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CHAPTER ONE
Trick
I roll into the underground poker game
in South Boston around eleven, and here’s a guy who doesn’t belong,
waiting like a snake in the grass. Enzo Palermo, the thick-necked son of
the late Frank Palermo gives me a onceover with narrow eyes. Everyone
on the East Coast thinks I killed Frank Palermo, my ex-boss. Can’t blame
them. I’ve killed a lot of people. And Frank and I were like characters
in Highlander. In the end, there could be only one.
No one can prove I killed Frank, just
ask the police who’ve been trying to for months. Enzo’s not here looking
for proof though; he’s here looking for blood. Watching me, he stops
stacking his chips. My feet take a pause to give me time to consider,
but my brain catches up with itself and tells the feet to get stepping.
For me, there’s no backing down. I didn’t choose this life. I was born
into it, and, later, it was kill or be killed. So now I’m in it and when
trouble comes knocking, I don’t just open the door. I come outside to
meet it in the street.
I stroll to the table and drop casually
into my spot. The Palermos want to reclaim Coynston, my hometown. But
Coins belongs to C Crue now, my crue. Enzo wouldn’t come alone, so his
guys are out there in the dark, and I didn’t notice them. Pauly Mangia,
the oldest captain in the Palermo organization, would definitely love to
put a bullet in the back of my head. Was he on my six as I passed? Sloppy, Trick.
The rest of the guys at the table I can
handle with one hand balancing a drink. There’s Gibson, a stockbroker
from New York, who never meets a bluff he doesn’t like. He’s here to
hemorrhage money and act like a big man. There’s a Boston Irish mob guy
by the name of Murphy who hates my guts. That’s mutual as fucking hell,
since it’s his brother who sealed my fate. There’s Little Mo who set up
the game. Mo looks nervous, as he should. And then there’s an empty
chair that’s hopefully for another rich guy trying to hang with bad
ones.
I drop my cash on the table, wondering
if it’s a coincidence Murphy’s here. Murphy’s brother Hugh was a crony
of my old man, until Hugh betrayed him. Jack Murphy looks at me like he
knows I’m the reason his brother’s buried in a Boston cemetery.
There’s a dealer. No one I know and
looks harmless enough. I’ll keep an eye out. The sound of shoes clicking
against stairs causes my eyes to flicker that way. The tread’s wrong
for a guy.
My gaze slides to the open door to
witness the emergence of a girl who should know better. Laurelyn
Reilly’s from my neighborhood in Coynston, and she was a good girl in
school. That doesn’t stop her from looking like the devil conjured her
up to bring men to their knees. Her body’s wrapped in a beige bandage
dress. At first glance, she looks nude, and my cock immediately takes an
interest, hardening up like poker’s not the right game to play with
her. She’s got the kind of curves you couldn’t take at high speed
without heading off a cliff.
Every eye in the room goes to the D cups
straining the tight fabric and bouncing above it. This isn’t how she
dresses. Unless a whole lot of things have changed.
At Coins High she was a teenage Sporty
Spice, playing volleyball and running track. She wore black-framed
glasses borrowed from Clark Kent. She usually kept her body under wraps
in loose tunic shirts over jeans. The one time I saw her in a dress that
suited her was when she was on the homecoming court and wore a blue
strapless dress that definitely didn’t have her tits pushed up to her
chin.
That homecoming dance was the night she
found out her date was a well-practiced deviant. She took off on his
ass, leaving the guy—me—to get stoned and mess around with the captain
of the cheerleaders. Laurel and I are still not on speaking terms,
because why would we be? I went my way, and she went hers, doing the
conventional life thing. Which leads me to wonder who sent out the
invites to this party? Laurel Reilly’s the girl who convinced me that my
dick is welcome to a workout, but my heart’s only good at beating for
business, family, and revenge. No one but me knows the lessons I learned
from being with Laurel a decade ago, not even her.
My gaze drops to her feet and notes the
double C logo that makes them Chanel. I move up her legs, which are as
gorgeous as ever. Are the clothes borrowed so she’ll look the part?
She stops next to Gibson. “Could I?” She nods at him and then at the empty chair she wants him to move over to.
“Sure.” He vacates his seat so she can have it, and now she’s next to me.
What’s this about? She’s close enough
for me to catch a whiff of a flowery perfume with a sexy undercurrent.
