Page 48 of The Villain

Cian didn’t tell me what the “errands” were, and I didn’t really care. He was probably delivering guns or selling drugs or collecting money.

“Why don’t you send one of your men for stuff like this?” I asked after the third stop.

“I’d rather deal with some of our clients myself,” he answered without hesitation.

Meaning, he protected his crew.

That was something The Detroit Devil had never done. Men had always been expendable to me. Nothing but minions. I didn’t respect them, and they didn’t respect me. They only respected my power.

But with Cian? His men respectedhim. Not just his power, but who he was down to his core. It was obvious in the way they treated him, and in the way he treated them, that he’d earned it. I’d never gotten the impression Patrick’s men felt that way about him.

An hour or so later, we stopped for dinner at some hole-in-the wall Italian place in a derelict part of Brighton. I was even allowed out of the car this time, which was a fun change of pace. The restaurant only had three tables, one of which was occupied by a moldy-looking old man who looked like he hadn’t moved from that chair in years. A woman in her seventies with white hair and rosy cheeks worked a large grill behind the counter,while a thin young man watched us from behind the register. “Mr. O'Shea,” he said in greeting.

Mr. O’Shea, I mouthed at Cian, who rolled his eyes at me.

“Where’ve you been?” the woman at the grill asked without turning around.

“Busy,” Cian muttered. “Sorry, Frances.”

“Make it up to me by letting me feed you.”

“Why else do you think I’m here?” He smiled at her. A real one. I didn’t even know hecouldsmile like that.

Frances turned around and smiled warmly back at him. Then her gaze slid over to me and lingered. She cocked her head like she found me curious before turning back around without a word.

I squinted at the stained menu board overhead that likely hadn’t changed since the nineties. There were too many fucking choices, and I was way too fucking hungry to decide what I wanted. Not that it mattered, because Cian didn’t ask. He ordered two chicken parm subs with extra sauce and a basket of breaded cauliflower.

The food was ready before I’d even taken my first few sips of my water. We sat at a table that was way too small for Cian, and his knees kept bumping the underside as we ate. My water bottle fell over at least three times, and I got sauce on my pants that I had to attack with napkins no better than tissue paper. But the chicken parm was incredible. Clearly, they spent their money on ingredients, not ambiance.

Before we left the restaurant, Frances handed Cian a takeout container full of cannoli and two loaves of bread. He placed the food in the back of the car—carefully enough that I noticed—before settling into the driver’s seat. “Last stop,” he murmured before pulling back out onto the road.

We drove past rundown houses until we entered a section of the city where large industrial buildings rose up around usinstead. All concrete, cinderblock, and cracked windows. Cian drove down a few alleys before parking the car near the brick wall of a large warehouse. He grabbed another bag from the backseat, then motioned for me to get out of the car.

It looked like every other abandoned building, complete with broken glass windows and crumbling brick exterior. Even the door seemed one good kick away from caving in. Cian knelt beside it and removed a brick from the wall about a foot off the ground, revealing a hidden keypad. He typed in a few numbers and the lock released with a click. The flimsy wooden door swung open to reveal a reinforced steel door behind it, which Cian pushed open.

I followed him inside, then spun in a slow circle to take in my surroundings. The run-down exterior had been a front, and I appreciated the deception. The walls were stripped down to exposed metal studs, and the floor was cold concrete. While the windows outside were broken, extra panes had been added on the inside. They sat a couple stories up, making them undetectable from the street. The warehouse itself was maybe four stories tall, and covered about a hundred thousand square feet. There were two rusted shipping containers along one wall, their doors chained and padlocked.

I had owned a lot of properties in Detroit, mainly to store guns, drugs, and other contraband. But I’d never taken the time to fortify a building like this. I’d never kept enough product in one place. I’d benefitted from the luxury of multiple locations, but in a small city with a small crew, this was likely one of only a few storage facilities the O'Sheas owned.

I hadn’t dealt with Patrick much, and I didn’t know how his business had run. At the time, I’d delegated all East Coast gun trades to Mick Saltner, one of my men.

“How long have you had this?” I asked.

“Years,” Cian said as he strode across the dusty floor. He swung open a door near the shipping containers, revealing a small office. It had been drywalled and painted, with thick hardwood planks covering the floor. He switched on the fluorescent light overhead, and it flickered before brightening with a buzz.

A fake plant sat in the corner, a layer of dust covering its forest green leaves. On the desk sat a laptop that looked about twenty years old—a thick black monstrosity that probably still ran Windows 98. Beside it were a few cheap pens from a nearby credit union and a stained Chinese takeout menu. A ratty, ugly rug covered the floor under the desk.

I pointed to the computer. “Can that thing even connect to the internet?”

He stopped near the desk and dropped the bag at his feet, then pulled out his phone and started to type. He didn’t acknowledge my question.

“I’m assuming the stuff in that bag is going in the shipping containers out there?”

Cian finally looked at me. “That’s what I want people to think if they break in.”

“Okaaay,” I said slowly, drawing out the word.

He peeled the rug back from behind the desk, exposing more wooden planks. Hooking a finger into a narrow groove, he lifted a foot-wide plank, revealing a crawlspace underneath. He repeated the process until there was enough room for him to drop into the cavity beneath the floor. It was only about five feet deep, and nearly half his body still stuck out until he kneeled. I lay on my stomach and watched him type a code into a safe door tucked into the side of the space.