Brogan just shook his head. Declan was a capable second to Owen, but the man was young. He hadn’t seen the things that Brogan had. It was natural for him to underestimate their enemy. Brogan knew better. Mancini was a devious man, capable of horrible things.
And he was determined to take down the Irish mafia.
He might not succeed, but Brogan knew things would get ugly before this was over.
“I’ll head out, then,” Brogan said. “Tell Owen to call me if he needs anything.”
Brogan left the building, heading to his black BMW and toward his apartment building. It was smack dab in the middle of downtown, and along the way, he took a slight detour, stopping at an underpass that he was very familiar with. It was in a bad area, but he wasn’t worried about that as he parked and got out of the car.
There was a tent city set up there, a place where homeless people had been taking shelter for decades. He parked in some white rock on the side of the road and walked among the temporary shelters erected. Some were actual tents, but most of those were old and tattered. Others had set up tarps held up by things like old coat racks or broken floor lamps. A couple of others were even living out of boxes.
Brogan passed them all by, heading for someone that was always in the same place. Richie was an old man with wispy white hair that contrasted his weathered brown skin. He was set up right next to one of the concrete pillars that held up the poor excuse for a roof over all of their heads. The underpass was covered in graffiti, and there were a pair of giant angel wings behind where Richie sat in a lawn chair.
It was fitting, really.
The man looked out for everyone here. A lot of homeless youth ended up at this underpass, and Richie made sure they had some form of shelter and, if possible, enough food to get by. He was a surrogate guardian for many of the hopeless young people that needed someone to look after them.
Brogan used to be one of those people.
“How you doing today, Richie?” Brogan asked.
There was a cigarette between the old man’s lips, and he exhaled a cloud of smoke as his eyes focused on Brogan.
“Same old shit,” he shrugged. “You know how things are around here. Nothing changes.”
Brogan nodded, not knowing if it was a good or bad thing. No one ever planned to end up in a place like this, struggling to survive, but things could be worse. There was safety in numbers, and Brogan had been a starving and terrified teenager before he was brought here. Living in a tent under a bridge was nowhere near as comfortable as being in a home, but he’d been much better off under Richie’s care.
Of course, that was a long time ago. Brogan had moved on with his life, becoming a lieutenant in the Irish mafia with plenty of money and indeed to worry about where his next meal would come from.
But he’d never forget what it was like to live on the streets. So, he stopped by every once in a while to give Richie some cash, knowing that he’d use it to take care of everyone here. Reaching into his back pocket, Brogan pulled out his wallet.
“Maybe you can affect a little change with this,” he said, pulling out all the cash he had, which was a couple hundred dollars. “Get some food for everyone.”
Richie used to try refusing the money. He was a stubborn old man that didn’t want Brogan to put himself out, but he’d given in a long time ago when he realized just how determined Brogan was.
He took the cash, quickly tucking it away out of sight. Richie was greatly respected here, but that didn’t mean it was a good idea to flaunt a handful of money.
“The kids will eat well tonight,” Richie said with a small grin. “I’m glad you stopped by. It’s always good to see you.”
Brogan gave a curt nod. He didn’t do well with tenderness, but it was still nice to hear Richie say that. There weren’t too many people that looked forward to seeing him. Hell, outside of his mafia connections, he didn’t have personal relationships at all.
“It’s going to rain tonight,” he told Richie. Even under the bridge, rain was a pain in the ass. There was an incline that caused water to flow right through the little homeless community. “Why don’t you come stay at my place?”
Richie was shaking his head before Brogan even finished speaking. “I’ll be just fine. I don’t want to leave the kids alone.”
Brogan could have pointed out that there were others here to look after the younger ones, but it would be a waste of breath. Richie would never leave this place. For many, this life was something to escape, but Richie chose to be here. Brogan didn’t know the full story of what led to him being homeless, but he knew that Richie was one of the few that wanted to stay that way.
He didn’t get it, but he wasn’t one to judge others for their decisions. God knew that he’d made some questionable choices in the past.
“Fine,” he said. Tucking his wallet away. “But you know how to contact me if you change your mind.”
Richie knew what Brogan did for a living. It was no great secret, even though he rarely directly talked about it with anyone outside of the organization. Richie knew his way around the streets well enough that he’d have no trouble finding one of the dealers that pushed the mafia’s drugs out. As a former street level enforcer, Brogan was well-known among the gangs in the city that the mafia worked with, so all Richie had to do was drop his name to the right person if he needed anything.
Not that he was likely to do that. The old man was too proud to ask for much.
Leaving the tent city, Brogan continued home. His apartment was on the top floor of his apartment building, and he didn’t bother to stop and check his mailbox as he headed toward the elevator. He was exhausted and eager to get to his bed.
The elevator doors opened just before he reached them and a single woman stepped out, her face lighting up at the sight of him.Julie.
