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ANDERSON
I had vowed to do anything for June, and I meant it. But I didn’t want to ride with Moss to northern New Jersey.
Moss is a big guy who works for the firm. I never thought to ask what he does—he works with Dad, almost in an assistant capacity. He shows up to the office sporadically, and when he leaves, Dad is almost always more relaxed. When I first noticed the pattern, I briefly joked to myself that they were having an affair. Now, I know better.
Moss is Dad’s muscle.
“Security guard,” Dad had said at Sophie’s. But we both knew what he meant by that. Moss beats people up for Dad. Something I find repellant. Businesses should not require violence. But I had agreed to this, promising I’d see it done.
I really wish they were having an affair. It would be far less dangerous to everyone.
Moss’ car is a black lowrider Escalade. Not exactly the slyest of cars. Seems like a bad fit for the job to me, but what did I know about it? Last I’d seen, Moss drove a BMW, so it’s odd he’d pick this thing for a mission. But again, this is not my area of expertise. If I planned to rough someone up—or is it a shake-down?—I would drive something like a white Civic or another plain, invisible commuter car. Something unremarkable seems best for hiding. But he’s the expert, I guess.
Moss is huge, too. There is nothing subtle about him. Bald. Six and a half feet tall and probably half as wide, all muscle. White with the ends of tattoos creeping up from his shirt collar when he’s in a suit. It’s strange seeing him in a suit, like seeing a bear in a cage. His suits are tailored and expensive, so they fit, but they don’t fit him. The civilized world is not his natural habitat.
Today, his tattoos are better hidden by a black turtleneck sweater and a black leather coat. It’s frigid out, and evidently, even bad asses don’t like the cold. But his clothes fit him. He’s in his element, driving on his way to beat someone up, and that makes me want to jump out of the car to get away from him.
Moss has an air of danger about him. Always has. Even when I met the man, smiling and suited, I knew he was off kilter somehow. Meat hooks for hands, I remember shaking his hand and thinking I never wanted him near me again. But I meet a lot of people I don’t like. That’s just business.
Now, I get to find out exactly what kind of business I am actually in.
“I understand you’re doing this for your girl,” Moss says. His accent is a little different than I remember. His voice is still sandpaper in a garbage disposal, but there’s a hint of something else to it. Still rough, but not Bostonian.
Also, why the fuck does he know that? “Dad read you in?”
“I know all the family secrets, Anderson.”
“That makes one of us,” I mumble angrily.
“Don’t worry. It’s safe with me.”
Every other time I’ve been around Moss, it was either the day I met him or at big functions, where I did my best to avoid being in his presence. I wasn’t afraid of the man—I just didn’t like him. Sitting in his lowrider, I realize why. The flicker of pure rage my father displayed at Sophie’s today is a constant presence in Moss’ blue eyes. Icy, like a wolf.
Today just keeps getting better.
“It is not so bad, is it? Taking a ride to Jersey, seeing the sights.”
“The sights? Highway is a sight to you?”
“Could be worse.”
“How’s that?”
“I could be taking you out here to dump your body.”
Everything in me stiffens as I furtively look at him.
A harsh laugh bursts out of him as he cracks up at his own joke. “I kid, I kid.”
I try to laugh, too, but I am out of humor. And patience. I just want this over so I can pay June and get this thing between us to be done. We can move on after this. Hell, maybe I can leave the firm behind and keep Dad out of my life. With June at my side, I can do anything.
Moss pulls me from my fantasy that will never happen. “Everyone sees me as the bad guy, but I am only your father’s errand man. I do not make the calls. He does. I carry them out. It is only business. You must remember this.” The longer he speaks, the more I hear the accent. Italian, by way of Italy, not New York City. I’m used to hearing the city’s Italian accent around Boston—plenty of New Yorkers come to town for various reasons. But true Italian is not as common.
“Where are you from, Moss?”
He smiles slyly, eyes on the road. “Here and there.”
“Sure. Why must I remember it’s only business?”