Her skin’s a creamy vanilla, which matches her sweet center, one that I
was keen to corrupt. I doubt she’d be so anxious to sit next to me if
she knew how many times I’d fantasized about stripping her and bending
her over a table to mark her pretty ass with a flogger before fucking
her in front of an audience of my closest friends.
Laurel leans forward, her breasts
straining to spill out of the top of her dress. I’m rooting for them.
Then I try to forget about her body while I ask myself two important
questions. One, who staked her? Because I doubt she can afford the fifty
grand buy-in on her own. And two, why does she want to sit next to me
when last I knew, she’s still pissed at me from school?
I study her profile a second, taking in
the high ponytail that’s held in place by a wide dark brown barrette
that blends with her hair. My inspection stops at the thin gold choker
around her neck. Would she wear a collar as easily? Because she would
make a very pretty pet. My fingers want to play with the clasp and
stroke the bones partly hidden by her hair.
She gives Little Mo a bundle of cash and
introduces herself to everyone except me. The other men shoot to their
feet and lean across to shake her hand. I don’t stand or say a word. She
shouldn’t be here. If she wanted a reunion with me and her intentions
were good, she would’ve come to Coins.
After she stacks her chips in front of
her, she turns her head and fixes her green eyes on me. I remember those
eyes and the way when light shines on them they look like stained
glass. Always had a tough time looking away.
She inclines her head in greeting. “Hello, Scott.”
No one calls me Scott, which, of course, she knows.
I don’t answer because I immediately
want in on whatever game she’s playing. Is that a bad idea considering
how the table’s stacked against me? Hell fucking yes.
The feds are breathing down my neck
twenty-four/seven, and they aren’t even trying to hide it anymore, which
is a very bad sign. Coins PD is always after my crue. And this card
game is nothing short of a funeral march. The last thing I need is to
get distracted by pretty breasts, long legs, and stained-glass eyes. But
whoever sent Laurel Reilly seems to know exactly where my blind spot is
and always has been. Except how could anyone?
“You know this young lady? And you don’t
even say hello? Worst fucking manners,” Enzo spits out. He’s about as
subtle as a goring bull.
“Why don’t you come sit by me, doll? Someone as beautiful as you shouldn’t be ignored.”
She offers him a small smile, which I immediately resent. “Thank you, but the lighting’s better over here.”
That’s bullshit. The track lights are the same on both sides of the table.
“Mo, who’s on the bar?” I ask to mess with them and splash some coolant on my brain.
Little Mo’s eyebrows draw together in
surprise. No one starts drinking this early. But if everyone’s putting
on a show tonight, I’ll ante up on that score too.
“Jack and Coke, Trick?”
“Yeah.”
“Anyone else?”
Everyone shakes their heads except Laurelyn.
“I wouldn’t mind a vodka martini,” she says.
All grown up and elegant enough to be
playing the trophy wife or spoiled mistress apparently. Who bought her
those shoes? And what does she let him do to her in exchange? My cock’s
at half-mast, and I’m ready to offer her a closet full of designer shoes
to play out fantasies that have gone unfulfilled for way too long.
Enzo, not to be outdone by me or a
woman, takes a whiskey. For him it’s a mistake. Even three or four
drinks in, I can roll this table my way. Everyone else should stay sober
if they want to stay in the game. Even so, I really need to change
lanes too. Murphy’s looking at my throat like he wants to cut it, and
he’s a distant second to my real problem at the table. Enzo’s men
outside aren’t drinking, and they’ll be there waiting when I leave.
“Martini. Here you go.” Mo’s lips draw
back to show his overbite and cigarette-stained teeth, which for him is
what passes for a smile. Mo’s in his forties, but he looks older.
I realize that at twenty-seven, I’m the
youngest person in the room. Enzo’s got me beat by a decade at
thirty-seven. Jack Murphy’s around forty-five. And Miss Reilly’s
twenty-eight. Older girls were the only ones I played with in high
school, by design. Older girls were more likely to be experienced enough
to experiment with wilder sex, which is all I crave. Also, they were
less likely to be trouble for me than a younger girl if they talked
about the things I did to them. When the girl’s older than the guy and
the hookup is consensual, the world sees the dynamic differently. Not
that it really should. As a clean-shaven eighteen-year-old, I may have
looked like an angel, but in reality, I was already fallen.
For an instant I’m reminded of my dad’s
observation of me as a little kid courting trouble. “Look at you. Born
on the road to hell and sticking your thumb out for a faster ride.
What’s your rush, lad?”
