Chapter 1 #2
My guess is he’s a hitman for the mob.
Which mob? Well now, that’s the question.
I think it would be a pretty spectacular coincidence if he worked for the Italians, since I got fired for investigating them, but it’s not impossible.
The area I live in now . . . all the research I did into mafia culture in the city back then tells me this is mostly Irish territory, but the Italians have a lot of grasp here, and they’ve been battling it out for decades as far as I could tell.
Those are the only two organizations doing well enough, according to my research, from which someone who’s not at the top would be able to pay thousands of dollars to a nobody like me.
The Russians don’t really use freelancers; they control the guns in the city and on most of the East Coast. They have their seat of power well established, and no one would be stupid enough to go up against them since they’re everybody’s supplier.
The Chinese have always focused only on their niche—counterfeiting, forgeries, stolen goods—and they have a good business relationship with the Bratva, or as good as anyone in the mob is capable of, and they don’t deviate from their territory.
So either he works for the Irish and targets the Italians, or he works for the Italians and is targeting the Irish . . .
What I actually believe, what my gut is telling me—and it’s only failed me once—is that he’s part of the Irish Mob.
Everyone knows Eian Dempsey is the head of the Irish mafia, and everyone knows Venuti, Di Leo, and Ricci are the three remaining members of the Cosa Nostra—a.k.a. the Italian mafia.
They had a ridiculous rebrand when two of the families . . . well, they supposedly “disbanded.” That’s the official story in any case, but what really happened?
Well, no one is willing to talk, but the first to go were the Marianos around thirty-five years ago, and then the Taccones around thirty years ago.
There are rumors of course, I’m well versed in those, and they’re terrifying. The legends of how Eian Dempsey slaughtered the families are the stuff of nightmares for regular folks, but in the mafia mentality it all makes sense—twisted sense, but there is some logic to it.
The Marianos supposedly went after Eian’s father, Ronan Dempsey, and he retaliated with full force and zero mercy—and won.
And then a few years later, the Taccones did the same thing.
Ronan Dempsey died of a heart attack twenty-eight years ago, according to official records, but I’d bet half my savings that’s bullshit since the war between the Irish and the Taccones started right after, and that can’t be a coincidence.
I don’t believe in coincidences, but with the way my life works right now, I can’t afford to forget about the mafia climate in the city the way I’d vowed to do after I got fired—my new job kind of depends on that.
Ending up on Eian Dempsey’s radar for the wrong reasons would very much be deadly to a relative nobody like me.
Of course, he’s never been convicted of anything, but I’m pretty sure that’s why there’s always been a high-ranking official in the NYPD in the Irish Mob’s pocket.
The rumors about him don’t stop at how he eradicated two Italian families either, there are plenty more about how he deals with his own men.
In my humble opinion, those are even more terrifying.
Killing men who are your enemies makes sense, really, but slowly cutting up your men piece by piece—even if they have stolen from you, which is what the rumors say—seems extreme to me.
I know there are worse things happening in the world, way worse, but knowing that Eian Dempsey lives practically only a few blocks away and that I might be working for him, no matter how good a job I’m doing, is the only thing that truly makes me nervous these days.
The smart thing to do would be to give investigating a rest and just do as I’m told, get paid, and keep living my life, keep Maggie safe.
But I can’t do that.
I’ve never been able to do that.
I need to know.
Maggie’s soft burp brings me back to the present.
“All done, dimples?” I ask her quietly, then lean down to press a kiss to her soft forehead.
She doesn’t answer of course, except with a cute little whine that melts my heart.
She’s why.
She’s the answer for me.
If it weren’t for her, I’d probably have given up on this city, on my dreams, maybe even on my life.
I don’t have any other family. When Dad adopted me he was also single, and he said he didn’t need anyone but me.
There were never any grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, or siblings, and I never really felt like I needed them, but now with Maggie in my life .
. . I have to make sure she never wants for anything, the way my dad did for me.
So I watch her eyes slowly drift shut and then lay her back down in her crib, and when I’m back in my own bed, I can only wish that no more dreams come tonight.
It’s been a freaking month since he texted, since my last . . . assignment, and I can’t keep ignoring this feeling in my gut that he’s in trouble, that for whatever reason, he didn’t ask me to be there one night and he got shot or killed because of it.
