Devon walks in a couple of hours later and studies me where I sit, huddled on the bed.
“Nice to see you’ve calmed down,” he says dryly. I don’t respond, my eyes darting to the door behind him.
“Don’t even bother. I really don’t have it in me for another round with you,” he says, taking a seat on the chair across from the bed, rubbing his hand over his face. I notice he has his arm patched up, and it gives me a secret thrill.
“You said you’ll kill me,” I tell him, shrugging. What did he expect, that I’d just sit here and wait for whatever he has in store for me? He should have known I’d keep fighting.
“Look.” He raises his head, pinning me with his emerald stare. “This situation is what it is. You're only here because of your own stupidity. You knew better than to follow people like us to dark places and expect to walk away. But you got caught, and the reality is that you’re here and need to be dealt with. I’m the only person standing between you and instant death right now. Everyone else in this place wants you gone.”
“And what do you want?” I ask, pulling the sheets closer to my body.
He opens his mouth as if to say something, then shuts it and runs his hand through his hair. He gets up from the chair and eyes the untouched food on the floor, frowning. “Don't worry about that,” he finally says, bending down to pick it up. His shirt rides up, revealing his tanned back for just a second, and I think there’s something wrong with my brain for ogling him after everything that happened since last night. “For the time being, you need to stay here, and I’m warning you right now not to cause any trouble.”
My eyes snap to his, narrowing. He wants me to be his good little prisoner. Yeah, that'll happen.
“And if I do?” I ask.
He heaves a frustrated sigh, looking up at the ceiling.
“Then you die, Leighton,” he states. The way he says it, his tone perfectly even, as if he doesn’t care either way, has me panicking.
Although Devon and I haven’t spoken before, we have seen each other plenty of times over the years. A party here, a night out there—it was impossible to ignore him. People in these circles tend to flock together. If I said we grew up together it would technically be true, although we never socialized—at least not in the usual way.
It just feels wrong that he would want to intentionally hurt me. The way he's looking at me tells me he's serious, though. Apparently, I will get no compassion from Devon Andre.
“What are my chances of getting out of here alive?” I ask, deciding I have nothing to lose at this point.
Devon looks down at the floor for a few moments. And then he leaves without a word.
three
DEVON
I shouldn't have brought her here. The thought echoes in my mind as I sit in my uncle's office discussing this new turn of events regarding my parents. Everyone's putting their two cents in about what should come next, the excitement palpable in the room. But I'm not listening to any of it; instead, I'm wondering how I got myself into this mess.
Over the years, I’ve had many theories as to who it was that killed my family. Apart from us Andres, there are three other big families in Boston—two more Italian, and an Irish one.
We’re good with the Potenzas, but that’s a recent development. Seeing as they operate outside of the city at their headquarters in Rhode Island, I never even suspected them. Either way, they have their own worries. A couple of months ago someone set up a bomb in Anthony Potenza’s car. No one important died, only the driver, but there were rumors it was an inside job.
The Fermis are a Jewish-Italian family. Word is, they have been lying low after a bust a couple of years ago, but I still see their men doing business. Neither family had any reason to want my father dead. If anything, we co-existed peacefully in this city, our paths crossing a couple of times, but nothing mention-worthy ever happened between us.
The Moore clan, Leighton’s family, is a different story. There’s been some bad blood between them and the Andres even before I was born. Mostly it comes down to one thing: the warehouses, all over Chelsea. During the Prohibition the Moores controlled them, using them as storage for smuggling alcohol, until one of their bosses lost the control in a poker game. Pat Moore, Leighton’s great grandfather, lost them to a young Mario Andre, my grandfather.
It didn’t go down so well. Pat ordered a hit on my grandfather, but was taken down himself—by his own men, leaving a wife and two sons behind. They’ve been under our control ever since, but the Moores still claim warehouses belong to them.
It’s a pride thing.
It made the most sense that Leighton’s father, Keith Moore, would act on it. According to Stevie, my uncle’s right-hand man, who’d worked for my father as well, the feds were busting left and right during that time. No one was paying attention to what the Irish were doing.
“Devon,” my uncle says. I snap out of my musings, and look around to find three sets of eyes looking at me impatiently. Not my uncle, though. Frank's face gives nothing away. I focus my attention on him. “I need to talk to you after we're done here.”
You wouldn't think much of it, the way he says it in a monotonous voice, but everyone knows not to assume anything by the way he talks or looks at you, even more so if there are other people around, like his men. It could be a big deal, or maybe it's not. My mind wanders to that room on the third floor.
It might be a big deal.
“Yes, sir.” I don't call him Uncle. When my parents disappeared and he came to get me from school, on the way home he said things would have to be different now. He wouldn't be my uncle anymore, and he couldn't play favorites. I'd be one of his men and soon, I would have to prove myself.
I was thirteen years old. And I'd only seen him a handful of times before that.
His two men take this as their cue to leave and I watch them retreat, but Stevie doesn't move.
People underestimate Stevie. He may not look like much—short, bulky, and not threatening at all—but then again, neither does my uncle. Stevie is lethal when he needs to be. That's why my uncle keeps him close. That was why my father kept him close, too.
I throw a wary glance toward Stevie, unsure if I should speak about Leighton in front of him, but my uncle gets straight to the point.
“The girl?” he asks, not looking at me when he says it. He busies himself reading over the papers, the gory details of my family's demise.
“Third floor, the big bedroom,” I answer.
Stevie gives me a strange look, and then exchanges a meaningful one with Frank. I feel like I just failed a test. “That isn’t exactly prisoner accommodations,” he says dryly.
“It’s secure,” I reply, keeping my voice flat.
“You know, I didn’t think you had it in you,” my uncle says, giving me a once over and nodding. “I wouldn't think you'd bring her here, straight to the vultures.”
I shouldn't have. Normally, I wouldn't have, either. I don’t give him an answer, and he doesn’t seem to expect one. He never does.
“She’s a looker, that Leighton Moore,” Stevie says, studying me. His gaze doesn’t waver. I want to squirm under it, but I stand still and lift my shoulder in a shrug.
“Her beauty doesn’t change her blood.”
Stevie chuckles, and it's a chilling sound.
“Don’t be swayed by her looks. She’s just a woman,” Frank says. “If you want to get her out of your system, then by all means have at it. But don't fuck this up.”
The fact that he assumes I’m attracted to her has me worried. Someone must have said something to give him that impression, because there's no way he knows me well enough to make that assumption by himself. Maybe one of his men has seen me eyeing her in the past, because God knows I've probably done it. I need to nip this in the bud before it goes any further.