Page 134 of His Pretty Little Duet

"There is somethin' else, Boss. There is…are…" He falters and I have no tolerance for that right now.

"Spit it out," I command.

"They left you somethin'."

I still, dropping my tone, "What?"

"Photos, Boss… Of… of the girl. Lots of 'em…" He obviously wasn't prepared to have this conversation over the phone as trampling his steady voice are bursts of unease. "Some are dated, Boss. Fromtoday. From above. Like from a drone or somethin'. She's sittin' by the pool, with her legs in the water?—"

I'm not calm.

The heat that scorches through this Butcher’s blood boils to the fast beat of my thunderous pulse.

A blatant threat.

Dustin…

Or perhaps old Joegrew some Butcher balls.

Fucker.

He continues, "I'll take photos of 'em with my phone, send 'em to you so?—"

"No," I state, outwardly staying still, controlling my breath, to not abandon the smallest twitch in case it's the catalyst for my temper. I need them in my hands. I need my girl's image inmyhands… And he can't come here in case he's followed from the docks. "Grab them all. Light it up. Get out of there before thepolice arrive. Take the burnt off-road. The fire won't jump it. Go home. Que will meet you there and collect my possessions."

"Yes, Boss."

"And John—" I state his name with severity smothering my voice over—a warning of my own. "Don't look too closely at those photos. They are not for you."

He exhales hard. "Yes, Boss."

Good boy.

Clay

Above and behindme the only window in the boxing gym allows for a thin slice of rectangular light to permeate the otherwise neon lit area, giving off a sinister glow.

Even during the day, without lighting, it's near pitch black in here. Being a solid concrete walled construction, set below the ground, it's also uniquely soundproofed—scream proof. I tested such a theory an hour ago when I watched a 120kg heavy-weight champion crush the life from the two morons who broke into my warehouse, but not before recovering the identity of the man calling the shots.

Now awaiting my words are two Capos and an Underboss from the District'sCosa Nostra.

Behind me in the ring, John shadow boxes, his hands high, his head constantly moving as he beats a phantom opponent. He's from a low-level gang with quick fists and an even quicker draw to compensate for his lack of…Sicilianrefinement. But I don't need another business partner—I have my brothers and father—I need unquestioning loyalty.

Lucky Louis, the Capo across from me, anxious in his boss's absence, moves his feet with a rightfully hesitant shuffle. Hisbrown eyes dart from the men I have scattered around the gym to the blood stain in the centre of the training mat.

"We haven’t managed to clean it yet," I mention to him, my voice steady and ripe with mocking indifference.

He feigns a neutral gaze. "Should we wait for Joe?"

"He's here," I advise straightaway but give no further explanation as I take a step towards Vincenzo—an elderly Underboss near due for retirement and his Capo, Michael, who knows it. "Last night, two men broke into our warehouse, only to smash a few windows, and"—I omit the mention of my little deer—"called the police. Does anyone know anything about this?"

Vincenzo puffs out disapprovingly. "This is the Irish. I knew they'd turn on us eventually." He is a predictable bore; every discussion with him quickly finds its way to curse the Irish, the Japanese, the bikers. We have treaties with them, however rocky at times, but he’s an old Sicilian man set in his ways. But not ballsy enough to ever go against the hierarchy.

"They wouldn't risk losing our agreements, Boss. Where would they wash all that damn cash?" His Capo, Michael, shakes his head in disagreement.

"They are no better than thugs, young Mikey." Vincenzo throws his shaky arms in the air, spitting out, "I never trusted them."

The arguing continues, intensifies, and I watch them throw the blame around like a grenade that may detonate in their unwitting fists.

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