1. Wheels
ONE
WHEELS
LUCA
FIVE MONTHS LATER
T here’s nowhere I’d rather be than behind the wheel.
I got a late start at driving. My parents convinced me that I wasn’t legally allowed to get a license until I was twenty-one; if I hadn’t pushed the subject, it might have been even later. Having been homeschooled my entire life, I didn’t realize that most of my peers got their permits at seventeen, their licenses at eighteen. I just saw it as my chance of escaping, and I was desperate enough to take whatever opportunity I could.
Of course, just because they finally allowed me to learn, that didn’t mean I had a car of my own. I stole theirs after they disowned me, using the twenty-year-old Buick to get me from my hometown all the way to Hamilton, a day-and-a-half’s drive away, then traded it away for a cheap, broken-down Mustang that I built back up, piece by piece.
That car is my pride and joy even now, five years after I got it to run. I have it stowed in the garage of the apartment building where I live, taking it out for special occasions. I have a discrete black Sedan Devil gave me on my first anniversary of getting my Sinners tattoo that I use when the boss doesn’t need me. Other than that, I’m driving his town car for him.
That’s because I have one job as a Sinner: the Devil of Springfield’s personal driver. I take him wherever he has to go, whenever he needs to be there. I’m always on the clock, and I like it that way. I like being useful, and it’s not as if I have a personal life on my own.
Not anymore.
Tonight is one of the scheduled dinners that Devil has with the head of the Libellula Family. They trade off locations. One meal it’s on Sinner turf, the next it’s on Dragonfly territory. It’s Damien’s turn to host.
Devil always offers to let me sit down to a meal while I wait for him to finish his. No matter where the dinner’s being held, you can bet that half the clientele is made up of Sinners and Dragonflies, each one there to watch the back of their leader. Just because we have a truce these days, that doesn’t mean it could change at any moment.
It’s possible. When I arrived in Springfield, the two rival gangs were already years into a feud that started when a Dragonfly girl got shot and died in Rolls McIntyre’s arms. I was also waiting in the car when Damien Libellula took Devil’s wife, Ava, and blackmailed the boss into agreeing to a truce. It’s been shaky at best since then, but now that the Sinners and the Dragonflies have a shared enemy in Johnny Winter and his Snowflakes… who knows? Maybe the truce will last.
It’s still awkward as fuck, eating a plate of paste or a bloody steak, waiting to see if guns are going to be drawn before dessert. I’d much rather wait in the car, then grab myself something from a drive-thru after Devil relieves me for the night.
It didn’t take long for him to figure that out. So while he stopped with the invitations, he gave me permission to drive around instead of parking out front to wait for him. So long as I’m there when he needs me—and he’ll text me with enough time to get back to the restaurant—I’m free to do what I want while he’s stuck with Libellula.
On the West Side, there’s a lot more I can accomplish. Tonight, we’re on the East End. Dragonfly territory. We might have a truce, but all it will take is the wrong Dragonfly seeing my devil tat to start shit. I’d rather stick to Sinner turf if I can.
But since I can’t…
There’s one spot on the edge of the East End where all Sinners are welcome: Sinners and Saints II, the rebuilt tattoo studio owned and operated by Cross da Silva, the Sinner’s official tattooist.
He used to own a spot on Third Avenue. Last summer, some asshole who worked for Johnny Winter decided to get back at Cross by burning down his place while he was sound asleep in the apartment above it.
Fucked up, right? Poor guy was taken captive by Winter’s goons, along with Damien’s sister, Genevieve. Trapped behind bars for three weeks until the two gangs—with the help of yours truly—worked together to break them out of Winter’s containment facility in Hamilton, he was just starting his fledgling relationship with Genevieve when a blast from their past settled on a little arson for fun.
Thou shall not kill …
Luckily, Cross made it out in one piece. The asshole didn’t. Neither did Cross’s studio. It was nothing but shattered glass, ashes, and melted remains by the time the SFD put the blaze out. Three months after that, though, Cross had a bigger studio built —and because he’s in a committed relationship with Genevieve, a professional ballerina who has her own practice room in the same space, it’s technically on Dragonfly land.
Her overprotective older brother insisted. A Libellula stays on the East End, even if the ring on her finger says she’ll be a da Silva before long. Devil let the relocation slide, and now there’s somewhere I can go when I’m stuck on this side of Springfield.
The only vehicle in the side parking area is a motorcycle. Cross’s bike. That means he’s in even if the closed neon in the front of his shop is on.
Sinners have an open invitation to any property run by one of us. I rarely take any of the others up on that, but Cross… he’s different.
We’ve been pals since the first time I asked him to tattoo me. Not the devil tat. We all get those. But I had one in particular in mind, and when I went to Cross to do it, there was no denying that I’ve been through some shit.
Cross is his nickname. He says it has nothing to do with religion; though Devil is a lapsed Catholic, and I’m agnostic now, Cross is pretty much an atheist. That’s because he has trauma of his own, too, and as much as two straight guys with issues can, we bonded over that.
