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Then there was another time in Costa Rica. I was fifteen. A whore my father was bedding at the time tried to take a knife to his chest while he slept. Ernie disturbed her. Turns out she was planted by the KGB. I never asked what happened to the whore.
Not my business.
“Here.” Ernie hands me the envelope. “Your father wanted me to give you this.”
I accept it slowly, like it could be a bomb in disguise. “What is it?”
“His last will and testament.” Ernie smirks. “He really was a sick fuck.” He winks and passes me, heading for my father’s room. “It details his wishes for his funeral too. There might be a problem, though.”
I look up from the envelope to Ernie. “Why?”
“Well, he insisted on having his send-off in the cathedral, so you may not be able to attend. It’s not in good taste to take out an enemy while they’re saying their vows, Danny.”
I laugh under my breath, remembering the blood bath at the altar just a few months ago. No, it’s not in good taste, but it’s also not in good taste to groom little girls, and that Irish fucker who was saying his vows in the house of God had a certain fondness for little girls. Fucking animal.
Ernie disappears into my father’s suite, and I make my way to the office, opening the envelope as I go. I skim it, jumping over the parts that are likely to dent my emotions, noting my father wants a funeral with all the trimmings. He even details the hymns that he wants sung. I shake my head when I read the list. I Watch the Sunrise is at the top. It’s for me. For you are always with me, following my ways.
“I will, Dad,” I say as I open the door to his office and take in the over-the-top space. For six months now I’ve been running the show, yet I’ve never been able to bring myself to sit at his desk. It felt too final. Now, he’s gone. I look down at my little finger, seeing the eyes of the snake are bright again. Alive. Like he could be watching me. Monitoring me. Making sure I do things right by him. Making sure I follow his ways.
He has nothing to worry about. I have the instinct, and he saw it in me from day one.
“Danny?”
I turn and find Brad at the door, and his face twists when he registers my expression. “Five minutes ago,” I confirm, as his gaze falls to the ring on my little finger. I spin it around, finding comfort in the motion, of the feel of it heating my skin with the friction.
“I’m so sorry, Danny.”
I nod and force myself to the other side of my father’s desk, pulling out his chair. His throne. The second my arse hits the plush leather, I feel at ease. Like he’s surrounding me. Hugging me. “Get them in,” I order, and Brad nods, going to fetch the men. I haven’t got time to mourn. The moment the world heard my father had been taken to his bed six months ago, the shit started to fly, the fuckers mistakenly thinking that with me fronting the organization and maybe distracted by my dying father, holes might appear in our armor. Wrong. More people have died by my hands in the last six months than in the last six years. I take no prisoners.
Brad heads out, and I pull the top drawer of my father’s desk open, smiling at the solid gold letter opener lying at an angle on top of his printed stationery. It still kills me. The most feared man in the underworld has pretty gold stationery to send his death threats on. I place the envelope containing his will in the drawer and slide the ring off my finger, setting it on top. Then I collect the letter opener, running the tip of my index finger along the blade until it reaches the pointy top. I spin it until the pressure pierces the pad of my finger, drawing a drop of blood, and I tilt my head, studying it as it swells.
When I hear a knock on the door, I look up as I suck the bead of blood off my finger. Brad leads in ten of my father’s men.
No. My men.
Every single one of them observes my position at my father’s desk and bows their head in respect. “Perry Adams.” I get straight to business. “Where the fuck is he?”
“Ringo left an hour ago to give him a wake-up call,” Brad answers. “They should be here any minute.”
Of all the men Brad could send, he sends Ringo. Good. I’m not fucking about. “He’ll think he’s having a nightmare waking up to Ringo’s unpleasant mug in bed with him.” Ringo is one of my finest men. He’s also the ugliest. Pitted skin, thin, menacing lips that I’m pretty sure have never smiled, and a nose nearly as big as his bald head. He could make a grown man cry, and I expect Perry Adams is blubbering right about now. With a gun wedged in his temple.
