CHAPTER 1
In that book which is my memory,
on the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you, appear the words,
"Here begins a new life.”
- Dante, La Vita Nuova
NERO
Three days after we leave the bodies in New York, Sandro and I cross the border into Missouri.
“You been to the Ozarks before?” the kid asks, his hands relaxed on the wheel and his voice chipper enough to make me think he’s forgotten how we ended up here. “I’ve heard it’s beautiful.”
Outside the car window is a sea of green. July in southern Missouri looks like nature threw up all over the winding roads, the canopy lush and overflowing. Every now and then, the midday sun reflects off a river hidden somewhere in the valleys. When I roll down the window, I can hear it gurgling.
“I’m more of a big-city guy.” I prop my elbow on the window ledge and drag my closed fist over my lips.
Places like this are too quiet. They make my thoughts too loud.
I’ve always been a gangster. My stepdad was a gangster. My mom came from a long line of gangsters. If there’s a gene for crime, there’s no doubt I’ve got it.
Imagine a truck stopped on the side of the road with a flat tire, the driver trying to get enough signal to call Triple-A.
You see a man in need.
I see an opportunity.
I see crates of merchandise inside the aluminum body. I see the empty stretch of road where other drivers know better than to stop after dark. I see the bags under the driver’s eyes and know he won’t put up a fight.
Depending on what’s inside the truck, there’s anywhere from ten to fifty grand to be made in fifteen minutes. All I’ve got to do is load up whatever I can into my own vehicle, destroy the driver’s phone so that he can’t call the cops, and drive the merchandise over to one of our warehouses.
Show me another job where you can make that kind of dough that quickly.
Now imagine you do this for a few years, and you have ten or twenty guys doing it on your behalf and giving you seventy percent of what they get just because you’ve worked your way up the food chain.
It’s beautiful. There’s nothing else like it.
I’ve alwayslovedbeing a gangster.
But as of three days ago, I can’t be one anymore.
I reach inside my jacket pocket and take out the ID again. Staring at my fake name is a new habit. Reading it over and over. Hoping that it’ll feel real any minute now.
“My name is Rowan Miller,” I say under my breath.
Sandro glances over. “Trying it on?”
“Something like that.” I tilt the plastic card against the light, watching the laser engraving shimmer. If only the ID came with instructions…
Who the fuck is Rowan Miller?
I’ve been Nero for thirty years, but now I’mhim.
“It’s better than Sam fucking Wilkins.” Sandro huffs. “Sounds like the name of a kid who got his head shoved in the toilet in grade school. Just my luck.”
I give him a look. If I were him, and I had to pick one thing to complain about, it wouldn’t be my new name. I don’t get him. Rafe told him he had to leave with me, and he just went with it, as if he’s happy to play babysitter.
