Page 50 of Clipped Wings

“Do you take psychology courses in your free time?”

Eoghan powered through, ignoring my sarcasm. “When Nate became depressed, you said you didn’t know what to do, apart from let it take its course. You regret inaction. Now, you’re acting irrational, trying anything and everything to get an emotional response from Jack. You feel as though you failed Nate, so you’re seeking redemption by not letting the same thing happen to Jack.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, astounded. Of course I was comparing the two situations, as the similarities were frightening.

“You’re forgetting that Jack and Nate are two different people,” he continued, turning at the intersection toward Lincoln Square. “Jack isn’t depressed—he’s fucking livid. He’s not going to commit suicide.”

“I know Jack would never kill himself. I’m worried he’ll do something stupid and get himself killed.”

A telling silence filled the air. Eoghan didn’t have any words of reassurance for me, which only gave my anxieties a solid foundation to grow upon.

“Any updates on the Babau’s identity?” I asked.

“No.” Eoghan groaned, tightening his fist on the wheel. “We’ve partnered with the Russians to block the Mafia’s skin trade, but Nicoletti doesn’t know who’s compromising his merchandise.”

My upper lip curled in horror. “By merchandise, you mean…”

“People, yes,” Eoghan confirmed with a grimace. “We’ve raided three shipments destined for foreign shores, and safely returned the victims to their homes. Since our mob controls a majority of the arm and tech market, the Italians make the bulk of their income in drugs and sex.”

Apparently, mobsters and militaries used similar tactics in war. Cut off trade routes, form alliances, infiltrate enemy territory. I rubbed my palms on my thighs, processing the information.

“Is that why Jack was meeting with Sofia?” I asked.

“Yes and no. I tracked the victims to the cargo ships and Jack organized the strike teams, making sure the Mafia didn’t recognize any of our men. Sofia has been helping us understand the Nicoletti mindset. She’s also keeping an ear open for information on the so-called bogeyman.”

An image of Sofia’s pale face and trembling hands came to mind. “She’s terrified of Jack.”

“The Emerald Devil has a reputation that inspires nightmares.” Eoghan paused, seeming to consider how much he could tell me. When he spoke, his tone had softened. “He’s our leader, Wings. I know he can be an asshole, but he never wanted this responsibility. Maybe you could take it easy on him?”

It was no wonder Jack was stressed. He wanted to strike directly at the Babau to avoid more bloodshed, but he couldn’t find the monster. If he would tell me about his work, I could prepare myself for his mood swings. Instead, I was walking on eggshells half the time. My anger was dissipating, leaving exhaustion in its wake. I leaned back into the seat, placing my bare feet on the leather dashboard.

“Don’t put your feet on my dash,” Eoghan barked.

I peered over at him, dropping my legs to the floor. “Your boss’s ejaculate is on the center console, and you’re worried about my feet?”

His lips twitched. “Don’t try to reason with me.”

Chapter Twenty

Jack

Tiny needles pulsed into my chest, but I didn’t register the pain. My skin had long since gone numb and this wasn’t my first tattoo—or even my tenth. My right arm was covered in them, each one connected with smoky lines. The Roman numerals on my middle finger had been my first, soon followed by the family skull.

“We’ve got Tony Greco in the dungeon below Murray Hill,” Cathal said, rapping his knuckles on the counter.

I turned my head, giving him my full attention.

I’d left Cathal behind while I was in Ireland, and for good reason. My third lieutenant was a black Scotsman with an English accent who could walk through Italian neighborhoods in every borough without drawing suspicion. He knew how to blend in as a tourist—sports cap, camera bag slung over his shoulder, confused look in his eye.

Each of my lieutenants had their own unique qualities, which was why I had chosen them with great care. Loyalty was a given—I wouldn’t stand for anyone disobeying a direct command. Trustworthiness was next. Also, obvious. We were brothers, in a sense. Bonded by spilled blood.

After Mick and Eoghan, Cathal was the newest addition to my personal ranks. He was my age and had worked his way up from Willie to lieutenant in the matter of a year—his background in Scotland Yard’s espionage unit had helped. He was excellent at feigning an American accent, and he was the one I turned to when I needed intel straight from the streets. From people who didn’t know—and would never know—who was overhearing them.

As the tattoo artist placed the plastic wrap over my pectoral, I nodded once. Cathal rose from his seat, calling for my driver. He knew exactly where I needed to be. Because Cathal had just told me—without much explanation on the how—that there was a prominent member of the New York Mafia being interrogated at a safe house nearby. Tony wasn’t talking, but he hadn’t met me yet.

* * * *

“All right, Tony.” I paced the small, unventilated room. The sweat dripping from my pores wasn’t good for new ink, but this was important. “I’m going to ask you one more time.”

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