“Guns before people,” he replied, looking down at my hand.
“Oh. Right.” Wehadjust been shot at, after all.
“I’ll have your back, kid,” he said, almost kindly. There was another electronic lockbox next to the door just inside, and from it he produced another gun, a twin to the one in my hand. “Leave the lights off. Just don’t shoot my floor lamp or something.”
I moved in, quickly scoping the entry area and the laundry area to the right, thankful for the muscle memory from Quantico after the humiliation in the Park. After locking the door behind him, Messina followed fast, ducking into the first room across from the door. We made our way down the hallway, stopping in rooms along the way. It was stupidly, pointlessly spacious, or so it seemed in the darkness, like a labyrinth that would never end. The bedroom I went into had its own bathroom, too, and I nearly shot at my own reflection in the mirror.
I took a moment to take a deep breath and blow it out slowly.
“Clear,” Angelo called from deeper in the apartment. I made my way down to the open kitchen and living area. “You can put that away, now,” he said with a pointed look at the gun I was holding on him.
“Can I?” I asked. I was beginning to realize I’d just let myself get locked inside the lair of the Morelli Underboss.Withthe Morelli Underboss. What the hell had I been thinking?
The Morelli Underboss raised an eyebrow at me.
Shit. Was this how Hanson had gone out, trusting blindly in a killer? Had the whole thing been a setup, from the shooting in Central Park, just to get me here alone?
Was the Monster of the Morellis about to take me out?
Chapter Five
Angelo
“Keep the gun if it makes you feel safer,” I told the kid. “But out of politeness, maybe don’t aim it at me? Iamstanding in my own home, after all. A man has a right to safety in his own property.”
I turned my back on him and went over to the bar table against the far wall, turning on one dim lamp along the way. In my experience, showing vulnerability—or the appearance of it—helps de-escalate situations. It did then, as I watched in the dark window’s reflection while the kid lowered his gun hesitantly.
“You want a drink?” I asked.
“No.”
“Okay.” I poured one for myself: bourbon, neat, no ice. I wasn’t a man who cared much about what he drank, but this had been a gift from a grateful merchant in Brooklyn, the kind of thing I’d never bother to buy for myself. This particular bourbon was beginning to change my mind about what was and wasn’t worth the money.
The kid was looking around the room, jerky and still high on adrenaline from our near escape. “So,” I said, walking over to the window. I pushed the curtain aside to look down at the street. “Interesting night.”
No shady figures that I could see.
“You’re bleeding,” the kid blurted out, and gestured to his cheek.
I swiped at my face and my fingers came away red. Whoever had been shooting at us wasn’t messing around. I’d felt splintered tree bark brush my face back in Central Park. “Just a scratch,” I said. “You alright?”
Gun still in his slack hand, the kid looked himself over. “I think so,” he said slowly. “Maybe I should have that drink.” The look he gave me was still wary, but when I nodded my head towards the lounge, he took a seat readily enough. He laid the gun on the coffee table, but had the respect to point the barrel towards the television rather than me.
I brought him his bourbon and sat opposite him, watching his face. It was hard to tell in the dark, but he didn’t look like he was going into shock, though his eyes were bright and flickered from side to side. He held the bourbon up to try to look at the bottom, swirling it around before he evidently figured that if I wanted him dead, he’d be dead already. He took a sip and looked surprised.
“This isgood.”
“What’s your name?” I asked abruptly. I could hardly keep calling him “Babyface” or “the kid” in my head.
“Special Agent Baxter Flynn.”
“Your mother named you Special Agent? There’s a whole other level of parental expectation right there.” He looked more suspicious rather than less. Humor wasn’t going to work with this one, not yet. “So, Baxter Flynn. Why exactly were you following me through Central Park?”
If anything, the up-front demand made him relax more, and he took another sip of his drink before replying. “I wanted to see what you were doing.”
“But tonight wasn’t the first night, was it? You’ve been watching me for days.”
“Yes.”
