But I happen to think betrayals should be done face to face, not behind backs. I want Howie Donovan the Third to see the face of the man who betrayed him before he dies. I also want O’Leary to be clearly visible in the video we’ll send to Howie’s dad. Then it will be up to Donovan and the Irish to decide how to deal with O’Leary.
Really, I’m doing them a favor by pointing out a weak link.
It’s almost four hours later by the time Frank and the boys get back. We’ve gone dark on comms, but I trust my brother to deliver. It’ll be a while, because they’ll have to take care of the guards before they pry Howie out of the safe house. But Howie himself should be easy cargo. He’s no fighter, and high as a kite most days to hear O’Leary tell it.
I couldn’t help the disgust I felt at that tip. Drugs, booze, sex…I’d never let any of them take over my life, and I look down on people who do, even though the only man I could have loved indulged in the same.
I’ve been thinking about him during the wait, as usual. My mind wanders down old familiar pathways more often these days. I’ve relived the memory of him enough times that it should be worn out, but every time I still feel that rush of connection, that shock at finding him just by chance: the one man in all this hellish world I could have loved, given the opportunity.
And every time I get to relive that feeling when I left, like he’d sewed his soul to mine when he stitched up my arm, and I had to rip us in two again. It left me gaping for a long time. Bleeding out emotions I never thought I had, emotions I’ve never felt again.
I wonder what he did with my clothes. I still have the hoodie, although of course I never wear it. I used to bury my face in it just to smell him again, but that scent wore out long ago.
The roller door on the warehouse starts to clatter and clash its way up; Frank and the boys are back. O’Leary starts wailing again, calling on the saints to save him.
I watch the old white panel van drive onto the warehouse floor, and Frank jumps out from the driver’s seat. He looks up at me and I flash him a thumbs-up. But he shakes his head grimly and makes his way over to the stairs that lead up to the office.
I wait. There’s no point making a scene and running down to demand what’s gone wrong. Knowing Frank, they got a flat on the way or something. He makes a big deal over everything, as though he can’t see when something is important and when it’s just a nuisance. As long as the Donovan heir is alive and well for now—even if he’s in a drug-induced coma—it’s all fine. We just need him breathing long enough to kill him on camera.
And I can see he’s still with us, because as the rest of the crew pull him out of the back of the van, he’s kicking and twisting away from them, only he can’t see anything thanks to the bag tied over his head. Joey Fuscone drops him with a quick punch to the solar plexus, and I’ll have words with him about that later, because it’s unnecessary. The kid’s a fucking junkie, how much trouble can he possibly be?
I open the office door and watch Frank stomp up the metal stairs. His face is grim. “We gotta problem,” he says.
“Did you get the kid?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then we don’t have a problem.”
“Georgie, listen to me, we do gotta problem. This kid—”
I push by Frank and make my way down the stairs. “I don’t have time for your worries, Frank,” I tell him as I pass by.
Frank is a great right hand. He’s never once shown any discomfort about the things I’ve asked him to do, and more importantly, he’s content to take orders from his little brother. Frankie knows where his strengths lie, and they’re in his fists, not his strategic thinking. But like I said, he gets anxious over stupid little things, things that don’t matter at all in my grand scheme of things.
“Georgie,” he hisses, but I ignore him.
It’s that nickname, you see. I hate it.
The boys have tied Howie into the chair now. I can see where his mouth is because the bag over his head moves in and out with his breath as he sucks in wet air and coughs.
“Frank says there was some trouble?” I ask Marco. I like Marco, because he does what he’s told, and he’s efficient about it.
Marco shakes his head. “Nope. No trouble,” he says, eyebrows rising. I glance back at Frank, who rolls his eyes up at the ceiling, his lips moving in silent curses.
“And you found him alright,” I confirm. Marco nods.
At the sound of my voice, the kid has gone still, no more rocking around in his chair. Beside him, O’Leary is still crying, but silently. “I’m sorry we’ve had to stoop to this, Howie,” I say to him politely. “And I’m sorry about the punch you got just now.”
I glance at the guy who threw that punch, and he gives me an ornery glare back. Joey Fuscone has been trouble since he joined my crew. He doesn’t like queers. He doesn’t have to say it, because it rolls off of him every time he looks at me. He’s not alone in this dark world; far from it. But Sam Fuscone, Joey’s uncle, made an exception for me because I’m exceptional. He’s a stupid man, but he’s canny enough to see the smarts in those around them, and take advantage of them. But his nephew, Joey, just hates me.
I don’t care if he hates me;
