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“I had a bad feeling about this kid, but he was buddies with my best guy. Who’d have fuckin’ thought? Just goes to show, you can’t put in a good word for anyone these days.” Leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, he flicks his ash onto the deck. “So, we got a shipment coming in. Big. Over a mil, direct from Columbia. Your guy told me they loaded it on a container two days ago.”

For the last few years, his family has relied on my father’s shipping company to bring in pallets of cocaine straight out of South America, by offloading a few miles offshore and having local fishing fleets deliver and, in some cases, distribute the drugs, while offering a modest cut for our troubles. It’s a system that has existed below the radar, fortunately, but I believe a man’s luck only lasts so long.

I turn my attention toward the kid again, who stands holding the fishing line at the railing of the pier. Arms crossed, his father stands beside him, shaking his head like the kid’s doing something wrong. “This is the last job I’m running for you, Franco. I want you to let your uncle know.”

“What?”

On a sigh, I turn to face him and take another drag of my smoke. “You’ll have to find another company to run your shipments.”

With the usual Scarpinato theatrics, he throws himself back against the seat, then leans forward again, tossing his cigarette to the ground. “Are you fucking kidding me? Do you even realize what you’re saying right now?” Holding up a finger, he shakes his head when I open my mouth to answer. “I’ll give you a minute, because I think this fucking fresh air is messing with your brain.”

“I know exactly what I’m doing. You’re to find another company.”

“That’s not the way it works, Lucian. We’ve been partners a long time. You can’t just back out.”

I stretch my arms across the top of the bench and look out at the water. “It’s a big ocean, Franco. I’d hate for a million-dollars-worth of cocaine to get lost at the bottom of the sea somewhere.”

He shoots up off the bench. “Are you fucking nuts?”

As I turn to look up at him, the sun hits my face, and I’m forced to squint. “Depends on who you ask.”

“My uncle isn’t going to let you just walk away. As someone who’s known you a long time, I’m urging you to reconsider.”

“And I’m urging you to lower your voice.”

He looks around, as if he’s suddenly aware of the man and his son standing off from us. “This is big, Lucian. Bigger than you realize. You fuck with my family’s livelihood, it’s not going to end well for you.”

“I’m not out to fuck with your family’s livelihood. It’s no longer worth it to me.”

Plopping back down on the bench, he moves in closer. Too close. Asshole is about one hard shove from my personal space. “We’ll talk about a bigger cut. Is that what you want? More money?”

“No. I told you what I want. I’ll deliver this shipment, as promised. And we’ll part ways. Amicably. Seeing as we’ve known each other a long time, that’s not too much to ask, is it?”

Groaning, he strokes his hands over his head, like he intends to rub the hair right off his skull. “Look. I can’t go back to my uncle with this. He’s going to go ape-shit, and your face will be on every hitman’s shit-list in Boston.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a fact.”

I slide my arms down from the bench and rest them on my thighs as I lean in closer. “Well, since we’re sharing facts, let me offer one, as well. I have more money than the entire New England Mafia combined. Certainly more than your scrappy ass. If you even think of retaliating against me, know that I will seek out the most skilled hitmen in the world to hunt down every one of your family members, and your henchmen, and have your heads mounted on stakes as a lesson for why you should never fucking cross a Blackthorne again.”

Shaking his head, he backs away, eyes wide with what I surmise as disbelief and perhaps a small bit of fear. “You really are the Mad Son, you know that? You’re fucking crazy.”

“As I said before, Franco. Depends on who you ask.”

* * *

Rand stares out the window, as Makaio drives along I-93, heading back toward the Manor. He hasn’t said a word since we left Boston. Not that he would. If anyone knows how crazy I am, it’s him.

“You believe it was foolish of me to cut ties.”

Clearing his throat, he drags his attention from the window, but doesn’t bother to meet my gaze. “Reckless perhaps, but not foolish.”

“If I’m to run this company, this mess my father left me, the days of financing criminals are over.”

“I understand. I just wish … you would have consulted me. I feel useless in these matters, Lucian.” The gulp of his throat betrays his boldness.

I respect his honesty, though.