Page 23 of The Associate

Vic stuck out his chin, assessing Gio with a heavy-lidded stare. “It’s one thing that you’re gay, or bi, G. They don’t like it when you flaunt it.”

“I’m not flaunting anything, for fuck’s sake.” Gio tempered his anger. “I’m in my own apartment, and you broke in.”

“Yeah, well…” Vic shrugged like it was no big deal. “Maybe if he were the one taking it up the ass, instead of the other way around, I’d forgive you.”

“Fuck you,” Conor said, his Irish brogue thick.

What Vic said next slurred in Gio’s ears. He was too focused on Vic jerking his dominant hand behind his back. Gio had milliseconds to mull over his options—shoot now or step forward and block Conor from Vic. If Vic had sent word about his sexuality to Aldo or anyone else in the family before sneaking into his apartment, he was toast. No coming back from that. Conor’s parents needed their son.

He shouted for Conor to duck down behind the bed, to reduce his chances of a bullet wound. Maybe that would discourage Vic from firing a gun in his apartment and alerting one of the neighbors to call the cops. Gio saw Vic bring forth his hand with the .45 but couldn’t predict his aim. Gio pointed his gun at Vic’s shoulder.

A loudpopbroke the silence.

Vic’s haphazard treatment of their clothing had resulted in Conor’s underwear sailing through the bars of the headboard, landing between the mattress and the wall. Neither Gio nor Vic seemed concerned with Conor crawling on the bed for his things, and he therefore hoped he well masked his reaction when he brushed his fingers over something hard and gun-shaped.

Conor watched the two mobsters snipe at each other, waiting for Vic to shift his line of vision. When he felt confident, he tugged the gun loose and hid it in his briefs. He gathered the rest of his clothes and maneuvered the small gun under the sheet, bunching the fabric to discourage a visible, gun-shaped lump. He did not own a weapon himself, and he hadn’t fired a gun since high school. His father had a permit to carry concealed, utilized during bar hours, and saw that Conor knew gun safety in the event he manned the bar alone. As far as Conor knew, that gun only fired at the range whenever Hugh saw fit to practice his aim.

Heaven forbid he had to use this one to protect himself, from either man.

He dressed, fumbling zippers and buttons with trembling fingers as the fear of being shot weighed heavily throughout this ordeal. If he died today, he at the very least wanted his pants on, to save his family some embarrassment.

He was frightened for his life, and for his parents. Also furious. Gio had lied to him, or else twisted the truth about himself. Gio might indeed work in a warehouse, under mob supervision, but the career change remark from last night took on new meaning. That Gio had gone out of his way to help with Lonnegan’s today surprised Conor, but maybe it was a tactic to lull him into a false sense of security. Trick him into convincing his parents to give up the pub for well below its value.

Multiple questions crowded his mind, but damned if he’d interject into this tense conversation. He wasn’t confident that Gio wouldn’t turn the gun on him.

Conor felt used. He wanted to go home, unscathed. He hesitated in dressing, holding his shirt. If the situation turned dangerous in the split second his shirt obscured his vision, he wanted to stay on alert. When Vic next glanced his way, the man’s disgusted expression faded. They were down to one exposed dick in the room—no doubt still one too many for the homophobe now reaching behind his back.

Vic’s remark to Gio about taking it up the ass hit wrong with Conor. Despite his anger, Conor wouldn’t accept that Gio’s sexuality made him any less of a man for the mafia. “Fuck you,” he told Vic, his voice full of venom.

“Not even with Gio’s dick,” Vic shot back, flashing something dark and lethal in his hand.

“Conor, get down!” Gio, still naked and aiming for Vic, didn’t turn to check on him. Conor didn’t see it as neglect—somebody had to keep Vic in check, but Conor saw the inevitable coming in hot. Question was, who would Vic shoot first?

Conor answered by raising the semi-automatic .22 and firing at Vic’s gun hand.Pop! The bullet whizzed past the man’s body and lodged in the wall behind him. Vic yelped, rearing backward a step, but once he recovered he growled out a curse and swung the gun in a short arc from Gio to Conor. Gio’s bullet hit a better mark, hitting Vic in the upper arm.

The entire shootout played out in seconds, but the ensuing scene slowed to a crawl in Conor’s mind. He stood at the far end of Gio’s bed, the spare gun warm in his hand, while Vic howled in pain. A dark red spot bloomed on his upper arm—serious but not fatal, and enough for Vic to drop his gun. Gio lunged forward and, kicking Vic’s weapon under the bed, wrestled the man to the carpet and straddled his back.

“Palms on the shag above your head where I can see ’em,” Gio ordered, touching his gun barrel to the back of Vic’s skull. “You even breathe funny and I’m pulling the trigger.” He cut his gaze up to Conor. “You okay?”

It took a second to register that Gio addressed him. Conor tossed his gun on the bed, more out of a knee-jerk reaction than a desire to disassociate with it. “I’m fine,” he said.

Gio crooked his head toward his living room. “Kitchen drawer right underneath my microwave. I got a bag full of zip ties. Bring a handful?”

“Should I call nine-one-one?” Conor fisted his shirt and rounded the bed, scanning the ground for his socks and shoes. Vic lay with his head facing the nightstand, his upper body heaving with dry sobs.

“No. I’ll take care of that,” Gio said. “We need him bound first.”

Right. The mafia had their own emergency number, Conor guessed. He side-stepped Vic and put on his shirt as he walked away, shaking off the suspicions tingling down the back of his neck and spine. He heard Gio taunting Vic as he sifted through the utility drawer.

“Yeah, how do you like my cock and balls touching you, you fucking homophobe?”

Conor laughed in spite of himself.

* * * *

Vic cooperated as Gio bound his hands and ankles, then checked his pockets for a knife and keys, anything to use to try to free himself. The bullet appeared lodged in Vic’s bicep, with his humerus still intact. Gio coaxed him to roll over into a sitting position, leaning against his open bedroom door, before treating the injury with gauze found in his bathroom.

He stood over Vic’s hunched body. The man looked uncomfortable with his hands behind his back, but Gio’s compassion had disappeared the moment Vic drew his gun. “I got painkillers and edibles,” Gio said, “if you want to take the edge off.”

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