I know I’m exaggerating my importance, I know.
But after days on end where I’ve been resisting this impulse, I finally have to give in. There’s also the fact that I need the income. I have the earnings from the apartment’s sale, but I’m saving most of that for Maggie’s future.
When I got the call that a woman had chosen me to adopt her baby, I put my apartment up for sale immediately.
I decided to give myself six months with her, then I’d look for a job.
But I didn’t have to do that because, surprise surprise, I haven’t needed it—and because I know my old network blackballed me in the industry—but if I can’t find him, then I’m going to need to figure things out.
Find a daycare, or a nanny I can trust .
. . and about a million more things that I really don’t want to do.
Who has the energy for that?
I’ve gotten used to this life—almost criminal life—and after everything I’ve been through, I doubt the way back to upstanding citizenship will be as easy.
So I put a plan into place, and at seven, I roll Maggie’s crib into the Murphys’ apartment and smile gratefully at Mrs. Murphy.
“I really appreciate this.”
“Not to worry,” she says, her soft smile aimed at Maggie’s sleeping form. “She’s such a sweet angel.”
“Yeah,” I can’t help but chuckle. She sure is an angel, but . . . “I’m hoping she’ll sleep through the night, but if she doesn’t, here’s everything you’ll need.”
I go through all the essentials I brought her—the only teething toy she’s tolerated so far, the soft, stuffed elephant I always keep in the freezer so she can bite on it if she prefers, and of course about a million diapers, three changes of clothes, and four different blankets.
Mrs. Murphy chuckles softly at the spread.
“I’m sure we’ll be fine, Colby.”
I suck in a sharp breath and make myself look up from the crib and into her warm hazel eyes.
“I’ll be back by eight in the morning at the latest.”
“I’ll be here all day, honey. No rush.”
I nod, but there’s still no fucking way I’ll be even a minute late. My body betrays me and I bend over to kiss Maggie’s forehead just one more time, and dammit, I don’t regret it.
I need to do this.
“Enjoy your date,” Mrs. Murphy says before closing the door to her apartment, and the twinkle in her eyes tells me I did a fan-fucking-tastic job selling this “date” ruse.
It’s not not a date. I do have a plan, so when I walk out of our apartment building, I tell myself to follow that to a T and not deviate in the slightest.
There are three main locations where he has asked me to keep a lookout. Logic suggests he went to one of them and got into trouble. That’s what I’m telling myself at least, because it’s the only semi-solid lead I have.
If I’m stretching it with the word logic, well . . . no one but me will ever know.
The first warehouse I visit looks empty and deserted. There’s not a single sound and no light coming through any of the windows or doors, so I move on to the second location.
It’s a travel agency, but that’s obviously a front. Travel agencies are going out of business, and the only ones left are the really pricey ones that no one in Jersey would use.
Okay, no one in this neighborhood anyway.
There are some upper-class communities of course, but still, it’s doubtful this is an honest business.
It takes me a precious hour to find a roof I can access where I can still see the back entrance to the travel agency as well as hear what the people in the alley are saying.
If there’s even a whisper of something slightly suspicious, then I’ll have something to go on, and I’ll finally be able to go back home.
Another hour passes with no movement from the back, but when two guys in cheap black suits walk out, I know I need to catch every word out of their mouths.
“It’s not that simple,” Goon One says to Goon Two as he offers him a pack of cigarettes then lights one for himself. “You know how the boss is. The second shit is too quiet for a week, he gets paranoid.”
Okay, that’s annoyingly general. They could be talking about any type of boss, even an actual travel agency boss. I lean in, just a little bit further over the edge.
“I know, and we know that stronzo is always planning something to fuck with us.”
Jackpot.
That’s definitely Italian, and these two are so incredibly stereotypical, I bet they’re both named Tony.
“Yeah, and he’s done shit-all in three weeks. Maybe he finally did us a favor and died.”
They have to be talking about him. They just have to.
The timeline alignment is too perfect—three weeks, and it’s been just over a month since my last job.
“That’s why the boss is paranoid,” Goon Two says, and gestures with his hand like he has all the wisdom in the universe. “He’s got a right to be.”