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“He might as well be,” Farrell said. “And I think you know that.”
His posture in the chair was relaxed, like they were old friends, but Damian had the feeling Black could be on his feet and across the room in seconds. Damian didn’t fear him — he didn’t fear much — but that didn’t mean he was looking for a fight.
“Not my concern,” Damian said. “They have their business. I have mine.”
“How long do you think that will last?”
The question wasn’t unexpected. There had been warning signs — stolen shipments, low-level guys who’d been roughed up on the streets, attempts to expand the Fiore territory — but they’d been small so far and easy to swat away.
Still, it would have been foolish to think it would last forever.
“I don’t know,” he answered.
“Exactly.” Farrell rose to his feet and walked to the big arched window that overlooked the sweeping lawn around the property. “Can I ask you something?”
“You can always ask.”
“Why do you do it?” Farrell asked.
Damian wondered what he was looking at through the window. Night had fallen hard and fast; Farrell wouldn’t be able to see anything but darkness.
“Why do I do what?”
Farrell turned to face him, waved a hand dismissively. “This.”
“Why do you do it?” Damian asked.
“I like to hurt people who deserve it,” he said simply. “But you don’t strike me as someone who enjoys violence for the sake of violence. And you’re rich as fuck.”
“So are you.”
Farrell didn’t look surprised. “You did your homework.”
“Part of the job,” Damian said.
“So?” Farrell prompted.
Damian considered his response. He was used to being alone. To keeping his own counsel. On the rare occasions when he wanted another opinion, he consulted Cole, but never about anything personal. He didn’t talk about his parents. Didn’t talk about his mother or his childhood. He didn’t talk about the house he was restoring or the long nights when he prowled its corridors, wondering what it was all for when no one but him would ever be around to enjoy it.
But Farrell’s answer had felt sincere, and he was surprised to find that he wanted to return the favor.
“The work is honest,” Damian said.
He didn’t say the rest. That he hated the way his father had made a living, shuffling other people’s money around, taking his fees even when he cheated them out of their savings and retirement. That he hated the front his father had maintained for the rest of the world. Hated that everyone thought he was respectable and admirable when he was a cowardly wife-beater behind closed doors.
Damian was a thief and a criminal but at least he was willing to own it.
Farrell’s expression was thoughtful. “We have more in common than you might think.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m sure you know the Syndicate is being rebuilt,” Farrell said. “What you might not know is that it’s being rebuilt with a new honor code — no hurting women, no pushing to kids. Honor, respect, all that other bullshit.”
“If you think it’s bullshit, why are you doing it?” Damian asked.
“It’s just good business. We can’t move the organization into the twenty-first century with an outdated model. And I’ve never sanctioned the hurting of women and children.”
HIs tone turned hard and flat with the last sentence, and Damian had a feeling it was an understatement.
