Max
I scrub a hand down the front of my face and pick through the stack of papers on my desk. My eye falls to the corner of my office where a lone Louisville Slugger baseball bat stands against a file cabinet.
Sometimes when I look at it, my fingers actually twitch a little, like they’re going through withdrawal or some shit like that. I keep it there to remind me of the reasons why it’s no longer in the trunk of my car.
A normal life. A steady, respectable for the most part, job. A somewhat solid future.
But most of all, Sloane.
These are the things that keep me focused.
Ninety-nine percent of the time.
But then memories bubble up without warning…like the one where Gabe’s bloody body flashes before my eyes.
All because of me.
I didn’t handle shit the right way on Thanksgiving. I let rage control my actions, and my buddy got fucking iced because of it.
Mikey knew what he was doing when he snatched Layla. He knew I’d show up without an army of soldiers. He knew he’d get my ear, plant the seed, and then let us walk. He wanted his message to be heard, that he was on his way up again, as the head of his own family, and we’d better be ready for him. Back when Cappodamo was alive, Mikey was just the messenger. A nobody. All muscle, no brains.
He’s still dumb as fuck, but now he’s got a lot of clueless and dangerous degenerates looking for leadership since the heads of the Cappodamo crime family were wiped out.
By us.
More specifically by Nico and Shaye, the ones least likely to fire guns.
Who the fuck could have predicted that?
And now Mikey is picking up the pieces and putting them all together, making promises to his minions that he’ll line their pockets with cash if they give him the loyalty he needs to take over and do business under his own family name.
King of the dipshits.
He has no desire to do anything legitimate. Flying under the radar has never been his MO. He’s like a peacock, shaking his ass feathers so everyone knows he’s there. And he’s been shaking them since Luca Cappodamo was dropped six feet under, ending the legacy of the Cappodamo family.
I fist my hair. I shouldn’t be thinking about any of this. It’s not my place anymore.
It never really was, but that didn’t stop me from going out to Brooklyn that Thanksgiving night. It didn’t stop me from walking into a death trap with no regard for who or what I’d left behind.
“You’re a thug, Max. That’s all you’ll ever be. It’s the only thing you’re good at.”
With one sweep of my hand, all of the papers littering my desk are now scattered on the floor. I groan and collapse against the back of my chair. Because putting those fucking piles together again is gonna help me keep my shit together, right?
And now I have a real reason to do it.
“Doing a little early spring cleaning?” Nico appears in the doorway, holding out an espresso from Starbucks.
“Well, since you made me fire the cleaning crew, I figured…” I shrug, a smirk lifting my lips. I nod at the cup. “You don’t think I’m wound up enough these days? You figured I really need more caffeine, huh?”
Nico puts the cup in front of me and takes a long gulp of his own. “Listen, I know this has been a shitty few weeks for you. I’m here to see what you need. Let me help you out if I can.”
“I don’t need help.”
“So, the construction plans are moving along without any issues? You’ve got all of the supplies and labor you need, for the agreed-upon price…”
I let out a deep sigh and push back from the desk. “Billy Moretti.”
“What about him?” Nico leans forward. “That slimy bastard is always looking to plug both holes at the same time. What’s his problem?”