AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He hesitates. I watch him purse his lips and crack his neck twice before he finally responds. “I am an assassin by trade.”
“How many people have you killed?”
Again, he pauses. “A few.”
I suppose this news should scare me, but right now, the only emotion I can even begin to process is fury. “And how do you decide who to target?”
“Contracts, usually.”
“For money?”
“And favors.”
“From other people?”
“Always.”
“Including Douglas Jones?”
His mouth snaps shut.
“Arnie. Tell me my brother didn’t contract you to murder Douglas Jones,” I ask him simply.
We drive in heavy silence for what feels like an eternity.
“I can’t do that,” Arnie finally admits.
I digest this quietly. “Because he did contract you to murder Douglas Jones.”
“No,” he says more firmly. “Because I am doing what you asked, I am taking you to your brother. But I will not betray him by revealing sensitive information like that. If you have an issue with Connor, you can take it up with him.”
“Fine.”
“Fine!”
We drive in silence for the rest of the journey.
Finally, we pull into the familiar Harlem neighborhood and I half expect us to park outside the old Maguire Mansion. Only when we pass it, I barely get a glimpse of the worn-down building through the weeds that seem to have taken over the plot.
“Where are we going?” I ask as the mansion disappears in the rearview.
But Arnie doesn’t respond. His knuckles are still white on the steering wheel.
It’s not until a few minutes later that we pull into what seems like an abandoned industrial unit. Several warehouses and old pieces of machinery litter the area; rusted metal and the tang of old fish fill my nose.
But we keep driving, as inconspicuous as a black Lamborghini can be, to the back of the lot. My heart begins to pound with a mix of dread and anticipation as we slow in front of a large warehouse door.
It slides open for us automatically, immediately shedding bright light into the dark evening, almost blinding me.
But when my eyes finally adjust, my heart sinks.
The box in my head crumbles as the last sliver of hope that my family wasn’t involved in organized crime turns to ash.
A profound sense of foreboding washes over me as we drive through the threshold.
The building, which must have been some kind of storage warehouse for dockworkers, had undergone a transformation that was nothing short of astonishing. This must once have been a modest and rustic structure, designed to house the bounties of the sea. But now it had been repurposed into something altogether different - a vodka distillery and the sprawling abode of the Maguire family’s seemingly extensive network of loyal grunts.
The men and women who watch the car carefully as it enters appear somewhat wary. They’re a diverse assembly, a reflection of the criminal world’s underbelly. Some wear their scars like badges of honor, while others look green and not much older than me.
