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Motherfuckers.
The Vargasfamiliais the largest cocaine manufacturer in Colombia. They had a deal with the Bratnovs for the autonomy of the East Coast. In turn, the Quinns had a treaty with the Bratnovs to distribute Vargas’s coke in Boston. No surprise, the treaty fell through when the war between the Quinns and the Bratnovs broke out. Boston ran dry for a few weeks, until Lorcan struck a new deal with Qari Chavez, the main Peruvian supplier.
Lorcan cut the Peruvian’s supply heading to Philly a few weeks ago and said Abruzzo hasn’t said a word about it. It’s obvious that they’ve struck a new deal with Vargas… buthow the fuck did amateur Abruzzo wangle that?
Maybe he’s not stuck in the sandpit after all.
I call Lorcan through the car speaker. He answers on the second ring.
“Philly has a new supplier.”
A groan down the line. “Who?”
“Vargas. Just saw him and his son at Abruzzo’s warehouse.”
“Motherfuckers.” Something smashes in the background. I immediately think of Poppy and the precious vase he wrecked. I wonder if he’s fixed that yet. “Kid?”
“Still here.”
“We’re past the point of putting the fear of God into him, aren’t we?”
“Yes. You need him dead.” After a pause, I add, “I need him dead too.”
Lorcan’s silent for a few moments. “You want Abruzzo dead?”
“Yes.”
He sighs. “I won’t ask questions.”
“Better that you don’t.”
“So, you’ll help us?”
“I already have a plan.”
Before he can respond, I click the end call button on the dashboard screen and slam the pedal to the floor.
Dahlia
Nervous energy bubbles away in my gut all day. The excitable kind, the one that makes you jiggle your leg and strum your fingers and grin for no reason.
Usually, when Cillian leaves the Garden, I have no idea where he’s going or when he’ll return. Today, I still have no idea where he is, but he’s promised to return by dinner time.
So I’ve decided I’ll make us dinner.
That nervous, excitable energy boils over quicker than the pasta pot on the stove, and I end up sloshing wine all over the counter, missing the glass entirely.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, turning to the sink to grab a cloth.
Cillian is looming in the doorway, arms folded, a smirk on his face. “Want to know what I’ve noticed about you, angel? Your hand-eye coordination is appalling.”
There’s that grin again. The cheesy one that splits my face and makes my cheeks ache. “We can’t all be trained assassins, darling.”
He steps into the kitchen, immediately dominating the space. I watch as he stirs the pasta, sniffs the sauce. “Spaghetti Bolognese? With jar sauce? You are a culinary genius.”
I swipe at him with the dishcloth in my hand. He side-steps it with ease, then throws me a sexy wink. “See what I mean about hand-eye coordination? You were miles off.”
Before I can reply, he closes the gap between us and lifts me up onto the counter. It’s instinctive now to curl my legs around his waist, pulling him into me. Nuzzling his neck, I breathe in his warm, clean scent and feel all the muscles in my body relax.
