Page 50 of Insurgent

He looks at me. “Don’t worry about it. Get to the bank.”

I feel my eye twitch. “Yeah, okay.”

He looks at Nugget. “You’re coming with me,” he says.

Nugget smiles, like he just won over daddy. I wink at him because I love fucking with that man. His smile falls, and he points at me behind Moretti’s back.

I smirk, watching them as they leave.

“Looks like somebody’s got a new favorite,” Trig says teasingly.

I keep my eyes on the door they just walked out of, wondering where they’re headed. Moretti’s changed over the last few years. He’s sloppy, and the fact he’s picking Nugget to go on these little secret business meetings instead of me has me curious.

“You never tell us any stories about your childhood,” Trig says.

“The hell you wanna know about my childhood for?”

He shrugs. “Why not?” He slides a paper band around the stack of bills he just grabbed from the machine. He’s right. I never talk about my childhood. There are things even Sweep doesn’t know.

There’re just certain things a person keeps to themselves. We all have secrets, and I don’t think that’s a bad thing. But I also don’t think opening up a little could hurt anyone. Trig’s always telling me his psychiatrist says it’s good to let things out.

I nod, tilting my head in a shrug. “I was raised in the Catholic church. Had a bunch of people in and out of the house a lot. My dad was a bookie for Moretti when Moretti was deep into the gambling world, until he got murdered, that is.”

“You never told me about that,” Sweep says.

“Yeah, well, I’m telling you now.” I grab my smoke from the ashtray. “I loved the man. Wanted to be just like him. I’d lie on the floor playing with Matchbox cars while he worked. He’d tell me all kinds of stories about Ireland and what his life was like over there. I soaked up everything that man said, like his words were bible.” I look down at the table for a moment, recalling a time he had some men over for dinner. I tell Sweep and Trig about it, wearing a smile. “I wasn’t supposed to be listening, but you know me by now. I’m not one to follow rules.

“Laughing and dirty talk went around the table as they all ate, licking their fingers and drinking their whiskey. One man was talking shit about another who apparently wasn’t there, and my dad turned and looked at him, pointed, and said, ‘What you’re saying about Miller says a whole lot more about you than it does Miller.’

“Everyone stopped talking and Moretti looked at the guy who was running his mouth and told him to shut the hell up. He said, ‘You don’t talk about a man who isn’t here to defend himself.’ I knew right then, Moretti, like me, had respect for my dad. Hence, why he got revenge for his death.”

“How so?” Trig asks.

I look over at him. “He had them murdered. Them and their families.”

“How’d he find out who did it? Killed your parents, I mean,” Sweep says.

“Me. The men were stupid and didn’t have on a mask, so I knew exactly what they looked like.” I pass the joint to him. “I remembered the one man had a black diamond ring on his finger.

“A week later, I was walking out of Ma’s house and saw a note left on the doorstep, along with an old teddy bear. The thing had shoes on and a black t-shirt,” I recall. “Note read, ‘A present for you.’” I wave my hand in the air. “I noticed a slit in the back of the bear, and stuffed inside was a bloody finger with a black diamond ring on it. I tossed the finger, kept the ring.” I hold my hand up, showing the ring. I’ve been wearing it a lot lately. It reminds me to keep my shit together. A time will come for change, but now is not that time. “I never said anything about it to my brothers or Ma.”

“Or me,” Sweep says, offering the joint to Trig, but he declines.

“Or you,” I say.

“I knew in a sense of what it meant, but when I ran into Moretti on the street one day, he confirmed it. The finger was the gift, a show of respect.” I feel my eyes slant as I stare toward the door. “But that was a long time ago. Moretti’s changed.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Sweep says.

I look over at Trig when I hear the pop of his rubber band.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?”

He shakes his head, his eyes looking down at my hand. I crack my knuckles and stand up. “You two get this shit to the bank. I’m going to take a ride.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Bexley

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