Fuck it.
“Pay more, dammit. I don’t have time for this shit. We’re about to go to war.”
“To be fair, Boss, I think this one’s gonna need the legal eagles.”
“Great. Just fucking great!”
If there’s anyone who’ll fleece you for more than the cops, it’s the motherfucking law firms. But at least we have one on retainer. Maybe it’s time they earned their keep.
“Whatever. Just get on it. And then call in the capos of the New York chapter for a meeting.” Mario hops up, nodding as he reaches for his phone. “And give me a few minutes. I have a call to make.”
Mario is out of the room before my call even dials through. When the voice on the other end picks up, my temper surges through the roof.
“Think I’m that easy to get rid of,pezzo de merda?” I snarl down the line.
“If only,” Tommy McErlane replies.
“Well, you got another fucking thing coming. We need to meet.”
“Fine,” he snaps back. “Name your time and place.”
We exchange details, and a minute later, I end the call, still seething. I know I should be feeling guilty about what this is going to do to Emma.
But sometimes, a man has to do what is necessary.
And I’m about to do it.
***
The music is pounding loud enough to rattle my teeth, but it fits the mood I’m in right now; something heavy and metallic with someone screaming in a blood rage that seems totally appropriate.
The old warehouse is crowded, stinking of sweat and cigarettes and something indefinable. Probably testosterone.
Rows of seating have been built into shaking grandstands surrounding a makeshift ring enclosed in mesh fencing. As I lounge in my seat, arms spread on the bench behind me, I watch a pair of sweating guys flinging each other across the raw concrete floor. It’s streaked with blood; no fancy padded mats or cushioned poles in this place. When someone hits a support beam, you can hear teeth rattle. Sometimes bones crunch.
It’s all part of the charm.
A bare fist connects with a jaw, and the crowd roars as one of the fighters goes down on one knee, then flies back as a foot meets his jaw. It’s a shattering blow, and I doubt the poor fucker’s going to be getting up anytime soon. Even if he tried, the guy he’s fighting has already pounced onto him, straddling his chest as he delivers a series of blows that’ll probably turn his face to mince.
A bell rings, and the fight comes to a halt. No refs or judges in this battle – the last man standing wins. And I suspect this particular guy would have kept thrashing his opponent if he wasn’t saving his fists for the next bout.
The crowd roars again and the winner parades in a circle, thumping his tattooed chest like a strutting rooster.
He won fair and square. Well, maybe not so fair. But I guess he deserves it.
“You expect me to sit here and watch these eejits pound the snot out of each other all night?” a voice growls into thoughts. McErlane has emerged at my side and is surveying the informal fight club with so much distaste you’d think he’d spent all his life at high-brow golf clubs.
Unlikely.
“No,” I say, glancing up at him.
“Then what the hell are we doing here?” McErlane asks. He hasn’t sat down yet, still looking down at me like some sort of bug. Something flickers in his eyes that I can’t pin down for some reason.
Probably guilt…if the man is capable of such a thing. Maybe it’s just annoyance that his hit wasn’t completed successfully.
“You tried to goddamn kill me, you fuck,” I say as if we’re merely passing the time of day.
“Yeah. What of it?” The man is totally unrepentant. I’m hardly surprised.
