PROLOGUE
Fiero
I wasin ninth grade when I thought I’d found the most beautiful thing in the world.
I was in tenth grade when I discovered people like me don’t get to have beautiful things.
“We know who he is,” Alessio says.
I don't look up from my phone.
“Some lowlife crook called McAllister.”
Fifteen years on, the casual mention of that name still makes me want to burn down the whole of Atlantic City.
I don’t hear anything else because my pulse is thundering loudly through my ears.
I glance up, my gaze traveling across the table to my brother, Remo. He’s drumming his fingers on the table, one ear trained on a conversation about shipments stuck at borders and petty criminals who’ve dared to steal from my late father’s tacky casino, and both eyes trained on me.
The name settles deep in my bones, awakening memories Iburied a long time ago. Memories I’ve spentyearstrying to forget.
But that’s the shitty thing about memories. The ones you want to hold onto fade away like blood washed down a drain. Whereas those you wish would disappear hang around like a fart in a car.
My jaw tightens slowly, the muscle ticking once as I roll the name over in my head.McAllister.
Of all the names in this city… it had to be that one.
It shouldn’t mean anything, really. It’s common enough. There are thousands of McAllisters scattered across New York, living quiet, irrelevant lives that have nothing to do with me.
But the name McAllister has forever left a stain on my history, and Idetestthat. Hearing it now drags me back to a version of myself I erased a long time ago—one I made damn sure no one would ever see again.
I’ve spent fifteen years rebuilding myself into something that couldn’t be broken again.
And yet, all it takes is that name…
And for a second, I remember exactly what it felt like to be small.
“We’ve managed to dig up some notes on this guy,” Alessio continues, oblivious to the plummet in room temperature. “Simple low-life crook, in and out of correction facilities. He’s already gambled the money, has fuck-all to his name. No job, no gigs, just siphoning off his older brother.”
“So blow off his kneecaps and get the money from his brother.” My tone is still calm but it’s taking all of my strength to keep it that way.
Alessio and Vito exchange a worried look. “I doubt that will turn anything up,” Vito says. “The brother works at the hardware store on Cherry Street—part time. We had him followed. Unless he’s got some bills stashed in the walls, he won’t have anywhere near what we’re owed.”
Alessio rubs his chin with bony fingers. “What about the piece of ass the brother was hanging out with?”
Vito frowns. “Who, the redhead?”
Remo’s gaze hasn’t wavered from me and I can feel his fingers still drumming on the table as if they’re pounding against my skull.
“She wasn’t a redhead. She was blond.”
“Reddish blonde.”
Alessio tuts. “Red, blue, whatever. Maybe she has money.”
I forcibly scroll through my messages. These issues are below my pay grade and the mention of a McAllister has eaten into my patience. I’m about to order everyone out of the room so I can smash a table in peace when another name hits me in the chest like a bullet.
“She’s the niece of the prick who owes us. Pfeiffer McAllister. Fresh back from Boston. Returned home to live with her father apparently. She doesn’t look like money though.”
