Page 163 of Revere: A Legacy Novel

“Your son—he wants to run guns. He’s good at it. You keep him very busy as to distract him in his current position. I understand why. You want him to focus on being a proper underboss for the Outfit. Maybe stop doing that, and let him figure out what he can or cannot handle. You’ve got a great gunrunner right here in Chicago, and I bet he would never do to you what I have done.”

“I think this meeting is over,” Tommas said gruffly.

Fine by Cross.

“Again, thanks for seeing me,” he murmured as he stood.

Tommas scowled. “Keep in mind, Cross, I will not want to see you step foot in Chicago for a long time.”

“Understood.”

This was just how these things worked.

Unfortunately.

Cross tossed the keys to the rental car onto the coffee table, and fell to his back on the couch in one fell swoop. His small Melrose apartment was nothing particularly nice to look at. He hadn’t bothered to decorate it over the years, but it had done the job when he needed a place to crash. He used his arm to cover this eyes, and considered calling Catherine, only to close his eyes one second, and drift off to sleep the next.

He didn’t know how long he had been sleeping before his phone starting ringing. He almost ignored the damn thing, but subconsciously reached for it out of habit. Before he knew what happened, he was shoving the phone to his ear and mumbling, “Yeah, what?”

“Cross?”

Catherine’s panicked voice had him flying up into a sitting position on the couch. “Catty?”

“Something’s wrong,” Catherine whispered.

Cross was already up and grabbing his keys off the table. “What’s wrong, babe?”

“I don’t think I have a lot of time.”

“Catherine, I need you to speak to me.”

He was out of the apartment and jogging down the hallway before he even finished his sentence.

Catherine let out a shaky breath that crackled over the line. “I went into the underground parking at the penthouse when I got home, like I do, but my enforcer didn’t follow.”

“Cath—”

“Three black cars, nine men, and I don’t recognize any of them.”

What followed her statement sent Cross to his knees.

Glass shattering.

Piercing screams.

Grunts.

Catherine’s shouts echoed far louder than any of the other noise, but he still heard the threats of the men she told him about, too.

Don’t fight, and go easy, girl.

The sounds suddenly got quieter when thumps came through the phone’s speaker. Muffled, even. Then, air whistled through.

“Let Dante Marcello know he owes Rhys Crain guns. Not money, guns. We expect to have them before the week is out, or he’ll receive his daughter back in pieces.”

The phone went dead.

So did Cross’s heart.