He sighs. “Can you let this one go?”
My eyes lock with his. “I don’t know. If he stays away from me, maybe.”
C puts a hand on my shoulder and leans forward, speaking low in my ear. “If you decide to do him, it can’t be off the cuff. You know that.”
“I know.”
He bumps his head against mine, then stands.
“There’s another thing, C.”
“What?”
“Enzo Palermo’s not gonna settle down.”
“I know, but he’s not your problem. Anvil and I will deal with that.”
“If you want the full picture, there’s also a character named Jack Murphy crawling around.”
“What’s his problem?”
“Me.”
Sitting down, C leans in. “More specific.”
I study my hands where they rest on my knees. “He thinks I killed his brother.”
“When?”
“2008.”
C’s head drops back, and he whistles up at the ceiling. “In ‘08, you were thirteen.”
“Yeah.”
“How old was the brother when he died?”
“Thirty-nine.”
C levels his gaze on my face. “Boston mob?”
I nod.
“By ‘08, your dad was in the ground. Who does the brother think helped you?”
I shrug.
“His theory’s bogus, right?”
I give him my dead stare. “What do you think?”
C reels back. “What the fuck?”
“C Crue made me, but—”
“No, we fucking didn’t.” C rubs his forehead, exhales, and holds out a hand in bewilderment. “You let us believe we made you in Frank’s crew, but you were already made. By who or what, I don’t know. Thirteen? Jesus, Trick.”
“He had it coming.”
