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DANE
Chicago, Illinois, August 26
As a kid, he hated the smell of blood. Pukedhis guts out every time he got a whiff. Dad always said it’d getbetter—that he’d stop noticing it. Michael Ryan was always right inthe end. Standing amid crimson puddles spreading across thepockmarked concrete floor, Dane barely noticed the thick, fetidcopper tang in the air. If anything, it brought a smile to hisface. Every spilled drop felt like justice.
Good thing I wore black today.
Brandon slumped forward in the chair, heldup only by the ropes binding his hands to the back legs, and letout a low, animalistic groan. He shivered as icy water dripped fromhis shoulders and gray hair onto the concrete, joining a puddle ofpiss and blood the power-washer hadn’t washed away yet. Served thefucker right for trying to pass out.
Dane viewed him critically, remembering theproud Brandon Farrell who’d spent the last fifteen years standingbehind Adam Fitzgerald. Keeping him safe. Carrying his most guardedsecrets. He’d been untouchable. Respected. The next familyunderboss. Now he wept like a child, his Saville Row trousersstained with urine and gore.For this fuckface, I lost myfather. I left Zara alone in my bed. I broke my favoriteswitchblade. I should feed him his own balls.If Dane wasn’tstill riding the high of fucking Zara in the dawn hours before thecall came, he’d probably already have shot Brandon in the gut andwalked out, orders be damned. But he was in a good mood, with everyreason to keep Adam happy, so Brandon’s heart would keep beatinguntil they got his story.
“P-please. Stop.” Brandon’s appeal camethrough split lips and the ragged hole where a tooth had brokenoff.
“I want to stop,” Sawyer told him, crouchinglow enough to be level with his eyes. “But I can’t. Not until youtalk. You know how this works, Bran.” He stood to his full heightand pulled at his gloves before wiping a streak of blood offBrandon’s face as carefully as a lover. Dane leaned back againstthe wall, examined the bloody knife in his hand, and wiped theblade on his pants.
“Why talk?” Brandon whispered, blooddripping from his mouth.
Sawyer’s expression was all sympathy.“Because it’s the smart way out.”
“Ryan’s kid puts a bullet between my eyes nomatter what.”
Sliding the knife back into its sheath athis waist, Dane stepped up behind Brandon and grabbed hisshoulders, yanking him back against the chair. “True. Nothing wouldbring me greater pleasure than gutting you. But if you give us thetruth, I’ll have to settle for a few of your toes. Maybe an ear.”He bent to whisper in Brandon’s mangled ear: “Boss’s orders. Youremember those, right?”
Sawyer crossed his arms over his chest.“Were they threatening you? You had the boss’s ear. You know that.Why’d you do it?”
Yes, Brandon. What did they offer youthat meant more than my father’s life? Dane let his hands dropto his side to keep himself from shaking the bastard’s remainingteeth out. For now, he had to content himself with the fact thathe’d just spent the last two hours carving into his worthless hide.It was nothing compared to what he wanted to do.
“Why?” Brandon echoed, his voice edged withdesperation. “Because trust don’t buy protection, does it? Youthink the De Luccas are the only other fish in the tank? Fuck no,Saw. There are other fish. Bigger fish. And some of those fisharen’t fucking done with the Fitzgeralds.”
Dane’s eyes narrowed, and his fingerstwitched against the knife. “The fuck did you do, Brandon?”
“Ididn’t do shit.”
“You opened your damned mouth is what youdid,” Sawyer snapped. “Let me guess. You mouthed off to the wrongfucking people, threw out the Fitzgerald name as clout, and thefucking Russians appeared?” It wasn’t an outlandish guess—onebacked up by what they’d scrounged from the grapevine over the lastweek.
Dane walked around the chair to stand besideSawyer, his hands balling into fists. Brandon loved dropping cashin underground gambling clubs. Sawyer helped bail his big mouth andsorry ass out of trouble before—whenever Brandon’s fat mouth wrotea check his ass couldn’t cash.Only this time, Dad paid with hislife.
“No, not—”
“Bullshit,” Dane hissed.
Brandon coughed, pink spittle spattering hischest. “Not like that! I fucked up, right? A long time ago. I wassettling my debts, but they knew who I worked for. Wasn’t a fuckingproblem. Then Adam’s fuck-up son goes and screws them down inMissouri, and suddenly they want names. Dirt. Never askedbefore…”
“And you just gave it to them?” Dane startedforward until Sawyer’s arm shot out in front of him.
“Do you know what they would have done tome—to my family—if I didn’t give them what they wanted?”
“Do you know whatI’mgoing to do toyou?” Dane smiled, flipping the knife between his fingers. “You’regonna tell us everything you gave them. So I won’t mail your skinback to your wife.”
“I wouldn—”
“Your kids will get those sticky fingers intheir lunch boxes.”
“John!” Brandon’s panicked eyes sought outSawyer, who clicked his tongue and turned, putting his hand on thecenter of Dane’s chest. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t have to.Lowering the knife, Dane’s eyes narrowed to slits, but he took astep back, relenting. For now. Sawyer cracked his knuckles, took adeep breath, and crouched in front of Brandon again.
“I’ll keep him away from the kids, but yougotta talk.”
