Page 2 of The Mob and his Messenger

“No,” I say.

He nods shortly. “Oh—and thanks, Skip. It’s been hard these past ten years, you know, with Dallas living out west with her mother. So thanks for giving her that job. It means a lot.”

“Don’t be stupid,” I grin. “We’re best friends, Gabriel, even if I can’t say it in front of the other men.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, can’t let the fuckers have any more of a reason to hate me. They’re already jealous of my gorgeous good looks.”

I laugh grimly. “Yeah, and they told you that while flying around on pigs through frozen hell.”

He flips me the bird and then leaves, and I lean back, closing my eyes.

My mind briefly moves over Gabriel and Samantha, his ex-wife, how I watched their relationship implode three years after having their daughter. I dimly remember Dallas, a little energetic girl who was always in the way. Mostly I remember the way Samantha got colder and meaner with Gabriel, resenting him for not being the Hollywood type she seemed to think she was.

She wore him down. She made him pathetic.

And perhaps that’s why I’ve never found a woman, not one who means anything to me anyway. Watching her wear Gabriel down to a nub was too much for me to handle, maybe. Or perhaps our work has kept me too busy, the constant vigilance required to stay on top when you live a life like mine.

I open my eyes.

None of that matters now.

All I need to worry about is getting ready for my dinner with the DEA, smiling, shaking hands, being seen to be Dominic DeLuca, a prosperous businessman, and not the wild beast that sometimes feels like it’s trying to break free from my body.

I stand and make my way through the back passage of the bar, between the alleyway and the wall – feeling grime smear my suit, I’ll have to change later anyway – and to the locked garage that sits opposite.

I swipe my phone against the access pad and the forest-green door starts to slide away, revealing my Mustang, night-black with tinted windows, dark rims, and a custom hood, the bottom glinting silver.

Climbing behind the wheel of this beast relaxes me a little. I settle into the seat and bring the engine to life, savoring the growl that moves through the chassis. Then I inch it out of the garage and make the awkward drive around the alleyway to the street.

The only reason I park it back here is that I can’t leave a car like this in Downtown, and the only reason I drive it is that it feels too damn good.

I bought it last week. There’s something primal and predator-like about its finish, and the engine has been customized, making it feel like I’m in a rocket ship when I get to a road where I can let her go. It’s pristine and—

And the custom hood smacks into the side door of a car, a car that’s parked right across the fucking lane sideways, sideways for some fucking reason.

All the tension from the Irish and Patty and the giant mess snaps and I climb from the car, hitting the door against the alleyway wall in my anger. That just makes more flare and I feel it raging through me as I walk toward this bastard’s car.

It’s a beat-up Ford, the fenders rusting. Some drunk asshole probably left it here after trying to drive home. I’ve just reached it when I see that the driver’s side door is open and there’s a dog curled on the front seat.

It’s a rangy breed, maybe a whippet, snow-white with long hair and red eyes as it turns lazily to me. It reminds me of the street dogs that roamed with me one summer when I lived in alleyways and hovels. But it’s too clean to be a street dog. And its nails are clipped, not worn down by concrete and fighting.

Fuck.

I’m not about to trash a car with a dog inside.

“It’s okay, boy,” I mutter. “Your owner’s just a real son of a bitch, that’s all.”

“Actually, she’s a girl,” a voice says from beside me, sassy and high pitched. “And I don’t appreciate being called a son of a bitch.”

I turn to follow the voice.

And my whole world crashes down.Chapter TwoDallasI stare at the man looming next to my car like a giant.

He really is crazily tall, probably around seven feet, and his sliver peppered hair shines in the sun. It’s swept to the side and his jaw has a light dusting of iron. His eyes are green and seem to bite into me as he stands there, his body muscled in the grayness of his suit, heaving, enraged like a bear that’s just returned home to find its lair has been messed with. His watch glints, as silver as the rest of him.

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