From ages five to nine, I’d only
shrugged, not sure how to answer or even what he was really asking. Now
when I remember those words, I’ve got a better answer. I’m in a hurry,
Dad, because I miss you.
“Jack and Coke is easier to get than Irish punch, but does it taste as good?” Laurel asks.
Glancing her way, I only cock a brow
before looking back at my chips. This is strategy on my part. I want her
attention, so I’m ignoring her because I know she hates that. Or at
least she did.
“What’s whiskey called in Irish?” She’s determined to remind me of a night I don’t need help remembering.
“I already told you,” I murmur without
making eye contact. From the corner of my eye, I watch her smile. She’s
got a pretty mouth. And I’m the one who taught her how to wrap her lips
around a man’s cock. That lesson was on the same night I gave her
whiskey punch from my old man’s flask.
“Uisce beatha,” Murphy says. “Water of life.”
Her gaze flits to him, and her smile widens. “That’s right.”
Murphy wouldn’t have a shot with her on
his best day. He’s twice her age with a comb-over that makes his head
look like a cue ball with some string taped on. But if Laurel plays us
against each other by paying attention to him? Yeah, no, I’m not going
to let him or anyone draw her focus away from me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I
slide it out. There’s a text from C. He’s the head of our crue. Three of
us sit atop our syndicate’s unwritten org chart. Connor ‘C’ McCann,
Sasha ‘Anvil’ Stroviak, and me. C wants to know if I’m back from Boston.
Among other things, I was here to supervise the sale of some guns. That
went off flawlessly, unlike this game is going to.
My thumb slides over the screen of my burner phone, texting back. I’m in Az.
It’s code. Az is short for Tombstone, Arizona. It means I expect a gunfight to erupt.
My phone lights in an instant. Send pictures.
That’s his way of telling me to turn on
tracking, so they can find me and roll in like the cavalry. I think
about the fact that the FBI’s watching me. This phone’s a burner, as is
the one C’s texting from, but there’s no guarantee the feds don’t know
these numbers. Even when you pay cash, the feds sometimes uncover the
purchase. That’s why we text in code and why I periodically turn off the
phone. If things go sideways in this basement, but I manage to get
away, I want to be able to deny ever being here during the time in
question.
My crue’s in Coynston, about an hour out. I don’t expect anything to go down immediately, so I respond with, When I get a minute. Coffee first.
Coffee’s short for coffee beans, which is a reference to Beantown.
No response and I don’t expect one. C and Anvil will be on the road in five minutes heading to Boston.
The burner phones change. The code
phrases change. But the crue doesn’t change. All for one, and one for
all. My smartest play is to draw the night out until I’ve got some
backup on hand.
“We gonna play cards or what?” Enzo
asks, clearly pissed at all the Ireland Forever talk that Laurel’s
peddling and Murphy’s eating up.
I pick up my drink, which Mo’s just set in a cup holder.
The girl who looks like a slutty angel
sips from a martini glass Mo dug up for her. She licks her lips, and
Enzo’s eyes lock on her mouth. So do Murphy’s.
She may or may not know Murphy, but she
knows Enzo’s the spawn of a shark and she knows my reputation, which has
gone from bad to worse in the years since she left Coins. What’s a good
Irish Catholic girl and IT systems specialist doing in a basement full
of made men?
Could she be working for the FBI? And
what wouldn’t I give to strip search her to check for a wire? Glancing
at the flesh-colored fabric stretched around her body I decide I’m
willing to gamble with my life and my freedom to get a look at her
naked. I’m betting her pussy’s as pink as the blush she dusted on her
cheeks.
Laurel
This is all wrong, and I’m in serious trouble.
The dealer keeps the cards coming, and I
keep smiling and flicking chips into the pile when what I really want
to do is bolt up the stairs and out of the house. Fear and dread knots
my insides. Milt lied to me. If I’d known Scott Patrick was going to be
here, I never would’ve come.
In school, Scott was rumored to be a
wickedly dangerous boy, but I never saw that side of him. When he was
around me, he was charming and so, so beautiful that it was hard to look
past his face. In summer, his sandy brown hair gets streaks of blond,
and year round his blue eyes change in the light and are stunners. He
could’ve been a model or a YouTube star or anything that leverages
breathtaking good looks. But he doesn’t like to be photographed. And
yet, I doubt there’s a woman he went to school with who doesn’t have at
least one quickly snapped picture of him on an old phone. His is a face
that’s meant to be stared at. I still have seven old pics of him. At one
time it was forty-four, but progress has been made.
