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Bricker shakes his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You think we’re at point where we can joke around about that illegal radio, huh?”
“Too soon?” I give a chuckle, but it dies out when I look at the phone again. “I’ll do what I can. But it’s pretty bad.”
“I know if there’s anything to find, you’ll find it.”
Things have changed between us in the weeks since I first joined his crew. Back then, he didn’t trust me—he saw me as an outsider interfering in Family business. Now we’ve come to an understanding. We work well together, like he said.
And we work even better in bed, God help me. I should feel a lot shittier every time I think about that, but I can’t. There’s something so open about his sexuality that it makes it real hard to beat myself up over giving him what he asks for, every time he asks. And yeah, it’s not like I’m not enjoying it, either. But I like seeing Bricker Soldano come apart for me even more than I look for my own release.
When he told me that it didn’t have to mean anything… Well, I keep trying to remind myself of that, telling my feelings to take a break. If sex for Bricker is about passing the time, keeping his mind occupied, I’m happy to be of service, even if it maybe means a little more to me than it does to him.
Hell, I’m experienced enough to know how to keep my emotions in check.
I just wish I could tell him about his father.
But there’s no use dwelling on that right now; we have a job to do. I peel off my shirt and shake off the worst of the wet ashes before putting it back on. “I’ll get on it as soon as we’re back at your place. It was Delligatti out here burning all those papers on the day, right?”
I ask it casually, trying not to let any implications seep in, but Bricker just goes blank again. Hemustsee how suspicious this is, especially if what Pony said about Delligatti acting weird about a text on his phone is true.
“Let’s keep looking around,” is all he says.
We continue searching the house, but find nothing useful. It’s not until Bricker, in frustration, yanks all the cushions off the sofa and up-ends it that we discover something else—a few crumpled pages.
“What…” Bricker mutters.
He picks them up, smoothing them out to get a better look. Rook’s handwriting is unmistakable. These are the notes he must have taken, the notes he lost.
“Shit,” Bricker mutters, brow furrowing as he takes in the scribbled handwriting. “Rook’s notes—and the layout, too,” he adds, grabbing up another screwed-up wad of paper. “The layout of the bank floor. How did they end up in there?”
“Not the kind of hiding place you forget about,” I agree. “Delligatti rode Rook pretty hard about losing them. And there they were, all along.”
Bricker’s expression darkens at the second mention of his friend. I know he doesn’t want to think Delligatti had something to do with Rook’s death—or the failed heist, by implication—but he needs to consider it. So I don’t push it, but privately, I do wonder if Van Delligatti’s hands are as clean as Bricker wants to believe.
“Map of the bank floor had our positions marked out on it,” I point out, as Bricker uncrumples it as best he can. “That would’ve been gold to PacSyn.”
Bricker tucks the papers into his pocket. “Anyone could have hidden these. Maybe Rook did it himself, and maybe hedidjust forget. And anyone could’ve thrown their phone in the drum out there. Could be an innocent mistake; maybe they forgot we’re supposed to turn them in. But for now, who owned the phone, who used it—that’s the only lead we have.”
We take a moment to look around one last time. The peeling paint on the walls, the stained carpet, the broken ceiling fan that never worked…all of these things hold memories of what was once a makeshift sanctuary.
“We spent so much time here,” Bricker murmurs. “Lot of good times. Going to be strange not coming back.”
He doesn’t say it, but I know what he’s thinking. Everything’s different. Rook’s gone, the crew disbanded, and we’re hunting for a traitor.
“I need to order the cleaners in,” he goes on. “But I don’t know…doesn’t feel right, somehow, to burn it all down. This—this was ourhome.”
“It’s tough as hell. But you can’t afford to be sentimental.” I put a hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension there. “Being Capo means making the hard calls.”
Bricker scrubs a hand through his hair. “I know. I get that. But can we take a second? Just to, you know. Honor Rook? The team?”
We share a moment of silence, and I think about Rook with sorrow. He didn’t deserve what happened to him. Neither did the rest of the crew—except the one asshole who caused it. And he—or she—will get what’s coming to them.
“Rook loved this place,” Bricker says, his voice barely more than a whisper. “It’s where he felt like he belonged.”
“We’ll get justice for him.” I hesitate a moment, but in the end I say it, the Esposito oath. “Blood for blood.”
He straightens up a little. “Blood for blood,” he repeats.
Outside, Bricker pauses after we get into the car, looking back at the house. “Still feels like I’m torching the family home.”
