Protection money. No, the Prince family wasn’t in the protection business, at least not any longer. However, there were a few businesses in the French Quarter that had been around for generations, small to medium shops who’d weathered the economy over the years. As well as the increased crime.
Our father had established a zone of protection two decades before, which had prevented everything from arson to petty theft in several upscale businesses. We used our men as security and with ensuring their safety and welfare, payment was owed.
Sadly, the handshake way of doing business had been cast into the shadows, the son of the original owner a piece of shit, refusing to honor the original deal. And I was the man to remind him.
“He had part of the money, boss,” Gio mentioned, my Capo standing only a few feet away, his voice tinged with boredom.
“Unless you have every cent of what’s owed, you broke the deal set forth by your father. You’re a disappointment, David.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll have it by the end of the week.” His words were as broken as the two teeth I’d cracked. Along with his nose.
“That’s not good enough. Forty-eight hours or the little bistro you covet so much will belong to the Prince family.”
I was finished dealing with bullshit, eager to toss out the day, and would have left with those as final words had he not dared issue a final statement.
“Fuck you.”
Exhaling, I closed my eyes, twisting my hand around the cane as rage swept through me. Even the deep breaths I’d learnedto create a positive outlook weren’t working. The asshole had picked the wrong time to piss me off.
“I’ll handle him if you want, boss,” Gio offered.
“Not necessary. This is mine to deal with.”
Without thinking, I spun around, raising my arm and ready to strike him with my cane.
“Whoa,” Sinclair gritted out as he snapped his hand around my wrist, stopping me cold.
My snarl was as immediate as my desire to bash David’s head in. I jerked my head toward my brother, my jaw clenched to the point my entire mouth hurt. “Don’t stop me.”
“Tough, brother. Jesus Christ. I don’t know you any longer.” He shifted his angry gaze toward the cane, shaking his head. “You made your point. You beat the shit out of him. Give him the forty-eight hours.”
I shifted my eyes back and forth, slowly coming back to earth after being in a haze of fury. With another deep exhale, I jerked my arm free, storming awkwardly toward the door leading to the back alley. Every soldier I passed kept his eyes front and center, but I knew exactly what they were thinking.
The cripple needs his meds.
Fuck them. Fuck the entire goddamn world. I hadn’t asked for this shit.
Once outside, I took deep breaths, but the stale odor of piss and death picked the wrong time to assault my senses. Rage lingered, festering deep inside, twisting my stomach like the agony continued to do with my leg. My fucking useless leg.
Another wave of fury swept through me, violent and untethered. I smashed my cane against the side of the building, almost falling on my ass in the process. Oppressive heat tore through me and it was all I could to do to keep upright.
On top of my being crippled, the bastard who’d shot me hadn’t been found. My family and every soldier in the Prince Empire had turned over every rock, scouring every corner of the city and beyond and had talked to every informant. Nada.
We as a family had our share of enemies even after combining forces with the Italians, but they’d been of no use. Russians. Armenians. Hell, pharmaceutical companies and bankers ranked high on the list of our enemies. Yet without an indication of who’d committed the heinous crime, starting a war was akin to a death wish.
That didn’t mean that knowing the man who’d shot me was still walking, talking, and breathing didn’t continue to piss me off like everything else.
Embarrassment tugged at the powerful, brutal man inside. Yeah, I’d heard the doctors. I was lucky to be alive let alone able to keep my leg. The only reason I was breathing the repulsive air was that the bullet had barely nicked my femoral artery. Anything else and I would have likely bled out before help had gotten to me.
Days in a haze. Weeks in a hospital followed by rehab.
And I still needed a goddamn cane.
The door opened behind me, footsteps moving close.
Sinclair stood with his hands in his pockets, both of us remaining silent for over two minutes.
“Are you finished with your tantrum?” he asked, using his quiet but stern voice just like our father had favored when something went wrong.
