“You can have it,” I said. “It belongs to you and your family.”
He sighed in relief, it sounded like. “I appreciate it. Does this afternoon work for you?”
So soon, I wanted to say, but stifled the words. This was my chance to meet him. To meet any of them. “Can you come a little later? I work the nightshift and—”
“That works,” he said, his tone suddenly clipped. “I’ll be there at nine.”
“I’ll let the doorman know,” I said.
He hung up, and I stood there with the phone in my hand, staring at it.
“Well?” Cilla jumped on the counter, sitting next to me, and then she poked me on the arm.
“Well what?” I looked at her.
“What did he say?” She rolled her eyes.
“Oh.” I hung the phone up. “He’ll be here at nine.”
She let out a howl that would have made my ears go up like Bambina’s if they could.
“Rosaliahas a date!” She hopped off the counter. “Finally! Some action around here. For a while, I thought they sent me to live with a nun.”
I went to correct her but decided not to. She knew about the accident, because I’d told her the basics, but nothing else. It was simpler that way. It always was.
5
Aniello
Regrets. I never entertained them. I had “I won't fuck it up again” thoughts that only came every once in a while. Simply because I rarely made mistakes. I was hardwired not to.
Mistakes in my world were costly. They could mean forfeiting life—falling at the hands of an enemy or spending every day behind steel bars. To dodge bullets and escape handcuffs, I always had to be steps ahead.
My brain was wired to not repeat history, but to make sure my future, and that of our organization, was continually on the right path. Our predecessors had been blatant about who they were and what they did. It was the ruination of something that had the potential to be prosperous.
There was a lot of money to be made in the murder business, if things were kept as quiet as possible. In this life, it was better for a man to be remembered in a documentary after his death—after he’d lived to a ripe old age and died in sunny Miami surrounded by his family. That was all any of us in this life could hope for. That was our best-case scenario. Otherwise, it was death in the street with our boots on or life behind bars.
We were to rule our lives with fists made of iron and minds made for business, and then our stories would be told from second- and third-person perspectives years after. Anything more would mean too much attention. And too much attention in this life led to too many uncertainties.
Especially when the government was going through one of its phases. When it had nothing better to do, it focused on us, our every fucking move, but when bigger things took precedence, terrorism for example, it was easier for us to get on with business as usual.
“You going to stand there like you own the place or help me?” Ruth let the dead guy’s feet fall to the floor as he looked at me with expectation.
The sight of Ruth grunting as he’d been dragging the stiff toward the back door could be considered business as usual. It wasn’t my business, though, not something I had a hand in, so my hands would stay clean. He’d have to remove the guy from underneath his soon to be mother-in-law’s table himself.
“You invited us over for dinner,” Quentin said. “Not to take care of business.”
I’d known Abe Ruth and Quentin King since we were kids. They didn’t belong to Murder for Hire, Inc., but they both belonged to the life in some way. Ruth had his people, and so did Quentin. Since we had history together, though, there was a certain level of trust between the three of us. As much as men could have living the lives we did.
Ruth, though, pulled this fucking tiring act on the regular. He’d get his orders and then pick the most inopportune time to carry them out. Like after dinner at his soon to be in-law’s place. They went to sleep early and never minded him having men over to discuss business. Ruth called himself an investor. He probably invited the guy over before the guy could tell anyone where he was going.
It was smart in one way. The guy probably never suspected it, because of where he was going. In another way, it was risky. It was Ruth’s in-laws’ house.
Some men had no boundaries. I respected men who had them. Like the guy in my crew who refused to kill on Sundays.
“He didn’t see it coming,” Ruth said, picking the guy’s feet up again. “Which is why I had to take the opportunity when it came to me. No struggle. No nothing.”
“You could have let him finish dessert first,” I said, nodding to where it was clear the man had gone to reach for it and Ruth took the opportunity to strangle him from behind. Probably after he’d offered him coffee to go with it.
