Page 152 of Loyalty

He didn’t think to ask his cousin how he had found him, or why he was looking for him. Those were details, and at the moment, they were not the details John needed to know.

John headed across the pool hall, his strides long and heavy. He recognized a face or two, and a couple even called out his name with a wave. A greeting he otherwise would have returned, but at the moment, he just didn’t give a fuck. He was not here for them, and he had no interest in speaking to them. They would not help his cause.

Drake didn’t see him coming. He was too busy bent over the pool table, aiming for his next shot. A winning shot, if he had made it. The five hundred dollars sitting on the edge of the pool table told John that the guy wanted to make that shot.

The guy didn’t get to take the shot.

John grabbed Drake by the back of his shirt, and yanked hard. In one swift motion, John flipped the guy over, and smashed his back into the next pool table. Drake let out a shout, one filled with pain, but John only smiled at the sound.

A couple of the guy’s friends stepped forward, but Andino moved in fast. He always had John’s back. Ride or die, no matter what. His cousin was there, doing what he needed to do. Even if he didn’t know why John was doing what he was doing.

“Hey, Drake,” John said smiling coldly. “Looks like you and me need to have a fucking chat.”

Drake’s brown eyes widened, and words stumbled from his mouth. “About what?”

John chuckled. “Guess you’re going to find out, cocksucker.”

Uncaring about the people watching or those closing in around him, John kept a firm hold on Drake as he dragged him across the pool hall. Someone from behind the bar, a face John didn’t recognize, stepped out like he was going to help the guy. John just pointed a single finger at the man.

“Fucking try it,” John dared.

The guy held up his hands in surrender, and it only made John laugh. His face was recognizable. He’d been here before, but not to do this. Nonetheless, they knew who the fuck he was, and what he could do. They knew his last name, and what it meant in this city.

Nobody wanted to get fucking messed up with that mess.

Nobody wanted to get messed up with the Marcellos.

Soon, John had Drake out of the pool hall. The cold February air whipped around them. John didn’t feel anything at all. Seemed he couldn’t feel anything, lately. When he did feel something, it was just a mess. He couldn’t process it. It was too much, and he didn’t want to deal with it.

Drake didn’t fight too much as John dragged him behind the pool hall. A dirty alleyway filled with dumpsters, and moldy cardboard boxes. It stunk like death. It looked like some animals had been chewing on shit, and digging through garbage.

Rats, likely.

New York was filled with rats in more ways than one.

John tossed Drake to the ground, uncaring that the guy landed in filth and wetness. Standing over him, John bent down to make sure Drake got a good look at his eyes. He needed to look somebody right in the face when he wanted to know if they were lying to him or not.

“Who the fuck gave you the file?” John asked.

Drake blinked rapidly. “The-the—”

“The file, you stupid fuck. Who gave it to you?”

“I-I can’t remember.”

John let out of scoff and rolled his eyes out words. “You can’t fucking remember something that happened within the past couple of days? You can’t remember who put a giant red file in your goddamn hand? Maybe if I cut your fucking hand off, it’ll jog your damn memories, asshole. How about that?”

“Well, I …”

The guy started to scramble back on the ground. His hands dragged through the wetness, and his clothes were now covered in the dirt and filth. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there. Like he needed to get the fuck away from John, and fast.

He was right. His instincts were on point. He did need to get away from John, but it was too fucking late.

“Who gave you the file?” John asked again. “One last time to tell me who gave it to you, and told you to give it to Kent.”

Drake stumbled over his words again, trying to come up with some fucking excuse. He mumbled a name. Tim, or some other generic bullshit. There were a million fucking Tims in the city.

“Tim who?” John asked.