Page 82 of Guilty as Sin

And so, stuffing down my exasperation, I agree to patrol duty. I even reframe the menial task as best I can. My husband is letting me in, which is exactly what I want.

He surprises me by first taking me to the O’Sullivans’ largest armory and telling me to pick out my gun. I’m a kid in a candy store. As much as I love playing with knives, the thrill of seeing racks full of pistols and rifles and shotguns electrifies a shivering buzz at the back of my neck.

I select a slim Beretta that fits comfortably in my grip, and Brady outfits me with a concealed hip holster. But before actually giving me the gun, he makes me prove myself at the shooting range.

I’m a decade out of practice. And no, it’s not like riding a bike. Back in Boston, the gun I had easiest access to was the one in my father’s desk, a Desert Eagle that was way too heavy for me. Switching from that to my Beretta with ten years of nothing in between proves challenging.

But with Brady watching me, I’m up for any challenge.

It takes me most of a day to get back up to ninety percent accuracy, which my husband deems passable. For a perfectionist, he’s cutting me a lot of slack. I want to be offended, but I’m grateful for it.

Patrol duty of the South Side neighborhoods means walking. And walking. And walking. It’s more about being seen by civilians and would-be petty criminals than any real action. I’m surprised to find myself liking it, and honestly, a bit disappointed to realize I enjoy it so much more than being at work. Our clinic is two thousand square feet of sterile monotony.

I’m over halfway through my three-week “honeymoon,” and the amount of change in my life over the course of mere days has been staggering. I’ve unleashed my vicious Muloney side, and I relish it. Returning to the office to type up tedious patient notes won’t compare. I’ve patched things up with Jen by way of a few texts and an unexpectedly genial phone call, but I’m still reluctant to go back to the clinic.

Reviewing patient charts will be dreary after the rush of driving a getaway car from an arson. And yet, I’ve worked so hard to be the successful ophthalmologist I am. The two spheres seem incompatible, but I’ve already discovered the sweet spot between them. When I stitched up Brady’s shoulder, the thrill of illicit violence merged with the satisfaction of healing a patient, and the combination became its own reward.

I trust in my resourcefulness to establish myself in that sweet spot. But for now, there’s patrol duty.

In the waning days of summer, the O’Sullivans’ residential territories are picturesque. The streets are lined with traditional brick houses, some with flowers on the front stoops and others with cooking smells wafting from open windows.

Most of the time, Brady walks with me himself, which makes my chest feel like it’s full of helium. Unsurprisingly, he’s able to greet nearly every person in his territory by name, from the middle-aged women powerwalking past us to the kids playing street hockey. We even stop in an alleyway for a game of dice with some elderly men. I fleece Brady handily, then give of all my winnings to a troop of Girl Scouts selling cookies outside of a corner store.

But on the days when duty calls him elsewhere, Brady assigns Pete to patrol with me. I like Pete. He tells me stories of what it was like in the early days of the O’Sullivan empire, when this area was the “Wild Wild South Side,” as he calls it. He also gives me tips on how to best to rise through the ranks in the traditional way.

“No complaining,” is the biggest one. “And don’t ask Brady about the next level. He’ll tell you when you’re ready.”

I’m his wife, I want to argue. I married into the top level of the organization, I shouldn’t have to rise through the ranks at all.

But that would count as complaining, so all I do is agree.

It turns out that Brady’s way of telling me I’m ready for the next level is to fuck me senseless on the table after dinner, then ask casually if I want to come with him to an exchange later that night.

I pretend to think about it, while internally I’m screaming with joy.

“If you say that I’m ready…” I shrug like I don’t care that it’s all up to him. “Then I guess I’m ready.”

Brady drives us in a plain sedan south past the city limits. I’m surprised it’s just the two of us, but I enjoy the intimacy of just him and me in the quiet night. The loud LED business signs give way to lush dark trees as we drive further from Chicago. Brady keeps the radio low, surprising me by selecting a classical station.

I want to ask him about his music preferences, I want to ask him where we’re going, who we’re meeting, what we’re “exchanging.” As his partner, I want to demand answers, damn it.

But with Pete’s advice in mind, I keep my mouth shut. Brady will tell me when he’s ready. I don’t like it, but I think of it as my half of our compromise, with Brady’s half being to swallow his pride and let me share in all aspects of his life.

The light from the dashboard casts his face in a glow, something that would make anyone else appear soft. But with the angles of Brady’s face, the low illumination emphasizes his lethal looks. My husband is devastatingly dangerous. He catches me staring, quirks an eyebrow at me, then goes back to watching the road.

After turning off the highway, he winds us through farmland, where the recently harvested cornfields serve as stubbled reminders of autumn’s approach. When we come to a railroad crossing, Brady turns us onto the tracks, a wall of trees to either side enhancing our isolation. My teeth rattle in my head as we bump along the ties, but it’s only for a few hundred feet.

In a shallow setback from the tracks sits a rusted storage container, an old Saturn parked beside it. The maroon sedan is running, but its lights are off.

“He’s early,” Brady says, parking our car in front of the stranger’s. My husband doesn’t sound outright displeased, but he is suspicious.

When I unbuckle my seatbelt, he looks sharply over at me, but I didn’t come all this way just to sit in the car. I get out before he can tell me not to. Brady leaves the engine running with the low beams on, giving an eerie depth to the scene. The crunch of the stones under his feet tells me he isn’t happy with me. But he says nothing as he stands beside me, and we watch the stranger heave himself out of his Saturn.

He’s white, middle-aged, slightly overweight and slightly balding, and dressed like a dad at the park. In other words, he’s entirely average looking. It’s to his advantage, given that his business dealings require him to fly under the radar.

“Evening,” he says pleasantly.

“John.” The way Brady says it, I’m pretty sure this guy’s name isn’t actually John.