“Exactly,” he says, looking out the window, refusing to meet my eye. “Whatever’s happening there, someone doesn’t want the whole Family knowing.”
He snaps out of his mood and shakes his head, as if trying to push away the fact that he just shared something from hisother lifewith me. “Anyway, I’ll pick you up at the end of your shift.”
I touch his hand. “This is a mess, but I love you. I hope you know that.”
“I love you too,” he replies.
As I leave the car, an idea hits me with the force of a slap. If someone could work out what was really happening in that gambling recovery center, someone the mob would never expect, could Damian come out of hiding?
Could we start building toward a new normal?
CHAPTER 22
DAMIAN
Too many whispers. Too many shadows. I’m tired of living in the dark.
I park two blocks from the gambling recovery center and pull on a mask that covers my face. I’ve been wearing a mask my whole damn life, anyway. The killer. The Beast. The man who will do anything to anyone as long as he gets a paycheck.
Leaving the car, I stalk through alleyways, sticking to the dark. The air is icy cold. No snow has fallen for a few days. Celine wouldn’t like that?—
No, I can’t think about her. She has no place here.
I approach the center from the rear, my nerves calm, my breathing steady. Kissing Celine, touching her, being with her makes me hyperventilate like
I’m going to have a goddamn panic attack. But this is my world. Darkness and death.
A lone guard paces the rear, the smoldering orange tip of his lit cigarette visible in the dark.
It’s 2 AM, so hopefully he’s tired. Hopefully, he’s thinking about the end of his shift.
I slide through the dark like I’m a part of it, moving from one trash can to another. Then a car. Soon, I’m close enough to hear the rattly sound of his breathing, a wheeze that’s impossibly loud in the winter dark.
When I sneak up behind him and press the gun to the back of his head, he stops dead.
“You got any idea who you’re fucking with?” I don’t recognize the man’s voice. The Family is big.
I reach into my pocket and take out the piece of paper. I shove it into his hands.
Option A: Show me what’s going on in there.
Option B: Eat a bullet.
Time to decide: ten fucking seconds.
I prod him with the barrel of my gun as my other hand efficiently searches him. I’ve done this too many times to miss the gun he’s strapped to the inside of his jacket, on his forearm, an unusual spot.
I tear off his jacket and strip the gun. He hangs his head and walks toward the door.
He leads me through the dimly lit corridors, turning a corner toward what appears to be a storage room at the back.
“This ain’t a good idea, man,” he whispers.
I just shove him with the gun again. He takes me to the storage room and leans against the wall, hands in his pockets, staring atme with bloodshot eyes. He’s in his early twenties, with a mop of dark black hair and a scar on his chin.
Since I don’t recognize him, I risk a growling command. Mask my voice with a deep guttural husk. “What’s the fucking game here?”
He swallows. Nods at the floor. “I don’t know if you want me to do that, man.”
