“Good.”
Delphine’s a smart, capable woman. She’s sure of herself, even from the time we were teenagers. But there’s something fragile about her that ignites the protective streak in me. She’s not in a good place right now, and even if she won’t ever ask for it, I’m here to help.
“Have you been checked out by a doctor?” Before she can turn me down, I withdraw my phone and reach out to my private, on-call physician. “He’ll be by in an hour. Don’t act like you don’t need it. That bruising is serious. Are yousurethere’s nothing else you’re leaving out?”
“Everything I told you is what happened. I have my own physician. I don’t need yours–”
“It’ll be confidential. Between you and him. I won’t know a thing that goes on. You made me swear I won’t go after the asshole who did this. Now you swear you’ll let my doctor take a look at you.”
Her expression turns wary. “Since when are we making deals?”
“The moment you asked me not to handle this with mafia justice. That’s my price. You getting checked out. Deal?”
She agrees with a begrudging nod. There are many things hanging in the air between us. I know she’s lying. She knows she’s lying. My own lies and half-truths are still well intact, but in my case, it’s for her own good. That’s the difference.
I’m going to find out what happened last night.
Regardless of how calm I might seem, I’m livid on the inside. I’m liable to destroy the first asshole who looks at me sideways on the street—the furious energy that courses through me is powerful enough it doesn’t even matter who he is. My hands ache to clench into fists. I just need to break something.
To make someone bleed.
And then hunt down the piece of shit who hurt Delphine and do so much worse to him. Whoever is responsible will soon discover he made the worst mistake of his life.
“Salvatore,” she says when I head for the door, interrupting my violent thoughts. I glance at her and find the faintest hint of gratitude on her otherwise sad, bruised face. “Thanks. You didn’t have to come by to check on me.”
“Yes, I did.” I stop at the kitchen island and grab a notepad and pen that’s within reach. I scribble my number down, though I already have hers memorized. Yet another thing she doesn’t need to know. “Call me if you need anything. I mean it, Phi. It doesn’t matter what time it is or what you need.”
The second I’m outside her building, standing on the city street many stories below, I look up at her window and make another call.
This one to Stitches.
“I want all security camera footage collected from the subway station on Fifth and Warring between the hours of eight and midnight. I want a sales history of all male passengers who bought a ticket and crossed through that station during that time period. Get our inside guy at the station involved and have him check into any stragglers and panhandlers who normally hang around that area. Tear the city apart if you have to. Just make sure you find him and bring him to me.”
* * *
When I blackmailed Lucius into granting my reassignment from South Valley to Northam, I knew I’d need a place to run my operation out of. Club Nirvana was going to officially be mine, but it wasn’t personal enough of a space. I needed somewhere that could solely be focused on my behind-the-scenes work—and far outside of Lucius’s purview.
I bought an old clothing factory in the manufacturing district of the city. The building’s an unsightly slab of brick like the rest of the factories in the district, but it’s huge with limitless potential. In the span of a couple weeks, it’s become the headquarters for my crew.
My private lair. I not only carved out space for a large loft apartment on the top floor, I’ve established every other need my operation requires.
One of my favorites is the interrogation room.
I walk through the door to the sight of Bernardo and Oscar sitting obediently in their chairs as instructed. The pussies look terrified, their eyes wide with fear and their normally olive complexions a lot paler. They should be.
Somebody fucked up last night. It’s Oscar’s word against Bernardo’s. We’ll play a game to find out who’s telling the truth and who’s not making it out of this room alive.
“No need for me to explain why you’re here,” I say, pacing in front of them. “One of you screwed up bad. Your stories contradict each other. Which means somebody’s lying.”
“Psycho,” Bernardo says, his voice shaking. “My kid wound up in the ER! I didn’t plan that. Every word I’m telling you is the honest to God truth. How long have I known you? I’ve been in your crew for years!”
“I hope you don’t expect leniency, Bernie. Are my ears deceiving me?”
“N-no… that’s not what I meant! I mean… I called Oscar. I told him ahead of time!”
“You didn’t,” Oscar interjects with equal passion. “You told me a whole hour late.”
“I did so!”