Page 14 of Black Sheep

I hold my breath and don’t answer because I feel the icy fingers of his rage crawling over my skin.

Finnan leans forward in his chair, his jaw set. “I know he’s in bed with that fucking weasel Petrosyan. I also know he’s throwing money at the Albanians. What I’m yet to fully grasp is whether he’s idiotic enough to think he can get away with it or whether he’s doing it to get my attention. Either way, what he’s doing needs answering.”

There’s much more to it than that. For one thing, Finnan’s recent troubles have had little to do with Eastern European drug lords, unless they’ve started operating out of the Pentagon and the Capitol Building in Washington, DC. But I do know he’s been trying to get back into the mob business, which he claimed to have walked away from years ago.

But I also know Finnan isn’t one to let a slight stay unaddressed, no matter how small.

Vivid memories of the kind of violence he favors flash before my eyes. “I don’t have feelings about him one way or the other except to say that my time is better spent elsewhere and not running another fool’s errand.”

I didn’t intend to let the veiled insult slip. I can only blame my weariness. But my heart races as I wonder if I’ll be taking my shower with one or two more bruises to add to the collection already on my body.

But Finnan remains seated. Calmly, he tugs open a drawer and picks up a remote.

My heart ejects itself into my throat. I haven’t seen one of Finnan’s videos in over six months. Of all his instruments of torture, this one is the most effective. It’s probably the reason I’ve blocked it out, maybe even convinced myself he’s grown bored of it.

But no. Evidently not.

He presses a button on his desk, and the panel on the opposite wall slides back to reveal a sixty-inch high-definition screen complete with surround sound for maximum viewing experience.

Fear rolls through me.

“Finnan, I didn’t mean—”

“You seem to have forgotten what I’m fighting for. What we are all fighting for. I thought, since you’re part of this family now, that you were on board with what needed to be done, but it’s clear your motivation needs a tune-up. Watch the video, Cleopatra. I’m confident it’ll help you gain some perspective.”

I want to shut my eyes. Turn away. Cover my ears so nothing filters through. But of course, my gaze fixes on the screen.

The screen turns a mottled gray for a second before the frame settles. Against my better beliefs, words of prayer roll silently through my head.

Please, dear heaven, let it be me. Don’t let it be someone I know. Don’t. Let. It. Be. A. Child.

Recalling the one time it had been a child, I lose my bravado. My numb fingers grip the edge of the desk. “Please, Finnan.”

“Watch.” Ruthless. Barbaric. The single word is uttered with a relish that cuts through my useless prayers.

At the first sight of the teenager skating along a quiet suburban street, nausea punches upward.

Oh God.

Gary Gordon lives two streets over. He turns eighteen in two months and was just accepted into college on a football scholarship. I only know this because I managed to talk my ever-present bodyguards into letting me out of the house to go running last week when Finnan was out of town. Sheila Gordon was also on a run and wasted no time inviting herself to join me to brag about her son.

A son who, oblivious to the danger stalking close by, bobs his head to the music from his headphones as he rolls down the road.

The car speeds past him, turns the corner, and parks. Whoever is operating the camera—it can only be one of Finnan’s men—reaches for a silver baseball bat lying on the passenger seat and exits.

“No.” The word trembles from my lips. Please, please, please.

Gary rounds the corner and comes face-to-face with the camera-wielding thug. He stumbles off his skateboard then covers his embarrassment by flicking it up and catching it mid-air.

He pulls out one earbud as his gaze drops to the baseball bat. Apprehension crawls over his face a second before the video cuts.

Before my screaming senses can give in to the relief they crave, a close-up of a page with neatly typed words appears on the screen. The header is in all caps, the single word underlined.

EULOGY

I turn from the screen to the monster seated behind his desk, willing my legs to keep me upright. “You didn’t have him killed. He’s not dead.” I have no basis for my assertion save for the need to believe it. The alternative is unthinkable.

“Pay attention,” he says, his voice returned to its deadly softness.

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