Because Cross is his nickname—but I have a cross of my own that I can never, ever get rid of.
I can make it my own, though, and with eight simple slashes, I have… and that’s all thanks to the syndicate artist.
Through the front window, I can see Cross sitting by himself. His floppy hair is brushed out of his face as he sits behind the desk, legs propped up, boots resting on top of the cleared desktop as he fiddles with something held gingerly between his grip.
An open
I knock.
His head shots up, dark eyebrows drawn together as he peers through the glass. He has the light on inside, and despite how dark it is behind me, he must recognize that it’s me because he raises his voice and calls out, “It’s open. Come on in.”
I pull open the door, appreciating the blast of heat as it warms my face. The soft lull of faraway music hits my ears at the same time as the astringent scent of the sterilized studio right behind Cross.
Beyond that, there’s a door. And though I can’t see beyond it, the music tells me that Cross’s fiance is somewhere back there, dancing.
I was here two months ago, shortly after they moved into the place. Genevieve was dancing then, too, and I remarked on the soft music tinkling its way out to the front of the tattoo studio. Even with the door separating the two rooms, you can hear it, and Cross told me that was on purpose. They could’ve soundproofed her dance studio, but he liked hearing the music she was performing to so they didn’t.
It’s great seeing those two so happy. Especially since I can’t shake the memory of being led down to the cells and finding the two of them together after all those weeks of captivity. And if that was bad, knowing that Genevieve was forced to pull the trigger and shoot Noah while I was on the upper floor, clearing it so that Savannah—Damien’s assassin wife—and I could break Cross and Genevieve out.
Thou shall not kill…
…unless you have to.
Cross nods at me. “Let me guess. Boss is on the side of town for dinner?”
“Yup.”
“Thought so. Genevieve was supposed to have dinner at the house with her brother and cousin tonight. He cancelled last minute, said Family biz came up. Damien’s gotten better. He only shuts my butterfly out when it has something to do with Winter. If Devil’s with him, maybe they finally got a lead.”
That would be great. Not like I’m afraid of him gunning for me, but I did go undercover, using my time as a criminal in Hamilton to get an interview with Winter’s crew. I got the job on Devil’s orders once our tech genius, Tanner, figured out that was where Cross was being held, and I betrayed my ‘new’ boss when the four us escaped, leaving a body in our wake.
Does that mean Winter will come after me? Maybe. He knows my name, knows some of my history. Still, he’s got bigger fish to fry, and since no one’s seen hide nor hair of the bastard since Devil and Libellula beat him at his own game, I’m not afraid.
I’m only afraid of one thing, and it’s such a leftover from my childhood, I wish I could get over it—but I can’t, and that’s my shit to deal with.
Fuck knows that we all have our own baggage.
Cross, definitely, but with Genevieve at his side, he’s dealing.
Maybe, one of these days, I’ll be able to forget Emily completely and finally find a woman who makes me as happy as Genevieve does Cross…
Shrugging my shoulders, moving so that I’m standing in front of the reception desk, I watch Cross’s long, slender fingers twirl the item between them.
“What’s that you got there?” I jerk my chin at the tiny figurine he’s still holding on to. It’s about an inch, inch-and-a-half high, shimmering pinks and purples beneath the fluorescent lights as he spins it.
“I’ve been trying to figure this stupid thing out for months.” Cross flicks the crystal with his fingertip before tossing it onto the desk. It hits it with a soft clink , and I can tell that it’s a figurine of a tiny bird. “Tanner thinks he might be closer to figuring it out. You hear about the Hummingbird, wheels?”
Wheels . Cross is big on nicknames, especially those he gives out himself. Like how he refers to Rolls—already an established nickname for our fixer, Royce McIntyre—as ‘sunshine’ because of his blond hair and charming personality, or how Genevieve is his ‘butterfly’. Up until last summer, I was just the driver, Cross the artist, but then I risked my neck to help him escape Winter and, since then, I’m ‘wheels’.
I shake my head.
He looks surprised. “Really? Not even from Devil in the backseat?”
“I learned a long time ago to block out anything that happens back there,” I admit.
Cross chuckles. “Yeah. I’ve heard about the drives the boss likes to take with his wife. Smart man.” Shifting in his seat, he swings his boots down, letting them hit the floor. “So what’s up? You need another tat?” Cross gives a little smirk, brushing a lock of hair out of his eye. “Coveting my wife, Luca? Got eyes for Genevieve? Is that number nine?”
I think of the tally marks on my forearm. There are only eight, not ten, and considering what the last two I’m missing stand for, I doubt I’ll be completing the set any time soon; not while I’m a driver instead of one of the Sinners responsible for wet work, like Killian or Max.
And I know Cross is teasing. As possessive as he is of the tiny blonde ballerina, he wouldn’t be smirking like that if he honestly believed I was interested in his fiancé. He’d be dead serious, and I would probably just be dead.
That’s Sinners for you. Fanatically loyal to our leader, but commit to a woman, and she becomes your entire world.