He’s a man now, and there’s no doubt the
rumors are true. He’s in thick with Connor McCann and Sasha Stroviak
and they all defected from Frank Palermo’s criminal organization and
started their own. Last year amidst a gang war, someone gunned down
Palermo. There’s talk that Frank’s own daughter or his ex-mistress
could’ve shot him, but how likely is that when Scott Patrick is a known
sharpshooter and both his muscle-bound friends are killers, too?
In high school, I couldn’t understand
why a boy as a brilliant and handsome as Scott Patrick chose to hang out
with thugs. I learned later he was raised to be one of them.
Dropping the medication in his glass
makes my breath so short I feel dizzy. No matter what he’s done, I hate
being involved in something that will hurt him.
I take another swig of my martini,
trying to work up the courage to do what has to be done. My hands
threaten to shake. But I’m here and I need to do this. If he’s got
nothing to hide, then there’s no harm in it. And my sister needs me to
try.
Still, just the thought of trying to
trick him is scary. When I was being coached, Milt made everything seem
simple and reasonable. But I’m not an actress, and I’m not a criminal.
How can I possibly handle myself in this company?
We play hand after hand, but none of the
things I’m supposed to say will come out of my mouth. Because I’m
convinced if I try at all to lead the conversation to their illegal
dealings, one or all of them will immediately see right through me.
An hour in, my leg’s bouncing so fast
from nerves that I realize my breasts are shaking. The man named Jack
Murphy has his eyes glued to my chest. Jesus. I force myself to be
still. This is a disaster.
My own eyes glance at the upturned cards
on the table, but I don’t really see much. I put a hand on a stack of
chips, ready to recklessly push them in. I’m playing really badly
because I’m scared and I’m distracted by the first guy I ever loved.
“You sure?” Trick murmurs out of the corner of his mouth.
We lock eyes, his a deep denim blue, and my hand freezes on the stack of chips. No, I’m not sure,
I think. What am I sure of is that Scott has a good idea that I don’t
have what it takes to beat him, but I don’t know why he’s warning me of
that. Maybe it’s another game he’s playing? He’s an expert game player
from way back.
I lay down my cards. Not waiting to see
how things play out, I rise and hurry to the bathroom. Once locked
inside, I reach down the sausage casing that is my borrowed dress and
yank out the tiny microphone. I crush it under the heel of my borrowed
shoe. I’ve been outfitted in designer clothing seized by the FBI. That’s
where the cash on the poker table came from too. But I can’t go forward
with any more of this. I open the basement window and drop the mic
outside, then close the window again, getting caught by a gust of cold
air. It’s spring, but the night almost feels like winter’s back.
Exhaling, I try to breathe slowly to get
my hammering heart to slow. When they lose the signal, will the FBI
burst in? And if so, will all three of the gangsters at the table then
come after me and my family? I almost get sick at the thought. How did I
ever let myself get talked into coming here?
Because Monet’s in legal trouble. And
because C Crue is doing vile things and needs to be stopped. This
operation is something that I should press on with, but Scott Patrick
giving me advice at the poker table stopped me. Whatever else he did in
high school, he never failed to watch out for me when he thought I was
in trouble.
I run some cold water, cup my hands and
drink a few swallows. No more vodka. And no more Scott Patrick. I’ll
take his drugged drink like I want a sip and then I’ll drop it so he
can’t drink anymore. Afterward I’ll lose quickly and leave.
Returning to the table, the mood has
worsened and I see that the mountain of chips in front of Trick has
risen. Also, his drink’s gone. Oh, God. Did he chug it down? Now I’ll
have to wait to be sure he’s okay.
Across the table Enzo Palermo sneers,
his face flushed an angry red. Everyone’s losing to Trick, but no one
else gets needled by him every hand.
“Luck’s just not on your side tonight,
huh, Enzo?” Trick asks. “Could be because you’re not Irish. You could
try rubbing Murphy’s balls for luck.”
Enzo jumps to his feet, knocking his
chair back. There were supposed to be no weapons, but he pulls a small
gun from somewhere and points it menacingly at Trick.
I freeze while everyone else pushes
back, except Trick. He lifts my drink and takes a sip, like he’s at a
table in the Bellagio. Even I want to shoot him in his beautiful face.
Enzo is not having Trick’s endless cool. He stalks around the table and puts the gun to Trick’s head.
