Eddie’s pacing now, his hands balled into fists at his sides. “This isn’t good enough, Uncle Ronan. The Langstons are playing us for fools. It’s time we make it clear we won’t be double-crossed. What if they’ve been working with the Albanians all along? What if this whole arranged marriage is a sham? A fucking setup from the start?”
He’s only echoing possible scenarios I’ve considered. In light of what Killian found out about the promenade assassin, it’s entirely possible the Langstons have been playing us for fools.
A black Escalade pulls through the garage doors and rolls to a stop. The driver’s door swings open, and Killian steps out covered in blood.
Though it’s a regular occurrence for the boneman, this time is different—the bruises on his knuckles signify the escalation in this conflict between our clan and the people out to fuck with us.
He cracks a grin at us that’s both dark and cheerful and speaks for itself. Cian and Teagan climb out of the back, dragging a body between them.
Bobby Miller.
…or what’s left of him.
The guy looks like a squashed piece of fruit. His face is so swollen I can barely make out his features, his eyes nearly puffed shut, blood crusted around his nose and mouth. One of his legs drags uselessly behind him, his kneecap shattered.
“Went fishing,” Killian announces. “Got ourselves a catch to filet.”
“Looks like you’ve already had a sample,” Sean jokes darkly.
“Sure did. Wouldn’t be me if I didn’t get some hits in first. But promised our friend here some more fun at the warehouse,” Killian says, jerking his head at the half conscious Bobby. “He’s been refusing to talk.”
I step toward Bobby, grabbing him by the face and wrenching his head up. His swollen eyes are glassy and unfocused. Once it registers who’s holding him, fear flickers in his gaze.
“Who do you really work for?” I bark. “Who put you up to the stunt on the promenade? You talk or you suffer the consequences.”
Bobby’s jaw clenches, his busted lips pressing together in a swollen, stubborn line.
Wrong answer.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my switchblade, flicking it open. The blade gleams in the warehouse’s overhead lighting.
“Cian. Teagan. Hold him.”
They wrench his arms behind his back, forcing him to his knees. I stand over him, knotting a fist in his hair and wrenching his head back.
“Last chance,” I say smoothly. “You tell me what I want to know, or I’m cutting out your fucking tongue since you refuse to use it.”
Bobby cracks in a feeble cry. “Okay! Okay! It’s true I work at LDS, alright? But that’s not who put me up to it. It wasn’t Mr. Langston. The hit was… it was a side gig. Just some low-level street work I picked up. I’m not even sure who hired me.”
“Bullshit.”
“I swear! Some guy approached me at a bar in Bay Bridge. Said he’d heard I do good work. That I served in the military and… and I’m a marksman,” he rambles, husking out deep, panicked breaths. “He transferred fifteen grand to my account anonymously. That’s it. That’s all I know. I swear to God. The number’s in my phone. Saved under Joe Schmo, which is what he told me to call him. Check it. Please.”
I stare at him for a long moment, watching him tremble.
“Sean, search him. Get his phone.”
Sean digs through Bobby’s pockets and pulls out a cracked smartphone, scrolling through until he finds the contact. He holds it up for me to see.
Joe Schmo.
Just like he said.
But I’m not so convinced the Langstons don’t have anything to do with it. Something in the milk still ain’t clean.
My phone rings, interrupting what’s about to be a gory interrogation. I signal to the others to hold on as I check the Caller ID and see Malcolm’s finally decided to return my call.
“Malcolm, just who I was hoping to hear from. So nice of you to finally return my call.”