People call the main house in C’s compound ‘the castle’ because of the turrets. The mansion doesn’t look like it belongs in the neighborhood. Four decaying houses were leveled to put it here.
It belongs here because we do. Ever since we broke from Frank Palermo three years ago and started our own crue, we’ve lived on this patch.
The compound’s surrounded by a cement wall with razor wire at the top. It’s probably overkill, since anyone storming the gate better come with assault rifles and enough rounds to stage a coup in Moscow.
This is the devil’s stronghold, and I’m the devil’s right hand.
My cement-walled apartment’s off the back of the castle. As I walk down the grated metal stairs, my phone buzzes half a dozen times in my pocket. I shake my head. Fucking Trick.
I come around the house and find Trick standing on C’s front step, looking at his phone. He looks up as I head to one of the two C Crue Rovers.
“Your porterhouse is three minutes out. Aberdeen Street and counting,” he says.
Trick doesn’t give a fuck whether I eat the steak I ordered or not. He’s on to something and wants to run it down. The guy couldn’t give fuck all about most things, but he doesn’t like mysteries where our crue is concerned. And I’ve been coming and going without explanation. Usually my only business is crue business, so he and C are wondering what’s up.
“Toss it in the fridge. I’ll eat it later,” I say, my tone casual. I doubt he’s fooled. Trick’s a pretty boy, which makes a lot of thugs underestimate him. Long experience has shown that to be a deadly mistake.
“Who is she?” Trick asks, taking a stab.
I shake my head, not looking to let him go on a fishing expedition into my personal business.
“Has to be. Let me come and meet her. I’ll hang back,” he says.
I roll my eyes. He thinks I’m into some woman and that I’m afraid to bring her around in case she sees him and gets distracted. It’s true that when Trick shows up, most women don’t notice much else for a while, but I don’t need his promise that he’ll watch himself if I’m serious about someone. The person I’ve got serious plans for already knows him. Also, my plans aren’t hearts and flowers. My plan is to satisfy a vendetta, as our old boss would say.
“‘Vil,” Trick says, pulling my attention from my plans. “What’s up?”
I open the Rover’s door and almost smirk. Not knowing what I’m doing is driving him crazy. I guess maybe I should’ve realized it would. Trick’s a guy who likes to know things and his mind never stops. He’s probably playing three games of chess and dissecting the stock market’s moves in his head right now.
“It’s not about that,” I say.
“So?”
“Are you my fucking wife?” I counter.
He cracks a smile.
I reach under the running board, yank off the GPS tracker, and toss it over the top of the truck. It hits the ground a few feet from him.
“Bad idea. Seriously,” I say with a scowl. None of us can afford to have our movements tracked. We had the GPS disabled in the Rovers. I’m surprised he’d put one on the truck even as a joke.
His smirk drops. “Wait then.” He comes over and takes another tracker from under the front seat.
I roll my eyes again. “Asshole.” He knows better. We keep watch over our vehicles and sweep them all the time to prevent tracking. The feds and Frank would both like to know where we’re at and what we’re doing.
“If you’re in something and need backup, I’ll come. No questions.”
“I know,” I say.
Trick and I are opposites in a lot of things, but we’re the same in a couple of ways that count. We’re at the top of a crue that was built on loyalty. We’ve got each other’s backs, down to the last drop of blood. Always.
“I’ve got things under control,” I say, knowing that might not be the case.
“All right,” Trick says. His phone pings. “Food’s here.”
He walks down to the gate.
I get in the truck and drive away, leaving the compound and the dinner I’ll never eat.
