Page 117 of Give Me What You Will

“We tried,” the little one said. “He never did like what we had to offer… But Lou never stopped inviting him, though,” the taller man said to his partner. “Never could tempt the faggot.”

Sam gripped the Jameson bottle. No one insulted Papi unless they were losers like Lou. Men who only understood the world in two ways: black and white. And he had no intention of educating these assholes on what a real man was, so he merely looked bored, if not mildly irritated at them.

“Lou hated the fuck,” the shorter one continued to mouth off. “Jealous, probably. Papi was a looker.”

The short one snorted a laugh, while the other one whistled.

“I think it’s time for you to leave,” Sam retorted coldly.

“Aw, c’mon, it’s a joke, relax.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“Yeah, neither are we.”

The tall one touched the waistband of his pants, moving something from around his back, and intentionally flashed it at Sam. The gunmetal color caught his eye under the dim lighting of the bar, and he saw the protruding handle of a gun.

He paused, wondering if this was a stickup. But if it was, they wouldn’t have been talking to him like this, telling him about the people they knew. His chest tightened, and he swallowed hard, staying calm. He spent nearly a decade in the ED seeing crazier shit than this.

“Look, Sammy,” the shorter one stepped forward, looking smug. “We’re here for Frankie. So, mind tellin’ us where he is?”

“He’s at the hospital with Lou.”

“Hospital?”

“He fell earlier this evening.”

“Well, shit, ain’t that bad luck,” he said without an ounce of remorse. “When will he be back?”

“Couple hours maybe.”

“Might as well pour us a drink then, sweetheart. Cause we ain’t leaving until Frankie shows that pretty little mug of his.”

Sam reluctantly pulled two glasses out from beneath the bar as the two men took seats in front of him. He wanted to warn Frankie—warn him that these men were here looking for him. Anyone willing to flash a gun at a complete stranger and demand compliance was clearly dangerous.

He handed the men the drinks, saw the outlines of their hand tattoos, and stilled.

They were Zakone.

Frankie had told him he paid off the debt to Kozlov.

So why were they here?

His heart ticked a little too quickly in his chest, a tightness beginning to build, but he forced himself not to react. He would not have a panic attack now. He touched the silver bracelet once more on his wrist, breathing deeply through his nose and thinking of Frankie’s steady gaze and touch. Sam had been in far worse situations. He could handle this.

“What do you want from Frankie?” Sam heard himself ask, trying to distract himself.

“You’re standin’ in it,” the taller one said, his dark eyes staring intently into him.

They wanted the bar?

But Frankie just sold it to Joel.

“Prime real estate for our… purposes.”

Sam had heard rumors about ‘drop bars’ for the mob; places where people came in and out without drawing attention to themselves and exchanged bags of money with unscrupulous people, aka the mob. Lou always sneered in disgust whenever he heard about a new drop bar, and Sam had worked plenty of years here to know that it wasn’t one. Lou would never have allowed it. And neither would Frankie.

“And we like Frankie,” the taller man said. “Good kid, smart. Pays on time, usually always here, and was a fighter in another life. So, if we have any—say—issues, we know he could handle himself.”