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“Oh,” I said, knocking my head sideways like I was trying to get water from my ear. But the ringing just kept on going.
Vince strode out from behind his father’s desk. We were sequestered in his father’s study, beneath the high ceilings, with the leather-bound books, the oversized desk, the trappings of wealth and power. Everything about the room screamed aristocracy and money beyond my wildest dreams, but all I could do was take off the bottle cap, screw it back on, and stare at the damp dark ring in the green card table felt.
He knelt down next to me and tilted my chin up. His eyes met mine, and I expected to see rage. He’d been so angry since we got to his father’s house and began making calls. He’d yelled and smashed a chair, the wreckage of it still lying on the floor next to the windows, the wood twisted and snapped like the wood that burst from his house just a couple hours earlier.
Instead of anger in his expression, I saw only concern.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
He opened his mouth and shut it again. He pulled me against him, kissed my head, kissed my cheek. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I never expected them to do something like that.”
“But you did,” I said. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
He paused and clenched his jaw. “Not like that.”
“Maybe not exactly like that, but you’ll get what you wanted now,” I said.
He took a deep breath and moved away from me. He stood, paced toward the broken chair, kicked it.
“You’re right,” he said. “I wanted something like this. I wanted them to prove that they can’t be trusted, and they came through for me.”
“What’s going to happen now?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I called everyone, they all know what happened, but I don’t know what we’re going to do about it.”
“They can’t just let this go, can they?” I asked.
“Of course not,” he said. “Even if they all want to, the fucking cowards. They blew up my house, maybe burned down a whole city block. We can’t let this go.”
I nodded slowly, took off the bottle cap, put it back on. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“You don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to,” he said.
“I think I do,” I said. “That man saw me, saw my face. He knows me.”
Vince shook his head. “There are places we can send you outside of the city, outside of the state. I could send you up north to my people in New York, you’d be safe there. The Jalisco have no strength in New York.”
“I want to stay,” I said. “This is my home.”
“It’s dangerous now,” he said. “It’s going to be a war zone.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
He looked at me for a long moment, standing next to the shattered wooden chair, its green leather back lying in tatters a few feet away.
“Explain how that would work,” he said.
“You need to hit them hard,” I said. “You need to do something that’ll make sure they can’t hit back.”
“This isn’t the movies,” he said. “That’s not such a simple thing.”
“But why not?” I asked, shifted in my seat, took off the top and screwed it back on. “You know where they stay, don’t you?”
“I think so,” he said, nodding slowly, his face hard. “But that doesn’t mean much. After blowing up a house, they’re probably in hiding, or at the very least they’re ready for reprisals.”
“Hit them hard and fast,” I said. “Go in with everyone you have, everyone in your group and everyone with the Russians. Bring whoever else you can find, all the little gangs and stuff. Hit them with overwhelming force.”
He barked a laugh. “Shock and awe.”
“Right, shock and awe. Roll over them before they know what’s happening.”
He grinned at me, a surprised smile that seemed to make the room feel a little bit lighter.
“Since when did you become such a war hawk?” he asked.
“Since I learned that it’s necessary,” I said, working my jaw, unscrewing the top, screwing it back on. “They blew up a house, almost killed us. If I hadn’t been—”
The door to the office flung open before I could finish that sentence. Don Leone strode in, his fake shuffling limp all but forgotten, followed by a man I didn’t recognize. I looked over at Vince, and he stood up straighter, surprise clear in his expression.
“Vince,” Don Leone said. “Thank you for waiting.”
“What’s he doing here?” Vince asked.
The man was older, wrinkled, and very thin. He had a square chin and a trim gray beard. His plaid sweater hung a size too big over baggy denim and old brown work boots with deep grooves worn into the leather.
“Is that how you greet a power man, Vincent?” the man said with a heavy Russian accent.