Trick cocks a brow and smirks.
Oh, my God, why?
Enzo cracks the gun against Trick’s
scalp, making me wince. Trick stays still. Clearly he’s braced himself
for this attack, but why provoke it? That’s insane.
Trick’s cool gaze stays on Enzo’s face,
and then Trick moves so fast I don’t register what’s happening until
Enzo’s on the floor, his gun skidding away from him as he grabs his
crotch. From under the table, Trick must have slammed a fist into Enzo’s
balls. Jesus.
Trick stalks across the floor and has
the gun in his hand while everyone else is still catching up. Mo holds
out his hands, Gibson too holds up his arms in surrender. The dealer
pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, watching the scene. Jack
Murphy doesn’t move and neither do I.
On the floor, Enzo wheezes and clutches himself, spitting curses.
Then there’s a loud noise upstairs, a crashing, followed by more noise.
“What the fuck’s going on, Mo?” Enzo demands, sitting up.
Everyone else is frozen as footsteps
pound down the steps. My breath catches. Connor McCann, aka C, and Sasha
Stroviak, aka Anvil, appear with guns in hand.
C’s eyes go from Trick’s face where blood is trickling down from his scalp and then to Enzo on the floor.
Enzo looks at the stairs behind them, maybe looking for his muscle to storm in. No one comes.
“Mo, cash me out,” Trick says, his voice
level as he pops the clip from the gun, wipes away fingerprints, and
then sets it on the poker table.
“No problem.” Mo jerks into action, spilling cash into a bag and marching it over to Trick.
Enzo gets to his feet, almost foaming at the mouth with hatred. “You come busting in, McCann? Like you own the place?”
“Seems like,” C says with dead eyes. “You the cause of my boy springing a leak?”
“Seems like,” Enzo sneers, brash and unapologetic.
Blood continues to drip down the side of
Trick’s head in a line just in front of his ear. He doesn’t touch it or
acknowledge it as it drops onto his white dress shirt.
Murphy grins. “Should’ve tapped him
lower, Palermo. He’s needed that pretty boy face rearranged for a long
time. And that might even have gotten a rise out of him.”
“I’ve got what you’re looking for,” Anvil says, waving his fingers for Murphy to come at him.
No one sane would get into a fistfight
with the mammoth anvil-fisted Stroviak, but at the moment I’m not sure
any of these guys are sane.
Trick steps up to the table, and his hand takes my arm into a vise grip.
My head jerks up, startled.
“On your feet,” he orders.
I blink, trying to decide.
“Get up,” C barks.
I shoot to my feet, not quite steady.
Trick takes the bag of money from Mo and
guides me toward the stairs. McCann goes up first, then us, then Anvil
comes up them backward, gun on the room.
They move with economy and precision to a
pair of SUVs. I spot at least one man lying unconscious on the ground
with blood on his swollen face. My stomach twists. Milt was right. First
and foremost, they’re violent criminals.
Trick opens the passenger seat of a Range Rover.
“Get in.”
I don’t hesitate. It’s definitely not
the time to argue or do anything that would make them decide to leave me
lying dead on the grass. Where is the FBI?
I buckle my seatbelt, not looking anywhere but straight ahead.
Trick gets in and starts the car. Rap
blares from the speakers until he turns it down. He pulls away from the
curb. Behind us there’s a second Range Rover with McCann and Stroviak in
it.
“I don’t understand. I wasn’t—”
“Shut up,” he says softly.
I close my mouth, grinding my teeth. I don’t want to let him talk to me that way, but what choice do I have?
Get out, my mind screams. I slide one hand to the buckle of my seatbelt and the other to the door handle.
“You do that, and I will punish you for days.”
My gaze jerks to his profile. He’s breathtakingly good-looking, which is tragic since he’s so rotten on the inside.
Moving my hands away from the door
handle and the seatbelt, I settle in the seat. I don’t know what Trick
has in mind for me, but I know better than to make things worse by
flagrantly challenging him. The FBI should be following us. I will be
all right.
“Wrong direction for me. I don’t live in Coynston.”
“You live where I say you live until I’m done with you.”
My heart sinks, and my stomach clenches. He’s never directed his anger at me before, but I’ve seen flashes of it.
