Page 10 of Property of Shotgun
I give that some thought. “So the Italians use our guns to kill one of the Albanians’ top guys, and they retaliate by killing Irish.”
“Vito wants Fatmir out of the picture, and he knows a King’s death is always avenged. He cleared the path for us to take out his guy.”
“Fatmir is the leader?”
“Yeah. He’s the one I was negotiating with.”
“That’s not who killed Irish. I told you there were three guys.”
“But he’s the one who ordered the hit.”
I see where he’s going with this, but I feel it necessary to make myself perfectly clear. “You want to take out Fatmir.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you?”
“I want to take them all out. We don’t get to the masked cunts who killed Irish without Fatmir. They gotta be first, then we take out the rest, including the leader. But it don’t end there, Biggie. I want the fucking Mondestino’s too. Every fucking one of them.”
“Understood, but that’s going to take time. Mondestino played with me, now it’s my turn to play with him. We’re going to do his bidding for him and take out the Albanians just like he planned, all while planning our strike against him.”
Satisfied with that answer, I nod. “One more thing. I don’t care who puts hands on them. I know everyone here wants to avenge Irish’s death, and play their part, but I draw the last breath out of the three men who tortured us, and Fatmir is mine, and mine alone.”
“Then you better get those wrists healed, because I expect you to wreak havoc on those motherfuckers, and in the condition you’re in, you can’t even jerk your own cock.”
FOUR
JADE
I never mindedthat Irish had a room at the clubhouse. All the guys did, and my husband was no exception.
In the earlier years, it was convenient after a night of partying. But after we started having kids, I didn’t let loose all that much, and the nights I spent here were more about safety. I kept a drawer for myself, and one for the kids. They were mostly filled with the necessities, a couple of outfits, some underwear, and of course pajamas. I was big on pajamas, tops and bottoms always had to match, even if they wound up rolled into a ball on the floor. Same for bras and panties.
There were some toys in the closet too, and a crib in the corner from when Raiden was a baby. I wanted them to feel comfortable and have everything they needed when things got rough around here, and everything felt uncertain. Irish was happy to oblige, but as much as we tried to shield them, and make these lockdowns as normal as possible, things changed as Legend got older. I don’t know if he could sense the tension or what, but he stopped buying our lies about the lockdowns being big slumber parties. It’s true what they say—the kids succumbed to this lifestyle grow up faster than the kids whose parents make honest livings.
I pull the blanket up over both the boys, pressing my lips gently to Legend’s forehead first, then I do the same to Raiden. They look so peaceful and innocent,
Pure.
Smoothing a hand down my silk maternity pajamas, my hand pauses on my bump as I head for the door, pausing to glance over my shoulder at my boys one more time before I exit the room and make my way to the common area.
I excused myself a couple of hours ago, after the brothers did a shot in honor of Irish. Faking pleasantries and taking the condolences offered by people I didn’t know was exhausting. I just wanted to crawl into bed with my boys, and revel in the scent of Irish’s cologne that still lingered on the sheets.
The boys struggled to fall asleep, which was surprising because it was such a long day. But they didn’t have their daddy there to make an adventure of bedtime like he often did when we had to spend nights here, and I was a poor replacement.
I don’t know how to be their motherandtheir father, but I do know I am not going to figure it out here, surrounded by the men who wear the same patch as he did.
The patch that stole him from us.
We need to be home, in our own house, finding a way to grieve while gathering the courage to move on.
I step out of the shadows, immediately spotting Biggie and Shotgun. A few other members loiter around the room, but they’re the only ones at the bar. Drawing in a deep breath, I make my way over to them. I know better to interrupt, especially when they seem to be in deep conversation, so I pace myself.
Shotgun’s voice grows louder, though, and it’s impossible for me to ignore his words.
“…I know everyone here wants to avenge Irish’s death, and play their part, but I draw the last breath out of the three men who tortured us, and Fatmir is mine, and mine alone.”
I don’t catch Biggie’s reply. I’m too stuck on the name he dropped, wondering if that’s who killed my husband.
“Jade, sweetheart,” Biggie calls.
