Chapter 40 #2
That Jada girl was a last-minute addition.
She practically begged me to let her kill Cindel, but she had to deliver first. Find whatever evidence Cindel has and destroy it, then she is free to do whatever she wants with her.
Jada had better succeed, because Dax hasn’t exactly been forthcoming in matters that pertain to his cousin.
As Kent put it over the phone, “My problems are about taking care of themselves.”
Apparently, Patrick and his daughter are on their way to Cindel now.
They actually believe being a Lombardi makes her at fault.
I’m not going to argue with their logic.
My brother has defaced our family name and he doesn’t even use it anymore.
Even though I am a full-blooded Lombardi; I opted not to use my real name with my accomplices.
Patrick in his prime, went by “Paddy Muscles,” I however am unknown.
I don’t ever give my subordinates a name.
I’m a ghost. Better than my ancestry. Fuck my father and fuck Charles for dirtying the bloodline.
On the walk back to my place, I text the saved contact, Spawn. Quickly, typing out the message.
Ghost: I’m disappointed in you, son. I thought you would be the one to handle this.
I hit send, then place the phone back in my coat pocket, before rubbing my hands together in an attempt to keep warm.
Every year, I swear it is colder than the last. I should be somewhere tropical at this age, but my stubborn nature and desire to take back what’s rightfully mine keeps me going.
I’ve had men tell me; I survive purely out of spite.
Just ahead, I see one of my sales reps on the street.
He’s a chatty guy who seems to know everyone’s business, no matter what part of town they're from.
I tolerate the incessant rambling in small doses because, not only does he have good intel, but he can push drugs faster than anyone else in Southie.
If he plays his cards right, he could be climbing the ranks by next season, when the books are open.
“Hello sir! Brisk day we’re having.”
I nod continuing to rub my hands together without relief. Damn neuropathy.
“The crew says, you may be celebrating the holidays early this year.”
I check my wristwatch then cross my arms, hoping he’ll get to the point faster.
“What I’m getting at sir is… I hope you keep me in mind when you get what’s yours.” He extends an elbow to bump me in the arm.
I sidestep the gesture.
“I’m very familiar when it comes to the gambling department,” he adds with an over exaggerated wink.
Fuck it, he’s more obnoxious than useful. His body will be nestled within a slab of new townhouses going up on Fifth Street, by next week. My irritated breath condensates between us just before I turn and walk away. I don’t even bother with pleasantries as I continue toward my warmer destination.
The corner gossip shouts after me, “Have a nice day, sir!”
With a hot, black coffee and the feeling returning to my extremities, I reexamine various upcoming contracts and loans.
I have two developers and three construction firms working with me on a two-billion-dollar condo building going up on Harrison Avenue.
Acting as the middleman, I should be able to skim hundreds of thousands of dollars off the top, once development has concluded.
Still, all this effortless money hasn’t brought me a shred of joy.
That is until I dismantle the brick and mortar that surrounds the Murrays.
With the shell company in Delaware and a fictitious name holding a trust fund, it’s been quite simple to buy up land around the city for a fraction of the price.
All you need is a couple unfortunate incidents to occur, making the area less desirable.
Thanks to my friend in the Boston PD, raids should drive down the land value.
In comes a developer to buy up the insolvent land, level those red-headed mick’s bread and butter, and bada bing bada boom, I’m the last man standing with an incredible bay view.
Now that my brother is living out of state, it’s even easier to run things my way.
Just as I drain the mug, the bottom of the cup reveals grinds.
My phone chirps.
Kent: Sir, the Murrays are heading to Cindel’s apartment.
As we expected.
I lean back in my chair, pleased as pie my once obstacles are now collapsing in on themselves. Like a blackhole, the girl seems to suck everything in with her. Even people who have nothing to do with her turn up dead, just from being in her orbit.
I sent Kent to question Cindel on the matter of Craig Moore.
I suspect that wackadoo, sister of Eamon’s, had something to do with it.
Little minx is the spitting image of her mother, yet wild as a hungry polar bear.
She may be just crazy enough to get rid of Cindel for me.
What I can’t figure out is, why was that slob Craig significant enough to assassinate?
Did he know something or did he just piss off the wrong person?
With both Lombardi kids gone, I may not even have much of a use for Dax, any longer. He hasn’t been following orders. If Jada accomplishes her task, maybe she’ll replace the useless boy.
One last play will put me in check with my dear brother Charles.
I plan to take my sweet time, ensuring he reflects on his transgressions against “his family.” If I’m feeling generous, I might let him watch as I make his wife scream my name.
Perhaps I’ll record the session. Then I can rewatch as the light leaves his eyes, again and again. My game, checkmate.