Page 7 of The Mobster’s Nurse

Don't leave town! What the … "I've got nothing to hide."

"I hope that's true," he says with a serious but dark edge. "We both know the Morettis would have no trouble finding somebody. Anybody. For any reason."

I take this as a warning. Not a threat directed at me — a statement of fact about the world he moves in. I think he’s telling me to be careful navigating this world, not promising to hurt me. I'm ninety percent sure I know the difference between this world and my normie world. But that pesky ten percent, though, sure trips up any clean exit strategy.

As I leave the room, I can feel his gaze on me and feel his final words against my back.

"Especially people who don't want to be found."

I call out over my shoulder, "You forgot to say, sorry."

I bite my lip. Too hard and it hurts. My finger snaps up to feel it. Surprised — no blood.

I want to turn, stride back to him, fall to my knees, take him in my mouth. Let him realize I'm in control. Because I am. Even now, even flushed, flustered and furious, I know that.

My mind might be still processing, as always, but my body was damn sure — cock sure.

What just happened happened because I let it. Because I wanted it. Because at every single second of it, I could have said no, and he would have stopped. I’m certain. Yes, I was in control.

That's the part that makes it so unbearable. Not the danger. Not him.

The choice.

Instead, I keep walking away on unsteady legs. Leaving that smirk behind me.

A smirk that maybe is now widening and softening into a smile behind my back. At least I comfort myself with that image. But I’m not looking back.

Out of nowhere, my life is suddenly much more complicated. Damn!

Damn him, damn me, and damn this fucking job.

3

LUCA

The regulatory horse vet I hired kneels next to the feed. Frowns as he scoops a handful of pellets up and scrunches them between his fingers. He's an older man, with a shock of white hair sprouting in a band around his bald dome. He glances up. Frowns again.

I can see the fear tugging at the corners of his features, tightening him. He knows what he's going to say. He's scared. I can't blame him. I've been told many times that I can be an intimidating son of a bitch.

"I think this feed has been tampered with, sir," he says. "No, I am sure. The texture is wrong; there are irregularities - rougher, sharper pellets in here that just don't belong. I can't be sure; we’d need to test, but I'd wager there are… toxic additives."

"Toxic," I mutter.

"Not enough to kill. Just enough to hurt."

"To slow," I say. "To affect races."

He nods. "I'd agree with that, sir. Possibly some type of diuretic." He pauses.

“Have you seen anything like this before?”

"Yes. Slow-acting interference in feedstock — particularly reducing electrolytes. It's a Boston signature, reeks of the Irish.”

“Take samples back to your lab. From every feed box. Run tests and send me a detailed report: which feed box, what it is, and what the effects are. Priority. Can you do that for me?”

I look at the handful of tarnished feed and feel my anger rise. This is not their endgame, just a message. Their way of saying, ‘we know your operation, and we're already inside it’. Not subtle but effective. The Irish have been making moves from Boston for too damn long. Coming west, infringing on our territory, trying to muscle in on our game. But they're way too damn late.

"Is there any way the staff wouldn't have noticed this?"