“Maybe he’s dead too.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you!”
“Duncan is smart. He’s probably hiding somewhere, keeping his head down.” Mickey wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince more, himself or Roger. “He’s a slippery little fuck. He had to have made it out.”
“Fuck him too.” Roger stared out the window. “Crybaby saved me. She’s the one who told Cold about me, all the shit I was in. Talked me up real big, said what a big asset I’d be. He was willing to buy out my debt so I could come work for him. I guess… when I think about it, they both saved me.”
“Cold saved me too,” Mickey said hesitantly.
“Yeah?”
“Had a payment disagreement over a job. Was gonna handle it like I handle all my problems.” Mickey paused, debating on how much he should say. “It was Tony Luchesi.”
“The guy the Don had killed a few months back? Was stealing money from the family or something?”
“Yeah. Except the Don didn’t order it, and he wasn’t actually stealing any money. I went there to kill him, and Cold and Jules were already there when I busted in. I helped them clean house, and Cold cooked up that crazy story to cover my ass.”
“Damn.” Roger whistled. “And, naturally, ol’ Rafaello took credit for it.”
“Yeah. But look, my point is that Cold’s always done right by me. That’s how I know he’s gonna get all of this bullshit figured out.”
“I want to believe that. I honestly do.”
“Believe it,” Mickey swore.
“Is that an order,master?” Roger asked coyly.
“Mm, if it is, will you listen to me?”
“The chances vastly improve.”
“You really like that shit, huh?”
“Oh, you’ve no idea.”
“Being bossed around? Spanked?”
“I don’t hear you complaining.” Roger batted his eyes.
“Trust me. You won’t.”
Mickey had only been to Alistair’s home once before, but he remembered the way. It was an old nineteenth-century brownstone right in the heart of downtown Strassen Springs. There was a small garage around back, and Mickey parked the stolen car there so no one would see it.
He and Roger came through the backyard, and Roger nearly tripped over the bricks surrounding a well-manicured flower bed. Once Mickey was sure Roger wasn’t going to break his neck, he went up and knocked on the door.
Alistair answered it, wearing a set of dark blue monogrammed silk pajamas and a very worried scowl. “You two look like shit. Get in here.”
“Thanks.” Mickey stepped inside with Roger right behind him.
The interior of the home reminded Mickey of a funky antique store, with velvet upholstered furniture, stained glass lamps, and heavy rugs. There was art everywhere—old landscapes to modern pop art pieces, all set in lavish frames.
Alistair led them into a den with a large fireplace, the flames still burning hot and crackling. There were two chairs and a sofa cradled around the warmth, and Cold and Jerry were waiting for them there.
Cold was wrapped in a dark blue silk robe with a familiar monogram, tense and brooding in one of the chairs with a glass in his hand. Jerry was standing by the mantle, and he looked equally grim.
“Boss.” Mickey kneeled in front of Cold, bowing his head. Of all the different emotions he was battling, it was then he felt overcome by failure.
