“Alright. Well, go on, before your father comes out to tell us how big his dick is.” He turns to face the front.
“And you?” I ask, keeping my voice low. Eyes and ears everywhere.
“I'll ensure the girl is safe. Until it's time.”
“Good.” I push open the door. Cold air snaps at my neck as I pull my hood up. With every step I take, ice crunches beneath the soles of my shoes.
The perfect house. The perfect family. The perfect script.
Six Years Later
“Happy birthday, big brother!” Khloe wraps her arms around me.
Twenty-three. I'm twenty-three years old and I feel fucking forty.
Mom sits across the table, her hair swept up in a high bun and the diamond on her finger glinting under the lights. Not as much as the ones around her throat, though. Those fuckers are blinding, and not because of their cut.
Someone taps my leg beneath the table. Atlas. “You've got about thirty more minutes until we gotta be on the other side of town. Wanna wrap this shit up?”
The low light of the restaurant should be relaxing, but it does fuck all to calm my thoughts.
“Nah, they can wait.” I reach for my glass, the ice clinking against the sides as I bring it to my mouth. Whiskey is a weak man's drink. It suits my mood.
There’s too many people. Most I don’t give a fuck about. Atlas' college pack, Mom, Khloe draped over some new toy who won’t be around long enough for me to bother learning his name.
A waiter circles the chaos, young, my age. Her hips roll when she leans to refill glasses. The assessment takes three seconds. Available. Willing. Not worth the effort.
My fingers tap the stem of my empty glass. The ice has melted into something sad and watery. She catches my stare, offers that smirk again. I don't return it.
I drink.
Even with my mother watching me from across the table, judgment radiating from her eyes. My throat tightens. Did she want this life for her sons? The question burns in my chest. Probably not. But you are who you marry.
Fifteen minutes later, we're halfway across Chicago. The street is dark and quiet. No one sets foot on this side of town unless they want their next step to be their last.
I slam the car door and cross the road toward a metal door that gleams under the sickly glow of a streetlight. I'm late.I don't fucking care.
The underground bar reeks of stale beer and something else. Desperation. Or blood. It's hard to tell in places like this.
I descend the concrete steps, each footfall echoing off the damp walls. The bouncer at the bottom doesn't ask for my name. He just nods and pulls the door open.
Smart.
Inside, the lighting is shit. Red bulbs cast everything in a hellish glow, making the dozen men scattered around look like fucking demons. They probably are. The Chicago Outfit doesn't exactly recruit choirboys.
Three of them sit at a booth in the back. The leader, Carmine something, I don't give enough of a fuck to remember, watches me approach with dark, calculating eyes. His suit is expensive but dated. Old money trying to hang on to relevance.
I slide into the booth across from them without invitation.
“Delacroix.” Carmine's voice is gravel and cigarettes. “You're late.”
“I'm here.” I lean back, spreading my arms across the worn leather. “That's what matters.”
The guy to his left snorts. “Bold of you to come alone, kid. We could kill you right here.” He’s either too young or too stupid. Or both.
I don't even look at him. My eyes stay locked on Carmine. He's the only one in this room who matters, the only one with half a brain.
“You could try,” I say, my voice level. It doesn't need to rise. “But then what? You think killing me stops anything?”
