“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.
And maybe she was right. I was a monster.
“I’m the new Don,” I said. “I need to show the city that I can’t be fucked with. It was a risk, but I’ve gone on hits before with a man you don’t know, a good killer named Ewan.”
“Oh my god,” she said, and put her head between her knees.
“Try not to get sick,” I said. “It’s Italian leather.”
She laughed, a horrible, gasping sound. “You’re insane.”
“Welcome to the family,” I said, and angled the car back home.
That would send a message. The Don himself going on a hit would set this fucking city on fire. It was a massive risk, but it paid off, and now I had to see if the Healy family got my message.
I was not to be fucked with.
12
Mags
I felt like I could still hear the gunshots.
They reverberated down my spine: bang, bang, bang. And the screams, like their vocal cords right rip from their throats, and the blood, and their inside leaking out onto the carpet—
I knew what the mafia did. Intellectually anyway, I understood that the mafia was dangerous and violent. They dealt with problems through guns, knives, clubs, fists, and any other weapon they could get their hands on. Death was a way of life for some guys.
My father never got into that side of the mob, or at least he never talked about it. He ran his club and made his money, sold drugs on the side, sold some girls in the back rooms, sold sex and pleasure, but the violence stayed outside. I knew it happened, but it was always something distant.
Seeing Dean execute that guy broke something in me. It made everything sharper, like reality was slipped into a high-resolution filter and now everything was so much more intense.
The house itself seemed more alive. The otherwise dead floorboards and the wood paneling on the walls were suddenly pocked with warps and whirls. I noticed every paint splatter, saw every detail in each statue, smelled the old chimney smoke in the fireplace and the roasted chicken Bea made earlier in the afternoon. It was like I’d survived that gunshot, like I walked away from a murder with my life when I never should have.
Dean tugged me inside and sat me down in his office. He shoved a drink in my hand and sat on the edge of his desk looking down at me with blank, unreadable eyes. I sipped the whiskey and it burned on the way down, but did nothing to dull the pain. If anything, it made the place brighter. The books nearly glowed.
“You shouldn’t have seen that,” he said softly.
I grimaced and stared down at the cut crystal glass in my hand, likely worth more than a year of my father’s earnings at the club. This bastard, this killer, he was drowning in money and privilege and he still went out and pulled the trigger himself.
It terrified me.
Before, it was a fun game with a handsome stranger.
It was a way to get away from my family.
Ten million dollars.
Now though, the stakes were so real.
“Mags, look at me,” he said softly.
I shook my head. “I don’t want to.”
“I know that was hard,” he said, his voice straining slightly, hinting at an anger he kept suppressed. “Seeing a man die like that—”
“You killed him,” I whispered. “You executed him.”
“He tried to kill us,” he said. “And he would’ve tried again. I had to send a message.”
I didn’t say anything to that. He had his reasons and I understood them, but that didn’t make it any better. The silence was like a wall of rubber between us, thick and suffocating.
He let out a frustrated grunt and got up. I watched him pace across the room like a caged animal before he dumped whiskey into a glass. It sloshed over the side and spilled on the rug, a thick red and gold Persian with distressed edges. He cursed and rubbed his foot into it, then threw the drink back. He turned, about to say something, when someone knocked at the door.
“Yeah?” he asked.
Bea opened it a crack. “Hector’s here,” she said.
And Hector came in without waiting. He pushed the door open and hustled past Bea, who glared and followed him in. He looked at me, frowned a little, then stared at Dean like he wanted to shout.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Hector asked.
Dean laughed bitterly. “It’s okay, Bea,” he said. “Stay. And close the door.”
She nodded, shut the door, and leaned back against the wall. She winked at me and smiled, but I couldn’t manage to smile back.
“Now, what are you talking about, Hector?” Dean asked, staring him down.