The hairs on the back of Alistair’s neck stood up, and he fought back a growl.
“Now, Lenny, I think Miss Gatti has the right to be cautious,” Sullivan said. “We got off on the wrong foot, back in the day. That was my fault, I take all the blame for it.”
As well he should, considering he’d sent his men to rough them up when The Pride first opened. None of them had expected to face a bunch of big cats, though, and they’d left with their tails tucked between their legs.
“I was young and brash,” Sullivan went on with a rueful expression. “Too big for my britches, as my dear mam used to say, God rest her soul. I’ve matured since then, and I’ve always been a man of my word, as you know. Nowadays, I’m not a bad fellow to work with, am I, Sam?”
Sam looked surprised to be asked. “No? I mean, no, Mr. Sullivan. I’ve enjoyed my time at the hexworks.”
“And done a great job there.” Sullivan turned back to Wanda. “Listen, we’re all reasonable businesspeople here.”
The same thing Fabiano had said. She and Sullivan might be enemies, but they worked from the same damn script.
“Should your current arrangement fall through—and hopefully it won’t—then you come to me next. I can supply as much as you need at a discount. And I don’t mean the stuff cut with iodine or whatever. I’m talking about quality liquor.”
Wanda’s golden eyes didn’t give away anything. “And how much is that going to cost us?”
Sullivan waved the hand holding his cigar, smoke trailing behind. “Don’t worry, I offer my friends a discount. You’ve done me a favor, coming to me with this news about Fabiano. I want to do one for you in return.”
This was a trap. If they became Sullivan’s “friends,” he’d expect more favors over time. The sort of favors five big cats could do in a fight against Fabiano, or the smaller syndicates still standing, or anyone else Sullivan thought needed to be taken out.
If they said no, though…
Sullivan wouldn’t kill them here, not in his own house. He might not kill them at all—he only needed to set his paid-off police after them. Shut down The Pride for good, or at least until they learned their lesson.
Fur and feathers, what a mess. Things had seemed so easy back in 1920, when they’d started. Everyone and their grandmother was opening speakeasies or making gin in their bathtubs, so why not join in? A lot of places still didn’t want to hire so-called “dangerous” familiars—why break their backs with whatever low-paying jobs they could scrape, when there was easy money to be made in the illegal liquor trade?
And sure it was against the law, but the damned Congress who’d passed it had a fucking speakeasy inside the Capitol for their personal use. The cop on his beat wasn’t about to give up having a drink at the end of his shift, either, so right from the beginning it was corruption from top to bottom. If the ones who made or enforced the laws weren’t going to obey them, why should anyone else?
Now, though, things were complicated and only getting more so. The easy money turned out to have a lot of strings attached.
“We’d never turn away a favor from you, Mr. Sullivan,” Wanda said. “Sam tells us you’re a fair man, and a generous one.”
Sullivan looked pleased at that. “There you have it, then. If—and only if!—your current arrangement doesn’t work out, you’ll come to me. Do we have a deal?”
They had no choice. Wanda leaned over the desk and put out her hand for Sullivan to shake. “We have a deal.”
11
“Fuck Sullivan,” Alistair said viciously as they pulled away from the mansion gates. He’d climbed into the rumble seat in human form, so he could lean forward between Wanda and Sam to talk. Unfortunately, that meant Wanda had to leave the roadster’s top down, so cold air whipped past the windscreen and left Sam shivering despite his coat.
Sam hadn’t understood all of the undercurrents swirling around the room, but he knew Sullivan had backed them into a corner. Still. “I’m sure things with the new bootlegger will work out,” he said with determined cheerfulness.
“Unless Sullivan’s the one taking out the independent operators,” Alistair shot back.
He hadn’t considered that. He knew he was working for a murderer, of course he did, but somehow it hadn’t seemed quite so real before.
He was complicit, whether he wanted to be or not.
Alistair’s hand settled on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I shouldn’t have been so sharp with you. I’m just worried.”
“Sullivan has me working on some Ancient Egyptian hex from a three-thousand year-old tomb,” Sam said. “What if it does something awful? What if he uses it against you? Us?”
He’d failed so many times before. Jake’s death, Mom’s death…what if the hexes he worked on hurt Alistair and the others?
God, they were probably already being used to hurt other people, knowingly or not. He had blood on his hands.
“Sam.” Alistair’s fingers tightened. “You keep working on that hex, you hear me? Do whatever Sullivan wants. Do not cross him, understand?”