It happened to the boss when he reunited with his childhood sweetheart. Rolls and his wife, Nicolette. Killian and Jasmine. Now Cross and Genevieve.
Maybe it’s a good thing that I’ve never found someone to replace Emily…
Eight tallies. There are only two people in this world who know why I have them: me and Cross. Mainly because he was the artist who gave me the first five, but by the time I went back for the sixth, then the seventh, and finally the eight… even the notoriously quiet Cross had to ask if the marks had any particular meaning.
Makes sense. In our line of work, it happens. Like how the Dragonfly enforcers tattoo the back of their biceps with a small leaf every time they kill for their leader. I’m the driver. What could my marks stand for?
Simple: which of the Ten Commandments I’ve broken.
I grew up a member of the Holy Church of Jesus Devotion. It wasn’t until I was free from their hold on me that I realized that the JD part of HCoJD didn’t stand for ‘Jesus Devotion’ like my parents insisted. It stands for Jack Donovan, the pastor and ‘prophet’ he reigns over the congregation.
Because it’s not a church. It’s a fucking cult, and I’m still twisted up from all of it’s teachings.
My tattoo is proof of that. So is the one thing I wish I could stop being afraid of.
Ten Commandments. Ten rules I was beaten into submission into following. Because if I broke all ten, I was sentencing myself to eternal damnation… and even as a twenty-seven-year-old Sinner, I can’t bring myself to break all the rules, just in case brimstone and hellfire would be waiting for me when I eventually died.
But as long as I only break nine …
I got five when I decided to have a physical representation of my count. Those were easy, and long broken as my parents loved to remind me.
The first time I willingly refused to attend any kind of service on a Sunday? That was number six.
When I realized that I put Devil before any God? Number seven.
And coveting my neighbor’s goods… I couldn’t help myself last year when my upstairs neighbor parked his brand new, impeccably restored Corvette Stingray alongside my latest half-built passion project.
But coveting my neighbor’s wife? I broke that one when I was still under Donovan’s control—and knowing that he purposely chose my girl to be his bride was the last straw that kept me there.
“Nah. I’m still at eight,” I tell him. “Just thought I’d hang out here while waiting for the boss. You mind?”
He shakes his head. “Genevieve is rehearsing for Romeo and Juliet . They open in three weeks, right after the new year. Until then, it’s just me and my iPad out here, waiting for her to throw me a bone every now and then.”
“That’s right. She got the lead role, didn’t she?”
A look of pride flashes across his features. “She did. And I expect you to catch a performance before it closes, wheels.”
I’m not much of a ballet guy, but I’ll be there for these two. “Yeah. Of course.”
Cross’s dark eyes twinkle. “Maybe we can get Devil to go, too. Have Mona watch baby Claire so he can take Ava out for the night.”
I chuckle. “Have Genevieve pass the invite on to Mrs. Crewes. If Ava asks, you’ll get Devil’s butt in a seat. Promise.”
There isn’t anything the Devil of Springfield won’t do for his beloved wife.
“Good idea. I’ll make sure to do that. Maybe we can buy out the whole theatre for the night and have a Sinners-only showing for my butterfly.” Cross pauses for a moment. “And a couple of Dragonflies, too, I guess since Gen wants her brother and Vin to come.”
And, like the boss, there isn’t anything Cross won’t do for his butterfly.
I start to open my mouth, maybe make a comment about how far the rivalry between the Sinners and the Dragonflies’ have come in the past year-and-a-half when, my phone starts buzzing. One, two, three, four texts in rapid succession.
I know it has to be the boss. Not only does Devil send texts the way he speaks—short sentences, straight to the point, so terse you can almost hear the growl in his voice—but I don’t really get that many messages on my phone. I lost contact with any of the old crew in Hamilton, and while I’ve worked as a loyal Sinner in Springfield for three years now, if I’m not with Devil, I’m working on my latest project.
Rolls keeps offering to get in touch with his cousin, Jake. A trained mechanic, he actually went to school for the trade instead of picking it up as he goes along like I did. Jake lives in Merill Grove with his new wife, and he’d be willing to help me get parts and shit, but… I don’t know. I like Rolls. He’s a great guy. His cousin probably is, too.
But I’m used to being alone. Can’t say that I like it, but I’m used to it.
Just like I’m used to Devil’s commands.
I reach the messages, stomach twisting when I get to the third one, my head nodding as I hit the fourth.
Boss
I’m leaving here in five, but I’m not heading home.
Need to have a meet with Collins. Blockbuster.
Fucker is bought by the Snowflakes.
Line the trunk.
Line the trunk… I know exactly what that means. And if wants me to take care of that before I pick him up at dinner, he’s not waiting around for Rolls to take care of clean-up duty like usual. Between the boss and me, we’re going to do it ourselves.
Then again, if the vice mayor betrayed the Sinners… he deserves everything he has coming to him.
Will do.
Cross raises his eyebrows as soon as I send my reply. “Gotta go?”
“Yup.” I pocket my phone, swapping it for my keys so I can head on out. But first… “You don’t happen to have any extra tarps lying around, do you?”