“Hey, you!”
The familiar voice made Gabriel stiffen, and he glanced slightly to his right with his hoodie down. His brother frowned at him, squinting from beside his red Toyota, and moved forward.
“Ric?”
No. Fuck no.Gabriel spun on his heel and moved farther into the park, away from his family, but Marco never gave up on anything. He was a bloodhound on the trail of something that smelled good, so it didn’t surprise Gabriel that Marco was hot on his heels, Gabriel’s dead name on his lips.
“Ric, stop! I know it’s you.”
Gabriel walked quicker, taking a left down a stone pathway lined with hedges. He nearly ran into a woman with a stroller, but narrowly avoided the collision. Marco nearly did the same and he stopped to apologize, which gave Gabriel time to take an exit off the path and run into an area densely filled with trees. He ducked behind one with a thick trunk, back pressed against it tightly as he glanced around the side.
Marco had walked off the path too and stopped, frowning as he searched the area. The crowd was dismal, and it was no surprise with the Texan midday heat starting to get too hot for them. Even so, Marco didn’t see him from his hiding spot and finally, his brother gave up with a sigh and left the way he came.
Gabriel let out a breath of relief. That was close. Too close. He needed to leave, and now. He stared at the spot where Marco had stood, his chest aching.
Chapter Nine
Ardan stared at his phone and the message Sloan had sent him asking when he’d return. He’d already talked to his boss on the phone three times before now, and Ardan had avoided saying anything about Gabriel and was glad he had. He didn’t want to fail Sloan again, and if his boss thought he was bringing back a strong asset and he didn’t, Ardan would never live down the shame. He was known for his success, not failure.
Now he sat at a café, glaring at Gabriel’s family across the street as they packed up their picnic gear into their car. He was sure they were lovely people, not that he knew anything about family. His parents had been part of the Killough Company since he was born and the only life he knew was the mob world. When they’d died, Sloan took him in and nothing had changed for him other than the fact his parents were dead. Gabriel still had his family, but he’d chosen to stay away from them, let them believe he was dead. He supposed he could understand why.
He glared into his juice and stood, throwing some cash on the table including extra for the tip. Straightening the jacket he grabbed from his rental car before going there, he cautiously checked that his Glock was still secured in the holster against his ribs before he walked out the front door and into the Texas heat. He hated Southern weather more than anything, and he should have packed up his bags and headed straight back to New York City. So he didn’t know why he was still here, stillcaringabout that ungrateful piece of shit.
An assassin shouldn’t care about other people, Ardan. It’s a weakness.
George couldn’t talk, though. He cared about people. He practically raised Ardan and treated him like a son.
A man brushed past Ardan and apologized with a heavy European accent. Ardan frowned at him, in his suit so similar to Ardan’s, except it appeared more expensive, the kind Sloan would wear. Dark hair, combed back off his head, and a gun secured to his hip. It wasn’t hard to determine the outline of a weapon when you knew what you were looking at.
He paused in front of a fruit vendor and even though he was pretending to care what the seller was saying, Ardan noticed his gaze flick to Gabriel’s family and their car, his eyes too interested in it to be a coincidence.
His hand twitched near his hip and Ardan tensed. Ardan moved on impulse, the urge to get this guy—whoever he was—away from Gabriel’s family. He bumped into the man hard, making him stumble backwards and crash into the stall. Fruit went flying and the seller started screaming, but Ardan didn’t give anyone time to figure out what was happening. He grabbed the man by the tie, yanking him to his feet and dragging him toward a nearby alley as fast and as effectively as he could.
The man stumbled and swung at Ardan, but Ardan ducked, kneeing the guy right in the balls and making him yell in pain. Ardan shoved him against the dirty brick wall of one of the buildings and grabbed the guy’s own Glock, pointing it at his head. The guy raised his palms, wincing at the pain in his balls.
“Don’t shoot.”
“Tell me who you are and why you’re watching the Sannas,” Ardan demanded, fury pelting him like bullets to his gut. “Tell me now, or I’ll kill you.”
The man stared at Ardan, his face angular and cheekbones high. He had a small scar just below his bottom lip and his eyes were a dark brown, almost black. “You’re Ardan Murphy,” he said quietly, his words thick with his accent. “The Irishman who works for Killough.”
“Good call. You must be part of the Society then. Assassin? Hitman?” Ardan pressed the muzzle harder against his forehead and the man winced. “What’s your name and who do you work for?”
“Alessandro Fontana. I’m doing work for the Giordano family.”
Ardan frowned. “The Giordanos? What do they want with Mancini’s family?”
“He’s not a Mancini. His real name is Riccardo Sanna. He’s an ex-CIA agent.”
“Are you here for the government, then?”
“No. He… I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. They’ll kill me.”
Ardan laughed and tapped Alessandro’s forehead with the barrel of the gun. “I’ll kill you, and I won’t make it as pleasant as they will.”
Alessandro’s eyes rose to the Glock and he let out a long breath. “Fanculo. Fine. I don’t know all the details. I just know that Mancini did work for the Giordanos, had a deal with them, and broke it.”
“What kind of deal?” Ardan asked. The more he learned about Mancini, the more he thought he shouldn’t have been surprised. They’d talked about the Giordanos in Pleasant Beach and there was no giveaway in Mancini to show he knew them well.
