11

JUMAINE

I lost count of all the “fucks” the three of us said before parting ways.

We were in deep shit.

The guy who’d tried to blow us to hell was still breathing. Worse than that, Roscano would be pissed. We knew we were valuable to him, but we couldn’t lie to ourselves. Going against a Don’s will was perhaps the worst mistake one could make. A mistake that could cost us our lives.

With Rocello and Slade preferring to lie low for a couple of days, I sensed that doing something was up to me. That was how it worked sometimes. Rock and Slade took over when hotter heads were needed. I was the one they counted on when a more subtle strategy was needed.

Not that that was ever a satisfying route. If it were up to me, I’d go over and shoot Nick Roscano in his fat head. He wasn’t even a tenth of the man his father had been. But if I did that, every single family in New York would soon go after me. I’d be dead in a matter of days, if not hours. Nick Roscano was a made man. To whack someone like him, one had to get permission from another Don first. They had to have a serious reason to grant that permission, otherwise, whoever asked for it would get a bullet to the head instead. Those were the rules.

On the other hand, Sean Baxter wasn’t a made man. Only Sicilians could have that honor. Guys like Slade and me would never be made. Of the three of us, the organization could only make Rocello, due to his Sicilian blood. And that wouldn’t happen if he was dead.

I just had to find Baxter.

The Gambini family owned several buildings in all five burrows, but their favorite hangout was in Brooklyn. It was called Pietro’s, an Italian restaurant on Jamison Avenue. Named after Michael Gambini’s grandfather as a tribute to him, it was almost always packed with members of his crew. My plan was simple.

Getting there and keeping my eyes open for my target.

There was just one issue—I was between cars at the moment. Luckily, I found a Honda to borrow. Of course, the owner didn’t know I borrowed it, but I’d return it before morning. If this one didn’t blow up, that was.

Long rows of parked cars on either side of Pietro’s confirmed what I already knew. That restaurant would be full of burly men in fifty-dollar suits. I could even see some of them near the glass façade, laughing and teasing each other. An outsider would think this was one big, happy family. To me, that was a joke. There was no such thing in my world. One bad mistake was enough for someone to never see the light of day again. It was amazing that those assholes in there didn’t seem to know that.

I caught a break, just after nine-thirty. Sean Baxter walked right out of that restaurant with one of his buddies, all smiles and happy. Seriously, this guy didn’t have an ounce of self-preservation. Guess he thought that being associated with the Gambini family would protect him. And it would—up to a point.

He got into a white BMW and drove off. For all my desire to beat his head into a spiky blond pulp, I hadn’t actually decided what to do with him yet. So much for being the one who planned. But Baxter was just a lapdog. He was Gambini’s errand boy. He was too low on the food chain to have decided to go after me and my boys. If Don Gambini really had decided the three of us needed to go, I wanted to know why.

I followed him through the narrow streets of Brooklyn, making sure to stay well away from him. He wasn’t completely dumb, and looking for a tail was second nature to guys like us. About fifteen minutes later, I realized I was on familiar grounds. I could see old, small houses around me. Down the road and to the road, I noticed the incomplete frame of a building. I had seen that scaffolding so many times that I could remember which parts of it were rusty and which ones weren’t. The Rusty Bucket was just a block away from that unfinished building.

For a moment, I thought about dropping my pursuit and heading in for a beer. Margo was probably working, and it would be good to see her. I still remembered what it had felt like to hold her narrow hips. To feel her sweet ass on my lap.

But I had to find out what the fuck Baxter was up to now.

I pulled over behind a blue van, watching the taillights in Baxter’s BMW flash red. Baxter parked his Beemer seven cars ahead, right under a light pole. He was only about thirty feet from the Rusty Bucket. He got out, crossing the street toward the bar.

I slid out of my borrowed car, moving through the darkness after him. I ached to grab him and force some answers out of him, but there were too many people around.

