But I’ll deal with it in my own time.
“Mr. Donovan,” I say, “We’re going to take the bag off your head now, and you’re going to see a familiar face—” but I stop, because Howie has started chuckling.
More than chuckling. He’s laughing his head off, and that’s when I know he must be flying real high today, and perhaps I should allow for Joey’s gut-punching of the kid after all.
I shrug at Marco. “Unbag him.”
Chapter Seven
FINCH
My family are the only ones who ever calls me Howie, so that’s how I know these guys don’t know who I am, not really.
Well. Do any of us really know the people around us?
Philosophy aside, there’s one man I know, one man who fucking branded his voice on my brain, and when I hear it now, I figure the drugs have finally killed my mind completely, and I’m hallucinating.
And so I laugh and I laugh, even as someone is pulling the rope from around my neck, pulling the bag off, and I laugh some more, rolling my head around. I can’t help it.
“Fate, right?” I giggle to the ceiling.
There’s silence in the room. I swing my head back down, rolling on my shoulders, and look at him, my man Lucifer, standing there looking paler than ever, paler than the night I found him lying in the trash, truly fallen from heaven.
Even his red lips are gone white.
“You…” he says.
Frank trots up. Brother Frank, the faithful lapdog. God, I’ve missed Frank over the years, too. I missed him like a brother. Like Georgie’s brother.
“Yeah, so,” Frank says loudly, “this is the kid. This is the Donovan kid.”
“That’s me, Howard Fincher Donovan. And let’s not forget: the Third. What’s your name?” I ask, grinning wildly at my Georgie. “Come on, baby, you gotta tell me now.”
This is how I know again for sure my man is gonna rule this city: he pulls himself the fuck together.
“Everyone get out,” he says softly. “And take that asshole with you,” he adds, flicking a hand to my right. Only his eyes don’t leave my face, like if he looks away I might disappear again. The guy who pulled the bag off my head starts dragging away some fat geezer tied to a chair, who starts screaming about how sorry he is.
It’s Jim O’Leary, one of my family’s regular bodyguards. Huh. I always thought the old bastard liked me.
I guess liking someone doesn’t count for much in the end, though. I watch as one goon pulls Jim’s chair out of the warehouse into a back room, the chair legs squealing and scraping on the floor as they go. The other men file out after them, except for one: the one who hit me. I can tell which one he is because he hit me a few times even before the bag was in place, when they burst into the place I was staying, and then a few times after that. I’ve gotten to know the landing of his punch in a short period.
“Don’t pay it no mind, Jim!” I holler after O’Leary. Seems to me like they’re gonna kill him, so I want him to die with a clear conscience.
My man is still staring at me, but when he talks, he’s not talking to me. He’s talking to the guy who hit me. “Joey,” he says. “Get. Out.”
Joey has a pugnacious look about him, like he doesn’t like being told what to do, especially not by Georgie for some reason. Oh, but I can think of all the reasons and more. This man of mine is no friend-maker, I’ll bet that much.
Joey says: “My uncle told me to keep an eye on the kid.”
My man’s nostrils flare as he takes in a deep breath, but Brother Frank saves him just like he always does, bustling Joey out of the room and talking to him in a vicious muttering whisper. But over his shoulder, Joey stares back at me, and I see the evil in him.
I make a kissy-face at him, just to see him fight with Frank to try to come back and belt me, and I laugh in delight. People can be so predictable.
Except for Lucifer. And finally we’re alone. “Georgie,” I say. “Georgie, Georgie, Georgie.”
“I told you. My name’s not Georgie.”
“Nope, but it’s the only one I knew, baby.”
“And Finch was the only one I knew,” he says.
“And look at us here in a fucking French farce. So, Georgie—you’re looking good, by the way, but first things first—what’s the plan?” Now that we’re alone, he can let go of that suit of armor he’s wearing. Speaking of suits, his is terrible. “Where the fuck did you get that thing you’re wearing?” I ask.
He’s been walking, pacing, a few steps then swivel, a few steps then swivel, hands on his hips. But when I ask about his suit, he stops and unbuttons the jacket so it hangs open, and I can see his gun strapped underneath.
Fuck, he’s hot. Even in a cheap suit. Even making veiled threats.
“Baby, what’s the plan?” I ask again. He shakes his head impatiently. “I mean, like, were you sent to kill me? Is my Dad really in that much shit? Because I’d rather not die if I can avoid it. I mean, God, I want to die, you know, but not by getting shot in the head if I have the choice. Although, if you do have to do that, can you double-tap? Make sure? ’Cause I’d definitely rather die than be a vegetable, or whatever the politically correct term is these days. Baby? Can you do that for me?”
“Jesus fuck,” he sighs. “I thought I must have made up how much you talked, but I didn’t.”
“I’m nervous,” I say, and laugh my hyena laugh again. He raises an eyebrow at me. “It’s nervous laughter. So tell me true, are you gonna throw me
