He's been in my head for eleven fuckin' years now.
But none of that is the point. The point is Giovanni. The point is the naked woman hauntin' his halls like a ghost of dog stories past.
Giovanni did it again.
He did it.Again.
He lied—straight to my face, the bastard.
Hepromisedhe'd never collar another woman—not after what happened before. He looked me dead in the eye and he gave me his word.
Hisword.
As if that meant somethin' comin' from a man who'd already proven words were just sounds you made to get what you wanted.
You're one to talk, aren't ya lad.
"Ah, shut up, ya old fuck," I mutter aloud to the ghost of Father Patrick who lives rent-free in my conscience. "I'm nothin' like him."
Although… I do have to admit, in the quiet darkness of this car with a possibly-dead woman in the boot, that Giovanni and I are alike in a lot of other ways. Too many ways, if I'm bein' honest with myself—which I try very hard not to be on most days.
For excellent reasons.
Mob family upbringin'—his is old-school Italian, all fire, and opera, and passionate violence.
Mine's old-school Irish, all stone, and saga, and cold, patient fury. Different flavors of the same poison, really.
Same body count, different accents.
We both like suits. Though mine are less flashy than his. Less Brioni, more Hunter Treacy. His suits exist to intimidate, mine to understate. Same armor, different message.
We went to the same school. Fucking Auggies.Virtue through Order. Greatest lie ever sold to the sons of rich criminals.
We both see patterns where other people see chaos. We both prefer silence to noise. We both understand that power isn't about volume—it's about precision. About knowin' exactly when to speak and when to let the quiet do the work for ya.
The difference is he uses it for empire.
I use it to overthink myself into moral paralysis.
We both got trauma we pretend doesn't exist.
We both use control as a coping mechanism.
Mine's just dressed up as philosophy.
And… most disturbing of all, we both fancy the same kind of woman.
The proof is in my boot. Possibly dead proof. Brilliant.
Christ.
Again, how thefuckdid I get here?
Well, Lorcan, mah boy, if yer lookin' for someone to blame, it was yer Uncle Fearghus.
Fuckin' Fearghus.
Do this favor for me, Lorcan my lad.Got the LaRiccia's on my case and we both know how testy I get when those goddamn pricks start breathin' down my neck.
