my way to the door, opening it to find a trolley cluttered with platters and silverware. “Thank you,” I say down the line, looking up to the guy who’s delivered my room service. I stare him straight in the eye as he draws his fist back, and then I turn away as he launches his punch, sinking his fist into my back. The air is knocked out of me, and my body folds in instinct rather than to stem the pain. For ten years, I’ve been at the mercy of the man on the phone. Bruises, cuts. Pain has been my constant companion. Physically? I’m not sure how much more I can take. Mentally? Mentally, I’ve been a nonentity for too long to know. There is only hopelessness.
I straighten and return forward, knowing that’s what’s expected of me. A sick sense of gratitude or something equally ludicrous. “I heard him on a call,” I say down the line. “He spoke of The Brit and a marina. Black is funding Perry’s political campaign.”
“That’s more like it,” he says, his voice dark and deadly. “Let’s keep up the good work.” He hangs up and his minion turns and walks away, leaving the trolley behind.
I lift the lid from a platter.
And stare at a photograph of a boy. My boy. He’s riding his bike in the park. It’s a reward for my compliance. But then I see him. The black-suited man in clear sight. He’s not alone. He’s not really safe. My boy’s security is an illusion—a reminder that he controls me. And as long as I conform, my son will be safe.
As if I needed reminding of why I’m in this hell.
I fold to the floor and hug my knees, trying to stem the pain. The mental pain.
Chapter 3
DANNY
* * *
It takes me a week to read his will. A week to find the strength. I still haven’t got the strength now, but the half bottle of Scotch has helped.
His coffin should be oak like the doors in our mansion. The inside of the lid should be engraved to match the wooden swirls of his office door. If he’s dead, he wants to stare at his office door when he’s dead. He wants to feel like he’s at home.
He wants me to carry him into the cathedral. Brad, Ringo, Uncle Ernie, and me. I’m to take the front right. He wants the Lord’s prayer to be recited. Twice. Once at the beginning of the service, once at the end. I’m to ensure that every single person in the cathedral says every word. Both times. If they don’t, I’m to put a bullet in their head. I can hear him telling me, “No second chances.” The bastard. God, I miss him.
Apparently, I get to warn the congregation in advance. If Uncle Ernie so much as smiles at the irony, I’m to put two bullets in him. One in his gammy knee, the other in his temple. I laugh to myself, knowing Uncle Ernie has read all of this.
He wants me to speak. Say a few words. And he wants me to give the church one hundred grand after the service. If any FBI agents show up, he wants me to stab them in the heart with a crucifix. I turn the page and read on. He wants to be buried in the cathedral’s graveyard with one hundred peace lilies surrounding his headstone. I laugh. Awkward fucker. That graveyard hasn’t seen a burial in over fifty years.
But reading on, I note that arrangements have already been made with the priest. My father was many things, and prepared was one of his best traits.
Everything is left to me. His empire, his assets.
His deadly reputation.
It’s all mine.
I look up, dropping the papers on my desk, as Brad walks in. “It’s been a week.” He tells me what I already know, taking a seat in the chair opposite me. He looks hungry, ready for a killing spree. My right-hand man is a close second to me in the animal stakes. He’s the only man left in this world who I can trust. The bloke is a rock, has been by my side from day one. He’s family, my cousin, son of my father’s dead sister. And he’s been a loyal friend to me, even as kids when we barely knew what loyalty stood for. He took the rap when I beat the shit out of a boy five years my senior, because Brad knew if the cops