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I grabbed Keegan’s jacket off the back of his desk chair and tossed it at him. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
A sly smile spread across his face. “You wanna go home and check out the boss’s new wife?”
“They’re not fucking married.”
“Semantics. Let me rephrase—you wanna go home and check out the boss’s new woman?”
Ignoring him, I replied, “I’d rather have a heart-to-heart with a city planner with a past-due balance.”
Keegan followed in my steps, locking his office door on the way. “You’re in a fucking mood.”
An hour later, my hands—wearing the proof of Mitchell Gosselin’s paid debt—gripped the steering wheel as I took I-93 out of Cambridge and headed toward Southie. Keegan rode shotgun, reading something on his phone.
“Liam says she’s hot,” he mused. “Says Raphael is a lucky fucker.”
Fucking Liam and his goddamn texting.
I turned up the volume on the KALEO track to drown out Keegan’s racket as well as the body tumbling around in the boot of the car. The city was now shy of one planner.
Execution wasn’t the standard penalty for defaulting on a payment, but Finn had come across some indisputable evidence that Gosselin’s perverted sexual taste in little boys had been buried by men who stood to gain from keeping the bastard’s sick secrets.
Castration and a lethal beating hardly felt like appropriate sentences for his crimes, but they would have to do.
The vehicle rolled to a stop, and I cut off the engine.
Keegan stared straight ahead at the nondescript building with tattered siding. “Dude,” he groaned when he realized where I’d taken him. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Can’t we just get rid of the stiff and call it a night? You really wanna fight, bro?”
It had nothing to do with what I wanted and everything to do with what I needed.
Raphael bringing up Jack last night had reignited the rage that had been living beneath the surface for the past decade. The closer I got to coming face-to-face with that part of my past, the more I would need to work it out of my system the only way I knew how: the Octagon.
The steel door that would lead us down a narrow staircase and into the pits of Boston’s man-made hell was guarded by a member of a local biker gang.
“Number and location,” I ordered.
Keegan mumbled something about Chipotle and a Celtics game before relenting with a sigh. “Two. Front waistband—right side—behind the cut. Left boot—outside.”
“You’re claiming he’s a southpaw?”
“Fucking right I am.”
“And what if he chooses to slit your throat with the blade he has stored up his right sleeve.”
Keegan wagged his chin with loathing. “Fucking ambidextrous asshole.”
“It’s not his asshole you need to be concerned with.”
He implored me with a bored expression. “You done, Obi-Wan? Can we just get this the fuck over with? I don’t even know what we’re doing here anyway. Liam said you were here last fucking week.”
“Sounds like our friend needs to be reminded of what happens to snitches.”
Keegan chuckled. “You really gonna give Liam stitches? If so, I wanna be there.”
“Snitches end up in ditches, young Padawan.”
His head hit the back of the seat as he laughed. “I don’t know how this new Lucifer came to be, but fuck, I think I like him even more than the original.”
My phone vibrated in my jacket pocket. I expected it to be Liam, but it was Raphael’s name flashing across the screen.
