CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Well hello, bad news!
Chase
I think there comes a point in every man's life when he's given a choice: do the right thing, you know, follow the rainbow, discover the pot of gold and shit it out to the poor.
Or you do bad.
In my case?
Very, very bad.
Nixon ended the phone call. My thoughts swarmed, thoughts of her, thoughts of him, thoughts of them together which really, really made me want to lose my mind and run my fist through the steering wheel or maybe a brick building.
My phone lit up again.
Phoenix, of course.
"You better be dead…" I cursed into the phone as I pulled onto the freeway. "…or at least bleeding from a fatal wound."
I hadn't heard from the bastard in days. I knew he was pissed about all the drama that had gone down with Nixon, but I also knew it was only a matter of time before Nixon forgave him, and we welcomed him back in the fold. He was one of us, after all.
"Sorry to shit on your sunshine," Phoenix hissed. "But we have a problem."
"We or you?"
"We." He drew the word out. "Us, the guys, we have a problem."
"Call Nixon."
"He's not answering, the bastard. Not that I blame him, all things considered."
Right. Which meant that had Phoenix called me… because I was second, second in command, second to find Trace, second to want her. When really, really if you look back, I was first, damn it, first. I clenched my fingers and counted to ten.
"Does this problem involve violence?"
"Lots."
"Address?"
Phoenix fired off an address a few miles away from where I was located. And hung up immediately.
One of our men had gone AWOL.
It happened.
Not often, but it did happen. They thought they could handle the life and then, after a few kills, they just stopped doing their jobs. They got nervous. I called it shaky-shit syndrome. Unable to keep a grasp on reality, they just bailed. I sighed and took the next exit.
You didn't bail when it came to the Mafia.
Bailing was code word for Let me run away and hope they don't catch me.
Word to the wise. We will always, and I do mean always, catch you, and when we find you, we don't give warnings. We simply shoot.
The guy Phoenix called me about had taken one look at Trace and Frank Alfero and had literally lost his mind, mumbling about Mafia wars and families invading from Sicily. Bullshit. We were fine.
But when people panicked, they did stupid things.
And this man, let's call him Joe. He was doing something so mind-numbingly stupid that I had no choice but to pull the trigger.
My car screeched to a halt in front of the restaurant. I turned off the ignition, made sure the safety was off of my gun, and made my way slowly into the Chinese place.
Tex was sitting at the bar, flirting with one of the waitresses. The place was pretty packed for a Monday night, but whatever. The room was soundproof.
"Sunshine." Tex wiggled his eyebrows at me.
"Asshole," I greeted in response then jerked the drink out of his hands and downed the whole thing.
"Riddle me this." He twisted the straw in his hands. "Is our boss not answering because he's playing house with the enemy?"
"Enemy…" I rolled my eyes. "Alright, pot, you do realize the kettle's black? Like, all of it?"
His eyes narrowed and, for a brief moment, I panicked. I never talked shit to Tex like that, at least about stuff that was real, stuff that mattered. And his situation? Very real and, hell yes, it mattered. He stood to his full height.
I cursed and looked away. "Phoenix?"
"Guarding the back, looks like hell too." He dropped the straw onto the bar and shrugged. "He figured it would be best for only one of us to go in, cleaner that way."
"Awesome. I kill. You do the paperwork?"
"Just call me secretary, bitch." He slapped me on the back and sauntered off.
Shaking my head, I made my way into the back room.
The click of the door must have notified Joe to my presence. Hell, I wasn't even sure if Joe was his real name, but I was going to go with it because I honestly didn't care if Bambi was his name, or if he had two cats and a dog, or even if he had a wife and kids. I wasn't paid to care.
And he wasn't paid to snitch.
He wasn't paid to go to the feds.
He let out a pitiful whimper.
"Joe." I pulled out my gun and scratched my head with it.
He lifted his head as if it weighed a thousand pounds. His hands were tied behind his back, and he was sitting in a metal chair from the bar.
"How's life, Joe?"
Sweat poured from his temples. "Can't complain."
"Good, good." I nodded, tapping my chin with the barrel of the gun, pacing in front of him. "You know I have to ask."
He hung his head.
"Did you give them any information, Joe?"
"No!" He shook his head violently. "I would never betray family. I would never—"
"But…" I held up my free hand and leaned in real close to his head. "…you kind of did… you ran, didn't finish a job, left two loose ends, and then went to the cops who then ran a background check on you and called the feds. Tell me what you told them."
"Nothing!" Joe yelled. "I said nothing. You have to believe me."
"Does it matter though?" I asked in cold voice. "Say I believe you. Now you're a target, you're dirty. So I'm going to ask nicely, Joe, how do you want it?"
"No!" Tears poured down his face. "No, you can't, Chase! You can't! If you just let me talk to Nixon—" I slapped him hard with the gun. Blood spilled out of his mouth.
"Nixon isn't here." I clenched my teeth into a fierce snap. "I am. Now I'm going to ask again… how do you want it?"
His body convulsed, and then he threw up all over the ground.
Cursing, I stepped back. "Dirty it is."
"NO! Wait! Clean! Make it clean!"
"Your wish is my command," I whispered then pulled the trigger, aiming directly between his eyes.
One shot.
I walked calmly out of the room, though my hands were shaking so aggressively it looked like I was a druggie in need of his next hit.
"Any games on tonight?" Tex asked, taking the gun from my hands and giving me two shots of whiskey in a glass.
I tipped it back. "We should ask Phoenix."
"Cool. Looks like the guy could use a friend. I know Nixon's pissed about what happened, but I'm pretty sure he's looking at it through breast-colored glasses, you know? Home?"
"Yeah," I croaked, refusing to touch that comment with a ten-foot pole, because if he was looking at her that way, then what the hell was I doing? The same damn thing, that's what. "Home."
I walked back through the restaurant after having killed a man.
I'd talked about football like it was normal to have blood on my hands.
And the sickest part of my night?
I felt no guilt over what I'd just done… because even after all that violence, after all that horror… my brain only had space for one thing.
Trace Rooks.
And I knew — I was going to have her if it was the last thing I did.
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