“Espi,” I say. “Where is he?”
Arno snorts out a laugh, his posture relaxing a fraction of an inch. “Isthatwhat this is about? I hate to tell ya, but I don’t keep tabs on the kid—”
“I told you to keep an eye on him,” I interject, my tone catching on a growl. “Aneye. Not involve him in your shit, Arno. So, do you want to tell me why a cop saw me today, shoving proof in my face that you have Espi working for you?”
Arno shrugs, but the motion serves to open up his stance. He’sbuilt up a few more muscles than he had last. So have I. My left hand flinches. There’s blood welling at my fingertips, and a muscle in my jaw aches.Shit.I turn away, shaking out both hands as if lashing out at the air might quell the urge to smash them into something. Somethingbreakable, made of flesh and bone...
Fuck.Arno stares back when I look at him from over my shoulder. He keeps his hands out at his sides, his expression blank. I know that fucking look on his face. It’s the same one the guards wore on patrol, always waiting for the moment one of the beasts might lunge.
“You asked me to look after him,” he says carefully. “I have. But he’s not a kid anymore. I don’t tell him what to do. He likes to paint. And if he just so happens to do that in the territories I’m looking into, then that’s his business. Not yours.”
Not mine.I inhale. Exhale. My fingers still shake. They burn. I have to clench them up so tightly that the knuckles pop. I pace, slamming my heels into the fucking floor. I breathe.One. Two.There’s a buzzing working through the back of my skull. It itches when I notice it, irritating the inside of my head. I crush the fingers of my right together with an audible crunch. Then I slam the fist into the palm of the left—hard. The pain jolts through my system, clearing my thoughts for a split second, but it’s like taking a bone from a mutt. The relief is only temporary.
When my vision clears, I face Arno again, and he has enough sense to pretend like he didn’t notice the slip. “Where is he?”
“He’s safe,” the man says carefully. He knows me too well. He doesn’t move an inch. He gives me no excuse to react. I’m a caged animal, but Arno knows too damn well how to hide the key. “I wouldn’t let him in the crew. You know me better than that—”
“Do I?” It’s an animal’s howl, barely constrained by a raspy tone I force my voice to keep.
“Yes, you do,” Arno says without hesitation.
There’s something in his heavy Brooklyn accent that muzzles the beast inside me. My fingers flex again, and the burn subsidesa little. It wouldn’t be a good idea to lose my shit here anyway. Can’t let the cops come running too soon. Can’t lose control yet.
Not yet.
“Okay, then.” I shake my head like I’m trying to clear it of water, and I can’t shake the feeling like I really am submerged underneath something—not water. Something heavier. More suffocating. Addicting.
“I’ll take you to him,” Arno suggests. “But let’s get some alcohol in you. The good stuff.” He glances at the bar behind me in disgust. “None of this cheap shit. Then we’ll talk. Catch up, and maybe you’ll tell me why the fuck youreallyaren’t in prison.”
I don’t miss the way his voice lowers an octave on that last part. In five fucking minutes, Arno’s proven that he trusts me. He still knows enough to tread carefully around Dante Vialle—yet he isn’t stupid. Men don’t just crawl out of prison, skirting a twenty-year sentence. He’s afraid I made a bargain or licked some police commissioner’s ass to get a deal.
I’ll prove him wrong at some point. Right now, it seems more important to accept that promise of a drink. If I’m to stay out of prison for longer than seventy-two hours, I’ll need it.
“Okay.” I nod once. “Deal.”
Arno breaks into a smile, cutting years off his age. He’s a teenage boy again, with a batch of heroin in his pocket to sell. “Good, good. I’ll introduce you to the crew, starting with ol’ Francisco here.” He nods to the man behind the counter, who’s watching us, clutching a bottle of booze in one hand and a dishrag in the other. “You won’t find a more loyal man on this side of town.”
“Happy to help,” Francisco says, inclining his head, all transgressions forgotten.
Still smiling, Arno heads for the door, jerking his chin for me to follow. “Welcome back, Kitty,” he says.“Let me show you around my corner of hell.”
Arno’s setup shop in an old pub on the corner of Finch and Horn. The name on the storefront readsMulligans. It’s a decently sized place—a far cry from the run-down gas station where we used to set up shop. The Gardai logo spans a banner hanging on the wall behind a well-stocked bar—that six-pointed star. Dark walls and hardwood floors create a spacious barroom with a color scheme designed to disguise any bloodstains. Reds. Greens. Blacks.
The puppy’s chosen his doghouse well. His human bloodhounds rise to attention the moment we walk inside. There are maybe ten of them gathered. They sniff around, their hackles rising at the sight of me. I recognize a few. The rest are all new blood. Arno’s been building himself quite the army.
“Friends,” he says, his voice booming. “This is my brother, back from the dead.” He slaps my shoulder once, but the display of friendship doesn’t seem to put his men at ease.
These aren’t the run-of-the-mill punks he used to command. They look rougher. Some of them are sporting expressions I recognize from prison—a look I know I wear myself. It’s a mask, hardened by anger and reinforced with bitter hatred, worn at all times, even in your sleep. It’s the mark of a wild dog who’s been locked in a cage one too many times.
“Friend?” one of the men pipes up. He’s about Arno’s size, with a sizeable mass of black hair growing out in all directions. His eyes are brown, but they surprisingly aren’t hostile when they meet mine without fear. Good fucking choice on his part. “Does this ‘friend’ have a name?”
Arno opens his mouth, but I speak for myself.
“Dante.Friend.”
A few men started forward to circle my position, but they quickly step back now. It can’t be helped. I tend to have that effect, whether I say my name or not. Dogs can sniff out otherdogs, after all, and even the average mongrel knows when to submit to a bigger, more brutal beast.
The man who questioned me doesn’t flinch, however. There’s a grudging bit of respect that flares up before I can smother it.