In high school and around the
neighborhood, Trick had seemed like the least menacing of the three of
them. But they all went to work for Frank Palermo’s crime syndicate as
teenagers. A hard-eyed stare from Connor McCann terrified even the
teachers. And Anvil Stroviak, at around six and half feet tall and
bodybuilder muscular, looked like an escaped Terminator. Trick, though,
was almost always turning on the charm, joking and quick to smile. It
had always been hard to believe he was involved in the darker side of
the Palermo business. I’d thought maybe he was just a bookkeeper or
something because he was gifted at math. He didn’t bother to do
homework, so he wasn’t first in his class, but he could have been.
Everyone understood that. He fell asleep in calculus all the time
because it was first period, but when our teacher woke him and handed
him the chalk, Trick would mumble an apology for falling asleep and go
to the board. He’d stare at the problem for a second and then his hand
would move wickedly fast, solving anything that was put before him.
“That was a tough one,” he would say. At
first I thought he meant it, but later I realized it was his way of
deflecting focus from his genius. He liked our math teacher and always
treated him with respect.
He mostly was that way with teachers and
administrators, unless someone in authority pushed him in a way he
didn’t like. I remember the day Mr. Benedict tried to belittle Trick.
He’d been in a bad mood and taking it out on the class all hour. Trick
leaned back in his desk and made a couple of jokes, trying to lighten
the mood. Mr. Benedict wasn’t having it. He yelled at Trick to sit up
straight, calling him lazy and useless. He said Trick was so stupid he
could never even remember to bring a notebook.
Trick didn’t sit up straight. Instead he
leaned back farther and put his hands behind his head. “Useless is
being a history teacher who gets the dates of the Emancipation
Proclamation wrong when we’re covering the Civil War.”
“What? What did you say?” Benedict shouted, stalking forward. “You don’t know a thing about—”
And then Trick rattled off facts and dates Mr. Benedict got wrong, citing the date of the class he’d made the mistakes.
“You’re saying random—”
“No. I’m not,” Trick said before continuing.
People’s fingers flew to look things up
and then to quietly defend Trick as right. It probably only lasted a
couple of minutes but it seemed like hours.
Finally Mr. Benedict screamed for Trick to get out of his class.
“You sure? Maybe you should leave and I should teach,” Trick said casually.
The room went silent. Benedict looked like he was ready to have a seizure. Then Trick got up.
“I didn’t forget to bring a notebook. I just don’t bother.”
Mr. Benedict grabbed him by the front of his shirt.
Trick broke his grasp easily, murmuring, “Be serious.” Then he walked out.
Trick was suspended and received a
failing grade in history, but still maintained a C average because in
classes without homework, he got As.
I stare out the window now as the trees on the side of the interstate whiz by.
“Scott?”
“No.”
“Trick,” I continue without missing a beat. “You shouldn’t do this. You should pull off the expressway and let me out.”
He doesn’t answer.
I’m silent for as long as I can be, which is only probably about five minutes. “I don’t understand what—”
“You’re the one who came looking for me. You wanted my attention. Now you have it.”
“I didn’t,” I lie.
“Be serious.” He speaks in that same
dismissive, bored tone he used so effectively against our bully of a
teacher all those years ago.
I swallow, my uneasiness intensifying.
Why did I let myself get talked into helping Milt with this? Who do I
think I am to mess around with a guy who’s reportedly killed half a
dozen men?
“I just want to be let out of the car.”
My voice is no more than a whisper now. “This is all a mistake. You can
drop me anywhere. I’ll call for a ride.”
There are a few beats of silence. “What was it?”
“What?”
“In the drink.”
Oh, God. Did he see me spike his drink? I was smooth. He should’ve missed it.
“And who put you up to it? With Enzo,
what you see is what you get. Packs an extra gun. Brings some extra
muscle. Thinks he’s got it all under control because he managed to show
up unexpectedly. That’s Enzo. Drugging me by getting a girl to slip
something in my drink? Not Enzo. Actually I doubt even Murphy would do
it in that setting. To what end? With Gibson, Mo, and the dealer there,
he’s not gonna carry me out in front of witnesses to kill me elsewhere.
And risk the feds and my crue getting the story? Nah. Murphy’s smarter
than that. He’d lie in wait for me somewhere, kill me, and then blame it
on someone else. That’s his family’s style.”
My head jerks to look at him. What’s he
talking about? And why is he saying anything at all unless he’s decided
I’ll never be able to pass it on?
“So tell me who sent you to set me up?”
My stomach sinks, and my voice is mostly
breath. “No one.” This is more than a disaster. I have no idea what
he’s planning to do. Kill me?
All he says is, “Wrong answer.”
