“Something like that,” I said.
“If you care so much, then steer him in the right direction,” she said, squeezing my arm again before she let her hand drop. “That’s what I did with his father all those years.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, eyes going wide.
“Comments, here or there. Suggestions and hints.” She leaned against the gleaming stainless steel prep station and sighed. “Cesare was very suggestible. He valued my advice and let me get away with a lot. Especially after—well, honey, you know how men are after they’ve been pleased.”
My jaw fell open and she turned slightly pink as she stared into her mug. I couldn’t believe she said that—Bea, who looked like an old housekeeper, who was an old housekeeper, who was kind and loving and understated, Bea used to sleep with the old Don.
It was insane, but it made a lot of sense at least.
“I haven’t done that with Dean,” I said quickly. “That’s not— We’re not—”
Bea laughed and held up a hand. “It’s okay,” she said. “I don’t need the details. I’m only saying, if you want him to behave a certain way, then you’ll have to talk to him about it. Try to be subtle, dear. Having sex with him first helps.”
“Oh my god,” I said, sipped my tea, burned my tongue again, and quickly walked to the door. “I think I need some air.”
“Go on then,” Bea said. “Just remember. Dean’s not any eviler than anyone else in this world. He grew up in the family and it’s all he’s ever known. I’m not mad at him for killing a few Healy thugs. I’m mad at him for putting his own life at risk.”
I met her gaze and chewed my lip, then smiled, waved, and left her there. I had a lot to think about and none of it made perfect sense.
Bea didn’t mind that Dean murdered three men. And she used to sleep with his father. And she apparently used sex as a sort of weapon to try to convince Cesare to do what she wanted—although I had no clue what that might be.
For that matter, I didn’t know what I wanted, either. If I could push Dean in some direction, I didn’t know where I’d want him to go. Maybe I’d want him to be less violent, but if he was less violent then the Healy family might get emboldened and come hurt us or someone else in Dean’s crew.
I wanted him to keep his hands clean at the very least. He had other guys to pull the trigger, and I didn’t ever want to see him do it himself, not ever again.
Big, massive, terrifying Dean. I walked out the back door, mug steaming in the crisp evening air. I saw him pull the trigger again—and saw his soft lips near mine, his sharp, tangy, musky smell, his wicked smile, his gorgeous muscles and playful eyes, and it scared me, scared me to hell how much I liked it.
13
Dean
Mags made herself scarce for the next few days. I got consumed with the fallout from those hits and couldn’t make time for her, but her absence started to nag at me.
The look on her face after I pulled the trigger was pure terror and loathing. It haunted me, that vacant stare, that blank way she shuffled around the house and took the drink in her hand.
The halls were quiet without her sneaking around. She went for long walks in the woods, and Bea said she spent a lot of time holed up in my father’s library, which was mostly packed with crime novels and spy thrillers. I wanted to go in there and talk to her, but Bea said I should give her time to figure things out—and so I threw myself into work.
We killed four Healy guys over the next five days. Two were dealing on our turf, and three were caught on the border. The Healys tried to hit back, but only managed to wound one of my guys bad enough to put him in the hospital, and he’d probably pull through. Gian took over front-line fighting, but I kept showing my face around the streets to make sure the guys knew that I was in control and ultimately all decisions came from me.
My hits became a thing of legend. It was strange, watching the story warp and weave its way through the family. At first it was straightforward, but soon guys were saying I killed an entire Healy safe house packed with fifteen soldiers and did it all with my bare hands. The story elongated and stretched to the point where I barely recognized myself in it, but that was how myths were formed, and I needed a little myth-making.
The streets thrived on stories. And I needed the streets more than anything.
After six days of quiet, I decided to break the truce. It was a nice Sunday afternoon, and Mags was hidden away in her room. I knocked gently, waited for her to answer, then cracked it open.
“You okay in here?” I asked.
She looked at me from the bed, her feet up on pillows, her nose buried in a faded, yellowed book. “Fine until now,” she said.
I smiled and held out a box. It was pure white with the Apple logo on top. “Got this for you.”
“What’s that?”
“Laptop,” I said, and placed it down at the foot of her bed. “I thought you might like it.”
Her expression did change as she shrugged and looked back at the book. “Thanks, I guess.”
I hesitated, wanted to say more, but Bea’s advice resonated in me: give her some time.
So I left, but a day later, I went back.
This time, I found her in the library. Same yellowed book, or maybe a different one, I couldn’t tell. She sat on a recliner near the window with an iced tea on the side table. I knocked and entered.
“What’s that?” she said, staring at the bag in my hands.
“Present for you,” I said, and put
