After about twenty minutes, the sobs turn to sniffles, and Matt straightens.
“You should finish your breakfast. It’s probably cold by now.”
“And you—” I say, taking the flask from his pocket “—should probably get some food in your stomach, too. I’d wager you’ve had enough of this on empty.”
“Spoilsport.”
“Yep, that’s me: the original wet blanket. Now, eat.”
Even lukewarm, the food is delicious. We scarf it down, and I take care of the dishes for Matt since he did the cooking. It’s a strangely idyllic scene, one that shouldn’t happen for people in our line of work.
After breakfast, we head to the gym, an amenity that doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. Matt and Tito could neverlet something as minor as the implosion of their criminal organization keep them from their daily workout. Matt even informs me that the panic room, which is more of a panic suite of rooms, has its own gym equipment.
The workout isn’t without its difficulties. We grunt and groan, both recovering from various injuries. A few exercises have to be modified to accommodate those wounds, and it becomes almost comical.
Showers after, with some hesitant petting on my part. Matt’s all-in, but I’m still uncertain, still new to this. We stroke each other, we make out, and Matt sucks my cock while the water runs over us. For the first time in years, my vision doesn’t flicker. Matt stays Matt, and something about that is more comforting than I could describe.
This is where I was meant to be. This is who I was meant to be with.
Chapter 12
Matt
After the gym and shower, we go to what I call Dad’s “control room.” Rows of monitors and servers line the walls, and a specialized A/C unit keeps it all from overheating. We arm ourselves with heavy coats against the artificial chill.
Though it’s only day two of the prescribed three-day waiting period, a few former Syndicate members have already checked in … in a manner of speaking.
Chaos reigns back in the city. Some of the explosive fires still smolder despite the fire department’s best efforts, and the death toll keeps rising. Surviving Syndicate employees, though, have started popping up in the form of armed robberies, shakedowns, and fistfights.
Dad’s men, checking in the only way they know how.
Aron crosses his arms over his chest. “Okay, so they found a way to get a message to you that they’re still alive. How are you supposed to reach them, though?”
“I guess we’ll have to get creative, too.” I rub my chin while I ponder it.
Despite the ruckus they’ve caused, none of our men havebeen caught or arrested. They move through the city, evading the cops, while at the same time conspicuously starting trouble in sight of security cameras and even the general public. It’s a sure way to know I’ll see them, but it’s a bit foolish. There’s too big of a risk of getting caught, plus the small matter finding them after they run away. How am I supposed to signal back?
“We might have to use the same tactics,” Aron says after a while. “I mean, how else will we get to them?”
“What are we going to do? Broadcast live?”
“Maybe we should.”
“What?”
Aron chuckles at my response. “Think about it: Beto assumes he killed you. Whoever infiltrated the Syndicate thinks they’ve won. What better way to stick it to them than to announce you’re alive?”
“So they can finish the job?”
“I’m not saying reveal our location. We can stay here but ping the broadcast off another tower or something. Disguise it.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “When did you learn how to do that?”
“I paid attention at St. Mary’s of the Divine Light, remember? While you were screwing around, I actually learned something.”
“I find it hard to believe that St. Mary’s had a class on broadcasting.”
He clicks a few keys with a mischievous grin. “Okay, so Father Browning’s class on ‘modern day technology and how the Devil controls it’ wasn’t quite that informative, itdidteach me a few things. For instance, people trust everything they see online, despite the fact that they’re constantly told not to. Pop a new background on the screen, show us somewhere we’re not, and they’ll believe it.” An image appears on a monitor of the two of usin real time, but we’re not in the control room; we’re in my old penthouse.
