knee high.
After a few minutes of mindless crowd browsing, I realize I’m looking for Antonio out there in the wave of suits but come up empty. He’s probably dipped back into whatever gold-trimmed jacuzzi he slipped out of to show his face.
Instead, I keep going back to a man who’s achingly familiar. Like Antonio, he has nearly black eyes, but his are shadowed by thick brows. His straight nose drops to lips set in a hard, emotionless line, his jawline hidden by a plush black scarf.
I know I’ve seen this fucker before.
It’s driving me crazy that I can’t place his face. He’s staring directly at me, too. Through me, even. His stringy, dark hair hangs past his shoulders to blow in the breeze, the thin texture looking more like a wig than actual hair. It feels like a feature I should be able to place on a person, but I’m coming up blank.
At least until he flashes a thumbs up from his hip and slides sunglasses on.