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The first nine times I asked, all Ron did was grunt. I know he found something; I’m sure of it, but he wouldn’t say anything in front of the rest of his fellow agents. Now, with the area cleared and only us remaining, I wait for him to talk to me.
Ron is loyal to the Outfit, which means he won’t report or file anything without passing it through me first.
It was almost impossible to keep the authorities out of this due to the overwhelming number of witnesses, but we at least managed to keep the media away. The PR team is doing damage control on the internet and seems to be steering the narrative so far, but my mind barely registers these small victories.
All I can think about is Pietro, my friend, and Addy . . . Christ, Addy. The image of her, pale and shaken, flashes before my eyes, and I have to suppress a shudder.
What if it had been her?
The question pokes at my brain every five seconds, driving me insane with the absolute horror of it.
“Dante.” Grim-faced, Ron finally straightens from his crouch, holding up a small, charred piece of metal.
“What’s that?” I ask, even though I already suspect the answer.
“It’s the detonator,” Ron says.
I nod for him to continue, my entire body tense as a coiled spring.
“It’s military grade.”
I grit my teeth, rage surging through me again, threatening to break free of my carefully constructed control. It’s not an amateur attack. But I already knew that in my gut. Only two groups have access to those kinds of weapons: the US military, and people like me.
I clap him on the shoulders, my grip perhaps a little too tight. “Good work, Ron. You know what to do.”
“Sure,” he replies, understanding the unspoken order.
As Ron moves away, I’m left alone with my thoughts, each one more volatile than the last. Someone wants Addy dead, and they’re ruthless enough to use a bomb. But last time I checked, I was the one who’s in the habit of pissing off the Irish . . . so why her?
Although every single time I’ve pissed them off, Addy has been with me, so there’s that.
And there’s the issue of her father’s enemies who may be seeking retaliation.
A million possibilities, each more terrifying than the last, race through my mind. It’s like trying to grasp smoke. The need to hit something, to release this pent-up energy, weighs heavy on me. But I can’t. Not yet. I need to stay focused, stay in control.
For Addy. For Nico. For everyone counting on me to fix this fucking mess.
I stalk into Resin, my blood still boiling. The club is empty now, save for a few trusted men. Sal is leaning against the bar, nursing a scotch. He looks up as I approach, then pours me a glass without a word.
The amber liquid sloshes in the crystal tumbler, catching the dim light. I down it in one gulp, relishing the burn as it slides down my throat. It’s not enough to dull the edge of my anger, but it’s something.
“When are we going to see his wife and kids?” Sal’s voice is rough with emotion.
I shake my head, pouring myself another drink. “Not we. I’ll go see Sylvia and the boys as soon as I leave here. You are going to identify that bomber. And I want something before dawn.”
Sal nods. “I’ll see what I can do. But shit, it still feels like a dream.” He pauses, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “Pietro was the best sniper we had, you know. Could shoot the dick off a mosquito from a mile away.”
I chuckle despite the heaviness in my chest. “Yeah, and he was a cocky bastard about it too. Always bragging about his aim.”
We lapse into silence, the weight of Pietro’s absence hanging between us. He was more than just a soldier, more than a friend. He was family.
Sal drains his scotch, his eyes glinting dangerously in the low light. “Whoever is behind this blast had better give themselves a clean death now before I find them.”
I see the look in his eyes and almost feel a flicker of pity for whoever is responsible. Almost. Sal can be creative when he’s angry, and right now, he’s livid.
“Kira and her Boston friends?” I ask, forcing myself to focus on the practical matters at hand.
“In good hands. My men have settled them in Hydrea Hotel.”
