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The kid clamps his mouth shut. He’s either angry at me for calling him out on his shit, or he’s feeling ashamed for working with the Bianchi mob. I don’t give a fuck as long as he answers my questions.
“How the hell did you stop yourself from beating the shit out of him?” Punk asks me.
I nod at Josephine. “She wouldn’t let me.”
Punk rolls his eyes, but I can tell he gets it. “Want me to take her inside?”
Josephine huffs, annoyed. “I’m right here,Junior. I can decide for myself.”
“Why you go and use my old name, sis? I meant no offense. I only meant that I’m not sure you want to be around for the ugly parts,” Punk explains.
Josephine’s brows pull together. “Ugly parts?”
Brass beats his palm with his fist to get the point across. Josephine’s eyes go wide.
“You can stay if you want, Josephine. It might keep me from flying off the handle.” I crouch in front of the guy in the chair, making sure his eyes are on mine. “Besides, our pervy friend here is going to tell us everything we want to know. What’s your name, kid?”
The guy blinks and looks uneasy. “Um, my name is Thomas. Thomas Guthrie.”
I snort but quickly check myself. “Seriously?”
The guy frowns, confused why I find his name humorous. “Yeah.”
I look at my brothers. Punk is biting his bottom lip hard. Chase and Brass are looking at the ceiling, smiling. Gauge is shaking his head, unable to make eye contact with the kid or me. And Reaper is turning red from holding the air in his lungs, like he may pop a blood vessel. All of them are trying to keep their shit together.
We’re professionals. We’re able to control ourselves.
Yeah, totally professional.
Suddenly, Reaper bursts like a balloon. “Bahaha!Peeping Tom.”
And like that, my men and I are reduced to immature children, doubling over with side stitches.
“Bet his parents didn’t anticipate he’d live up to his name,” Gauge chuckles.
Tom looks offended, but what can he say—his name is fitting.
After the humorous tremors have subsided, I get down to business. “How old are you, Tom?”
The peeper looks at the ground. “Nineteen.”
Ah, shit. He really is a kid.
I look at my brothers, and each one of them shakes their heads. It was beyond wrong for Paolo to drag this barely legal man-child into this mess. I almost feel bad for hauling off on the kid—almost.
I lean in closer, giving Tom no choice but to make eye contact with me. “Okay, Tom. I’m sorry you got the short end of the stick and were dragged into this shit-storm, but you play with the cards you’re dealt, ya feel me?”
Tom nods, and I continue. “I want to know how you contact Pretty Paolo when you have something to report.”
Tom’s swallow is audible. “I have no way of contacting him. He shows up whenever he feels like it. Sometimes he comes to my computer classes on campus. Other times he appears at my apartment. He used to show up at the Italian restaurant where I use to work, but I quit there when I got a tech job at the campus computer labs. Now he shows up there sometimes.
“It’s usually once a week, and the conversation only lasts as long as it takes me to get the story out. If he feels my recount is short on detail, he may press me for more information, but otherwise, he doesn’t say anything. Cash will magically appear under my doorjamb or in my mail.”
Fuck!I run my hands down my face before looking over at Chase. Chase rolls his eyes before addressing me. “Who would have guessed Pretty Paolo was this smart?”
“No shit,” I agree. I wanted physical evidence to link Paolo to Tom. Phone calls, texts, emails, bank deposits—anything but face-to-face conversations and cash transactions.
We work hand-in-hand with local law enforcement to help our community. Detective Luke Quire is a good friend of ours, and for years he’s been trying to rid the city of the Bianchi mob. Together we have been building a case against the Bianchi Empire and feeding the FBI intel.
