I speak as I prepare. "The two men who broke into my warehouse last night said you were responsible for the hit." I drag the knot in my tie down my shirt and remove the silk, folding it, and laying it over a seat. "What did you hope to achieve?" I kick my shoes off, listening to the sound of Joe arguing with John. "Did you want the police to find my stock?Ourstock, Joe. Your Family's stock… Are you not with us anymore?"
I turn to face him.
I don’t often get my hands dirty; as the Don, I don't need to. Which is why this is further significant. I choose to. Choose to handle this like the son of a boxer—the fucking proud son of Luca Butcher.
I walk to the ring, ducking between the boundary ropes, and step onto the mat. Silence thickens until I say to the men standing in wait, "He is not with me. I understand that Jimmy allowed you to take a peacekeeping stance when it came to Dustin. It was a Butcher issue." I chuckle contemptuously. "I know you were allowed to maintain your relationship with him and his operations. I am not that generous. You must pick a side… Joe already has."
I bounce from foot to foot, the familiar texture of the padding filling me with both pride for the Butcher blood coursing through my veins and with rage that its rule was ever questioned.Boy.
"Don't forget to knuckle him," I remind John, rolling up the sleeves of my dress shirt to each elbow, revealing the ink lacing the muscles in each coiled forearm. The knuckles are to offer him a final favour, for this isn't a match; it's an execution.
"Yes, Boss."
I stare at Joe, his eyes fixed on the brass now snug within the web of each of his fingers. The weight of that metal often washes over a man like artificial—borrowed—power. I won't be knuckled. I plan on beating him the same way my father would, the same way my younger brother Bronson took down the man Joe fondly called "Boss"for most of his life.
"Let’s do this then, boy," he snarls, curling his lips and bracing both shiny fists before his face. "Don't pretend this is just about Dustin. This is about the young pussy you are now playing with each night. Dustin's trashy daughter. Do all our associates know that you have her captive in your house?"
I let him talk.
He glares at me over the glistening brass as he continues, "You can kill me, boy, but this is bigger than you are. He will get the girl and the baby.
He thinks she's still pregnant…
"Dustin is the only man the blue collars will work for, the only man who the bikers will work for… Jimmy knew this; Dustin grew up with half of those thugs. He was the man in these parts well beforeCosa Nostraever landed in the District. They don't like Sicilians. You're never going to win. You really are just the dumb fucking son of a boxer,boy."
He's working with the bikers.
Dammit.
Madonna Mia;I know where to find Dustin.
Hiding in the Stockyard Motorcycle Club compound out beyond Morrup.
Fucker.
He is completely untouchable there, within their solid brick walls and barbed wire fencing. Protected from the press. From civilians. Protected by petty outlaws… Dustin wants a damn blood bath. It'll be the biggest gang war ever recorded in the District, and as the mayor, I'll be forced into appearing transparent when the streets bleed.
I'll have to give the media some kind of propaganda, a kind of constructed truth and still manage to hide my part, my family—my little deer.This is where, previously, I would have bid Lorna control the leaks of information… but after breaking our relationship to be loyal to my little deer, well, I doubt she is eager to aid me. My only hope is that she has maintained a healthy and intimate relationship with mywife.
Can I buy the bikers out?
They are like fucking animals.
The casualties will be immense.
Dustin knows this, too.
Joe's impatient, his growl ripping me from my thoughts. They are all edgy the first time they are knuckled. Eager to see what a thick piece of metal can do to the skull of a man. He thrusts forward towards my face. I duck to the side, and when his shiny brass fingers slice past my ear, I drive my bare fist into his nose bone.
His head snaps backwards.
Louis barks something from behind me while Joe's groans fill the empty boxing gym. The old man squeezes his eyes shut, trying to find purchase.
I wait for him to regain his vision, and when he does, he roars, rushing me, so I jab him again, sending him backwards into the rope. He bounces on the bungee like a sack of meat, folding down the centre.
He's old…
It's not a fair fight.