I sank into the back of the Benz as Peter took the wheel. David slid in next to him. It was unorthodox to have two seconds-in-command, but the Raven brothers formed a tight pair, always had ever since their days growing up in foster homes and eventually on the streets. I’d crossed paths a few times with them when we were kids, gotten into scraps and taken enough Raven beat downs to respect them. We’d all worked together for the last boss, Vince. And when I picked up the pieces of his shattered reign and took over, they’d sworn allegiance to me on the first day.
“What’d you do with the finger?” David kept his head on a swivel, peering through the bulletproof glass of the windshield as if a threat would appear out of the cloudy May sky and swoop down with machine guns blasting.
Peter snorted. “I planted it in the foreman’s pocket.”
David shook his head.
“He’ll squeal like a bitch as he pulls out that fat little nugget when he’s going for a cig later.” Peter was the only Raven brother with a sense of humor. When he wasn’t busy being a number-crunching nerd, he reminded me of myself before I’d taken over the syndicate. I’d been funny back then, too. Everything was a fucking laugh. Not anymore. Now, everything was exhausting. Balancing an empire on the head of a fucking pin while dumbasses took potshots at you didn’t inspire humor.
I leaned back against the leather and took a deep breath. “Take me to the house.”
“What about the table at Paredo’s?”
“Cancel. Give Jimmy my apologies.” I gestured to my blood-splattered shirt. “I don’t think he wants me showing up at his restaurant looking like I just walked off Elm Street.”
“He wouldn’t give a shit.” Peter shrugged, but turned onto the freeway leading out of town. I’d set up shop in a large estate in Gladwyne. The rich-as-fuck neighbors minded their own business from their mansions while my men and I fortified a house that looked like it belonged in the English countryside. With two wings, a large pool, and a twelve-car, two-story garage, the house was far beyond anything I’d ever dreamed of owning. Being the boss came with perks. The house had belonged to the Genoa family for a century, but when the last Genoa boss fell, it had fallen empty. Now it was mine.
We passed through the secured gate with a nod to a sentry in a crisp suit. The driveway meandered through trees and landscaping until the house appeared, ringed with spring flowers, pretending to be a warm family home instead of a hive of bad men with murky agendas. The sun was low on the horizon, almost gone, by the time Peter pulled up out front. I rose and climbed the few steps to the entrance.
George opened the door and greeted me, the butt of his black pistol peeking from beneath his suit coat. He had a semi-automatic stored just inside the front door. We were on high alert after the Russians stepped up their meddling, and especially after their last assassination attempt only two months prior. I’d barely avoided a shotgun blast to the chest that time, and it took hours for my personal doc to remove every pellet of buckshot from my left arm.
“Mr. Franco.” Opal, my housekeeper, greeted me with a smile. She was excellent at pretending nothing was amiss despite the armed men who frequented the house. She’d been the housekeeper here, then at the last boss’s house, and then back here again once I’d taken it over. “I thought you were dining out.” Her eyes dropped to the crimson across my shirt. “Oh, I see. I’ll whip you something up.”
“It’s fine.” I waved her away and pulled off my suit coat.
“No, I’ll send it up.” She smiled.
There was no point arguing with her. I’d learned that much in the past five years. I trudged past her up the stairs, fatigue sinking into my bones.
“One more thing, Mr. Franco?” She called behind me.
“Can it wait till tomorrow?” I wanted to be alone, to sit and rest and try to figure my way out of the ever-growing mess of my empire.
She hesitated. “Sure. Yes, I’ll bring it up at breakfast.”
“Thank you.” I continued toward my bedroom, stripping my shirt and undershirt off as I went.
Tossing them on the floor of my bedroom, I closed the door behind me and leaned against the cool, heavy wood. The deep navy hues of the wall and duvet gave me a sense of safety, the familiarity of the room easing my frayed nerves and blocking out the echo of Vigo’s agonized scream that played on repeat in my mind.
The house was still, though I knew my men prowled around on silent feet, seeking out any threats. Under my control, they’d seen an increase in pay and a move toward less seedy work. No more prostitutes, and an effort to get away from the hard drugs. We’d ditched the heroin trade the prior year and were working toward ending our reliance on cocaine deals. My men were happy, and I made sure they stayed that way. It was the only thing that would keep me alive. Fear could only go so far.