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But Angelo deserves it. He’s a good man and a good soldier, and I should’ve made him a full capo a long time ago.
I pour myself a glass of whiskey back in my office and sit down in front of the fire. My fingers leave bloody, brown marks on the glass. I sit there with my shirt undone, my sleeves pushed up, blood staining my chest, blood staining my hands. It drips onto the floor. I don’t fucking care. I’m so tired I could sleep right here, but there’s more work to do. Even in death, Christopher is a pain in my ass.
There’s a knock and the door opens. Gareth pauses on the threshold, staring at me. “Done?” he asks.
“Done.”
He comes inside, pours himself a drink, and sits down in the chair beside mine with a sigh. He’s in a crisp suit, hair perfectly styled, his blue eyes reflecting back the flicker of the firelight.
“I’d ask if you’re okay, but I don’t think you’d tell me either way,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to give me details of what you did down there, but—” He glances at me with a frown. “As your lawyer, I suggest you take a shower.”
“I will. Later.”
“Right, later, after the blood starts to stink. You know it smells awful, don’t you? Like a slaughterhouse. My grandfather worked at an abattoir when I was a boy and he’d leave his boots in the garage. He never cleaned the damn things and they’d reek, absolutely reek of dead cow blood. Rotting, coppery, and ugly. I hated his garage.” He makes a face and sips his drink. “I suppose you’re used to it.”
“You are too. Quit playing the fancy lawyer, Gareth.” I roll my gaze to him. “We both know what you are.”
His smile is tight and he holds up his glass. “To the Scavo Famiglia. Or what’s left of it.” And he drinks.
I drink mine and savor the whiskey bite. Christopher’s last words haunt me. I wish I could shove them away but there are too many memories of that man rolling through my mind and a strange sort of mourning comes over me. I hate that he made me kill him and hate him even more for trying to kill me, and all for some bullshit attempt at saving the Famiglia from the future. He was too set in his ways to understand that I’m trying to build something legitimate for everyone, something that we can prosper under and grow with instead of always hiding out from the light like rats.
It doesn’t matter now. He’s gone and I’m still here, trying to figure out how to move forward.
“You haven’t talked about it, you know,” Gareth says, not looking at me. “You can if you want. Client-lawyer confidentiality and all that.”
“Talk about what?”
He gives me a look like I know what he means.
And I do. I just don’t want to bring it up.
“You cared about her,” he says. “It’s okay, you know.”
“I didn’t fucking care.”
“Yes, you did, and stop pretending like you have nothing inside of that stupid skull of yours. We both know you’re much more than an empty little mafia kingpin.”
“I am what I am, Gareth. Stop trying to psychoanalyze me.”
“I haven’t even begun my analysis. Would you like to lie on my couch first?”
“No thanks. Sounds like a bad pickup line.”
“I bet it works though.”
“Only for Austrians with cocaine habits.” I rub my temples and glance at him. “I don’t want to talk about Brice.” I take another sip. More blood drips onto the floor. “Let it go. I sold the house in Texas already.”
“That was fast.”
“It helps that I gave it away it for half its worth.”
He’s quiet for a minute. Then says, “I think you should find a way to fix things with her.”
“What part ofI don’t want to talk about itaren’t you fucking getting?” I explode at him a little too aggressively, but Gareth doesn’t seem moved. He only quirks a smile and swirls his whiskey. He’s used to my temper by now and knows I’d never cross the line, not unless he invited it like we used to back in the old days. Two shirtless men, bare-fisted, sweating, hurting each other for sport and pleasure—that was how we used to settle arguments. We’re not so young and stupid these days.
