Page 102 of Mob Saint

“Gareth, what happened?”

“I’m fucking getting to it. They took Vince but left me for dead.”

“Keith?”

“That piece of motherfucking shit face cum dumpster asshole walked away with them.”

“He’s in on this? Whoever’s been after Tiera—he’s part of it?”

“It looked that way. I was half-conscious, but Vince went kicking and screaming. He didn’t stop fighting until they knocked him out and shoved him in their own SUV. They escorted Keith to the vehicle, but he put up no fight. He had guns pointed at him, but it didn’t look like anyone planned to shoot him. It looked like it was more for show.”

“Is he the mastermind?”

Gareth snorts. “That shitwad couldn’t lead his own ass to a crapper without holding its hand. He’s a follower and always has been. He set me up.”

“Did you recognize anyone?”

“No. They wore ski masks and said nothing. I watched them pile into a few cars, but I passed out before I saw them drive away.”

“Where were you?”

“On our way to our place.”

Our place. That never means someone’s comfy home. It means where we take care of shite. If Gareth doesn’t prove useful, he’ll be going to our place. The abandoned railway station in the Bronx that hasn’t been in use in over a decade. The city’s forgotten about it except for once or twice a year when a random inspector comes out to do a cursory look. They never examine it closely, so they don’t notice the hidden door that’s easy to miss unless you know where to look.

Down in our subterranean lair, we have next to no contact with the outside world. Our phones are off, and we only keep a satellite phone for emergencies. We take nothing of value in with us since we burn everything before we leave. We cover our shoes with booties since those are harder to replace than our suits. We go through thousands of dollars of clothing each year, but a good pair of shoes is hard to replace. None of us wear jewelry except for the married men who all have rings. They take those off and put them in the safe before getting to work.

Everyone thinks they know where our place is. The other syndicates in New York thought it was a vacant storefront in Queens for a long time. Now they think it’s some storage unit there. It’s not. For starters, Queens is too obvious since we’re all from there. The bratva, Cosa Nostra, and Cartel might have theirs in that borough, but we picked the Bronx because it’s the least likely. We like them having no clue where our place is when we know exactly where all of theirs are. We know where Gareth’s is too.

“Is there anything you remember about them? Cologne? Eye color? Height?” I need some type of clue to piece all of this together.

The men who attacked us didn’t wear any hats or masks to disguise themselves. They thought we were dead. I thought about it while I watched Meridith, Sean, and Shane work on Cormac. They didn’t care that my dad, Cor, and I knew they were mercenaries, but they wanted to trick Tiera into believing they were the police. They assumed she’d go with them either out of fear or familiarity since she’s worked alongside law enforcement for nearly two decades.

“They had on fake police uniforms. It made no sense when they wore balaclavas, too. The badges would have passed for authentic to anyone who doesn’t know what to look for. All the stitching was slightly off.”

“We saw the same thing. I’m certain Tiera spotted it too, and that’s why she put up such a fight.”

“She fought them? Is she all right? Did you find her blood anywhere?”

Gareth’s rapid-fire questions might almost make me think he genuinely cares. But then I remember why we’re in this mess, and my blood turns to ice.

“Be ready when we get there, Gareth. I don’t care what shape you’re in, I’ll drag your arse out.”

He hesitates, then thinks better of whatever he was going to say. “Fine.”

We hang up, and I look down at Cormac. His head is resting in my lap as he stretches across the second row in one of our black SUVs. We look so fucking much alike. It’s as though I’m staring at myself, having an out of body experience. He’s not unconscious anymore.

“Shay, I can feel you watching me. It’s creepy as feck.”

“Sorry that I don’t want to ignore you and let you die.”

He tries to laugh and groans, his good arm going around his middle.

“Always so melodramatic. You love me too much to allow me to die. Besides, Mom would skelp you alive if you didn’t come home bitching about how I’m the more popular one.”

Trust my brother’s sarcasm to not have drained out of him along with the blood. I suppose mine hasn’t either. He knows it’s a distraction from my antsiness, which I’m sure he’s felt since I’d had to stop myself from jiggling my knee up and down.

“Shay, we’re going to find her. I promise.”

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