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In the corner of the open second-floor catwalk, Marco is lying on his stomach, his McMillan TAC-338 rifle fitted with a custom suppresser in his hands, having just made the perfect shot.
The silence only lasts as long as it takes for reality to kick in. Then everyone starts talking at once. Guns are out. Men scatter around the scene, trying to figure out what just happened, and if we’re being attacked.
I ignore them all and take Dean aside. “Listen to me very carefully. I want Tremblay put on ice. I’ve made arrangements for him.”
Dean wipes the blood from his face. “What do you want done with Nick? We need to make sure everyone knows he was a traitor. Are we giving him a traitor’s death?”
I look at my uncle, disgusted by the man on the floor.
The man who helped teach me this business.
Who always preached TheFamily comes first.
“Cut off his cock and shove it in his mouth. Then make sure his body is found. I want his mother to know he was a traitor. I want his wife to know he was a traitor. I want there to be no question where his loyalties lay.”
The men stand there, staring at me.
“Make sure we leave no doubt about what we do to traitors. Now clean this shit up.”
* * *
Later, once we feel like Dean’s crew has it under control, he and I leave. I climb into the snow truck he opens, trying to figure out why the hell he’s driving this beast. “What’s up with the ride?”
“Your fuck-wit brother stole my keys yesterday. We need to get you and Bash new cars.” He starts the old-as-fuck truck and jacks the heat up. “How’d you know what was going on? When did you find out about Nick? And why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” He glances over before he starts driving us home.
“Yeah. I already ordered the car last week. I pick it up after my follow-up with the surgeon Monday.” I fucking hate having to depend on people to drive me around. “As for the rest, I had a feeling but couldn’t figure it out. Then I talked to Mike after the funeral, and he said something that clicked. I really fucking hoped he was wrong, but I knew he wasn’t.”
Maybe a plow truck isn’t the worst thing to be driving after the biggest November snowstorm Philly’s ever seen hit the city. Dean maneuvers us through the back streets to Kroydon Hills without issue. “Have you ever considered bringing Mike on in a more official role? I mean, he’s pretty fucking useful to have on the payroll.”
“No. Mike does better as a lone wolf. This way he gets to do his thing, and I can pay him well to do my thing. Works for now.” I’ve considered it before, but Mike fucking hates authority. He’d never work well as part of The Family.
Dean slams on the brakes, and we slide up to the stop sign. “So why are we keeping Canada’s body on ice? What’s your plan for that fat fuck?”
I tell him about the call I got this morning that confirmed my suspicions about Nick, then throw up a quick prayer that this ass doesn’t kill us before we get home.
“No shit? He fucking ratted us out? A traitor and a rat. Fuck.” Dean looks sick.
I nod my head and grab the oh-shit handle as we slide around a corner on what feels like two wheels. “I managed not to die today. Or last week. Can you not kill me on the ice, asshole?”
Dean’s laughter stops when we skid again. “Whatever. Man up.”
“If I’m dead, you can’t be my underboss.” I planned to move him into the position after the funeral. I just hadn’t had a chance to deal with the moves yet.
“Hey, you gotta take a guy to dinner before you ask him to marry ya, man.” This fucker.
I watch the snow-covered streets pass us by.
The pristine white of yesterday is gone.
Now it’s brown from the salt and sand the plows dropped on the roads.
Messy.
Real life.
Pristine doesn’t last. Dirty does.
“Position is yours, Dean. Don’t fuck it up.”