Baxter slipped behind a Jaguar and stepped onto the sidewalk. There was an empty lot right next to the Rusty Bucket, and I made my move. I lunged over the hood of the Jaguar like a fucking stuntman. The force of my attack knocked Baxter off balance. He fell to the sidewalk, cursing on his way down. A small box fell out of the inner pocket of his coat, as I gripped him by the shoulders. I rolled us over, dragging him into the empty lot and away from the streetlights.

Flipping him over, I sat on his scrawny chest. My blood was boiling as I punched him. There’d be time to ask questions later. But by the time he was moaning in pain, clutching his face, I reined myself in.

“That’s for North Haven, you piece of shit.” My fingers locked around his thin throat. “Who the fuck sent you?” Baxter just groaned, his fingers groping at the sidewalk.

I slammed his head into the hard ground. “Answer me.”

Instead, a weird grin settled on his bleeding mouth. He held his hand up, and at first, I thought he was trying to take a swing at me. But then I saw it. He had a little black bundle in his hand.

Shit.

“Another bomb?” I snarled, as I wrested it out of his hand. “Is that all you know how to do?”

Baxter grunted, and I smashed my fist into his nose as I tried to work through this turn of events. “Gambini paid you to blow up the Rusty Bucket?”

“I’m not telling you shit,” the prick said, his voice weak but triumphant. “I’m a dead man if I do.”

“You’re a dead man if you don’t,” I warned, but at this point, Baxter didn’t seem to think he had anything to lose.

So I needed to change that.

“Your boss is just going to shoot you in the head,” I argued, my arm jerked back. “I’m debating between beating you to death and gutting you.” I pulled out a knife and held it against his neck. “Why the fuck would Gambini have you blow up that bar?”

My knife dug into his neck and blood flowed onto the dirt below us. This bastard deserved to die in this empty lot. I twisted the knife, noting that I was cutting him in almost the same place that the shard of glass had hit Rock.

Baxter squealed. “Okay,” he gasped, trying to wiggle away from the knife, but I had him pinned.

“Tell me why Gambini wants us dead.”

“He doesn’t,” Baxter gasped, and I decreased the pressure on his neck by a fraction.

“Not Gambini,” he choked out, blood dribbling all the way down to his jaw. “Roscano.”

I rolled my eyes. Baxter would say anything to save his own skin. “Bullshit.”

“It’s true. Roscano was pissed that you thought you could rob the bank without asking him first. So he hired me and told me where you’d be.”

How the fuck had he known that? If this prick was telling the truth.

“You expect me to believe that our own boss tried to kill us?”

“It was meant to scare you off. Think, man. If Roscano wanted you dead, he’d have had me put that bomb in your car.”

“So why blow up the Rusty Bucket?”

Baxter shrugged. “More punishment. He knows you three like that place.”

Margo’s face flashed through my mind. “There are innocent people in there, you bastard.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you tried to screw over your own Don.”

I smashed my fist into his nose, and he screamed. “Get the fuck up.” I picked up the bomb as he rose shakily to his feet. Then I marched him to his Beamer, slamming him against the side of the car. While he tried to catch his breath, I reached in his pocket, pulling out a ring of keys. There were two fobs on there, one for the Beamer, and one for something else.

I opened the driver’s door and Baxter all but fell in. Weakly, he tried to pull the door shut behind him, but I stood in the way keeping it open.

He looked up at me. “It wasn’t personal.”

Maybe I could believe that about North Haven. But this, tonight? Planting a bomb in a bar full of hard-working men? Not to mention Margo. I saw red again and punched Baxter’s fat head, knocking him out.

I threw the bomb into his car and slammed the door. I looked around as I jogged back to my car. No one was around. No one had seen. No one was in harm’s way.

I started up my car and pulled out, making a U-turn. With one last glance in the rearview mirror, I pressed the button on the other fob on Baxter’s keychain. For the second time in a week, I felt an explosion. Heard the car alarms go off. And knew that Baxter was no more.

I tossed his keys on the seat next to me and drove away.