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I stood from the crouched position I'd taken to talk to him as I walked over to the first attacker. Time to get to work.
CHAPTER SIX
PREACHER
I'm so fucking tired.
My body is exhausted, but my mind is wide awake. I've spent a stupid amount of time trying to find out what Tank knows about Dante being back in the city. If there's a trace of him around, then I should have been able to sniff it out.
But there's nothing. It's all the same bullshit between different crime organizations and the local justice departments. There's even a few of the federal level guys trolling around, but nothing to indicate Dante is here.
What I did find interesting, however, was the appearance of a new player on the scene. Someone who is going by The Monster left a few bodies in his wake already. They were all pieces of shit human beings, so no one truly cares. Still, I'm fascinated by him in a way I don't normally feel towards others. Not since...
And my thoughts were back on Dante.
Dante, my friend. Dante, my lover. Dante, the ghost that haunts me.
I've never been so worried and so angry as I have been since Tank dropped that bomb on me. While I wanted to demand we have dinner the next night, Tank was too busy with multiple projects going on to deal with me. Ever since he took on the Club Deny work, things have been busy for him. He's had more than one massive project take up his time and though he should have been able to squeeze me in, he told me his schedule was full for two solid weeks.
Two weeks of knowing my boy was in the city, and I couldn't get to him.
Two weeks of wondering if he'd moved on.
Two weeks of planning how I'd take him back; this time forever.
"You better not be calling to cancel on me, Tank," I growled into the phone as I answered. My eyes were barely open, yet I wasn't going to miss a moment of searching for Dante. I'd pass out when my body gave up and not a second before.
He laughed. "I'm not canceling. Just letting you know it will likely only be Memphis and I at the dinner. The others are ... busy with something."
"Something that has to do with what I asked of you?"
"Not technically. There's some overlap, but overall, no. We are keeping tabs on him, though. If he tries to leave, we'll stop him. I give you my word on that Preacher." A man was only as good as his word. Thank fuck Tank was a good man all around. I trusted him to do as he said.
I sighed as I scrubbed a hand across my face. "That's good, I guess. No one tells him a thing until I get to see him first. I want all the details at dinner tonight. Everything you have so far."
"I promise to give it. But I need you to do me a favor too."
"Yes?" I perked up, my attention gained.
Tank paused for a moment before he spoke. "You need to rest, Preacher. I know you've probably been digging to find the info on himsince you got word. That's understandable. But with what we have to tell you, I need to know you won't keel over. Eat something. Take a long nap. Then meet me at The Kinderson at seven sharp. We'll be in the backroom waiting for you."
I wasn't a fan of demands. It's why I'd been the Daddy in the relationship before.
But this was different. This was something that made sense. I did need to be rested for what he said. Because if the news aligned with my plans, then I would be full steam ahead.
The time to reclaim my boy was nearing. I just didn't know how much longer I had.
"Deal. I'll see you at seven." With the agreement in place, I hung up the phone and took off for my kitchen. I'd eat. I'd sleep. Then I'd get my answers.
* * *
At six fifty,I strolled up to the hostess at The Kinderson. It was a restaurant I'd been to enough times during my stint working with the Romanos that the people there knew me by name. The hostess was about to ask for my reservation information when the owner, Langford Bilmore approached.
"Long time, no see, Preacher. Are you doing us the honor of dining here tonight?" He smirked at me in that way he knew I despised. We'd given each other shit for years, and I knew this visit would be no different.
Bilmore was born into money. Loads and loads of the stuff. If it wasn't obvious from his designer suit and perfectly pressed hair, you'd know it in the way he spoke to you. As if you were beneath him in every way. Or worse, as if he were doing you a favor.
"Meeting," I replied gruffly. "The backroom."
