Maybe. Probably.
She was trouble. He’d known that the moment he’d seen Cathal with her. He could look back now and understand by the time he met her, it was already too late to remove her from Cathal’s life without it also costing him his son.
He had a vested interest in keeping Etain alive. But his interest only went so far.
He’d take estrangement with a chance at reconciliation over a dead son. There was no reconciling from the grave.
He set the remote down in favor of picking up the gun he’d been cleaning, then the silencer, screwing it into place, the act relaxing him. The weight of the weapon was comforting, the feel of it in his hand like an extension of self.
For now he’d wait. He’d hold off acting, because if he was being totally honest with himself, he had to accept that there was a chance this didn’t have anything to do with the violence in Oakland.
For as long as he lived, he would never forget the pictures Etain had drawn. They’d known there was risk associated with the one boy, the possibility of ties to a South American cartel, but he’d accepted Denis’s need to put this behind him.
As far as he—
Some crimes were too heinous to be tolerated. He’d never forget that night the two of them returned home to find their mother dead, her naked, lifeless body bound to the bed, panties stuffed in her mouth to prevent her screams.
He’d been fifteen. Denis fourteen. It had taken them two years to find the man responsible and kill him.
When’s this asshole going to show up to work?” Jesus
He lifted the gun in his lap, aiming it at the picture taped to the dashboard of Sleepy Ruiz’s car and pretended to shoot, same as he’d done every time they passed the club, his arm jerking with the imaginary recoil. “Rich
“Yeah,” Sleepy said. “Probably walking around with a Rolex on his arm and a grand of cash money in his wallet, maybe even some coke in his pocket.”
Lucky pretended to pull the trigger again, wanting to get this done. “If I can’t take him out riding shotgun, I’m going to get him walking from his car to his club. I do that, I’m going to take what he’s got on him, get myself a little bonus for doing this job.”
“Gotta look random, homie. You follow me? That was how you said Jacko wants it.”
“I know man. I know.”
He lowered the gun, loving the feel of it in his hand, the rush of power that came with knowing all he had to do was pull the trigger and the thing would be done. It was a hell of a lot better than walking around with a shank keistered in his ass and waiting for the right moment to pull it out and strike. A lot easier too. Killing someone with a shank was hard. He’d seen guys jumped and stabbed twenty times and live. You had to get lucky and hit the right spot, not easy to do when someone was fighting against you. And you had to get lucky not to get caught trying it, which was how he’d gotten his street name in juvie when he’d made his first kill.
He put the gun on his lap, giving a little salute to Puppy, one of the lookouts he’d put in place. “This is getting fucking old. You feel me?”
“I feel you.”
He and his homeboys had been watching for this guy Cathal Dunne since yesterday, when Jacko had come around, pulling him aside and saying after he got this done, he was going to introduce him to another mafia member, and not just any member but Cyco Chalino.
No way was he going to fail Jacko. Prove himself enough times and he’d become a made member. Already he was a
“You think it’s true about Cyco being in town?” Sleepy asked, sounding all no-big-deal when Cyco was a fucking legend, a hardcore member in tight with a cartel down in Mexico.
The guy and his crew had invaded a rival’s territory, stormed into a club selling drugs and prostitutes, killing twenty-five of the enemy and getting away with it until he got caught up in a raid by
Lucky cut a look at Sleepy, dying to tell him that fuck yeah, Cyco was in town and he was going to get an intro after this, along with a little coke for doing the favor. Instead he said, “Probably just a rumor, man, because of that shit that went down in Oakland.”
“Yeah. I guess.” Lucky jerked upright in his seat. “Fuck man, the fuel gauge just dropped to empty from all this driving around.”
“Time to steal us some gas, then maybe take a break and stop by Rosena’s. What do you think?”
“I get her. You take Tracy.”
“I was thinking we’d switch off, take a turn with each of them.”
They laughed, turning the corner, though this time Sleepy sped up rather than slowing down as Saoirse came into sight.
Lucky picked up the gun, aiming it at the picture of Cathal Dunne, imagining the pull of the trigger, his arm going up in pretended recoil. “Let’s go fuck us some homegirls. We got this place covered. The
Derrick sucked them in.
They didn’t help.
His heart stuttered and popped like a man facing a firing squad. His hands were wetter than a client dripping sweat and screwing his face up against the pain of getting a tattoo.
Ridiculous.
What he needed was a joint.
A small medicinal toke.
No. Absolutely not. That wouldn’t do.
Quinn had
Delicious.
Devine.
He’d never been anyone’s first before. A shiver of pleasure moved through him, sweet and warm, like honey left out in the sun.
A spasm followed, longing and ache, the wild fluttering that was part of the rush of falling in love.
Quinn was different. He wasn’t like—
The connection with Quinn was real, totally unlike anything he’d ever experienced. It felt right. Magical even. He touched the spot on his right hip, just one of the places on his body Etain had tattooed.
He and Quinn both wore one of her Dragons, though his was smaller. Much, much smaller, and that was
She’d outdone herself there. Fabulous work. Exquisite.
Derrick dried his palms against his jeans for a second time. He should have called ahead instead of just dropping in like this without warning.
He and Quinn had talked on the phone since that glorious night Etain had introduced them. But then between Quinn’s reunion with a family he hadn’t seen in five years and his needing to be there as his father underwent
