Page 39 of Refrain

“What? That surprise you?” Arno chuckles to rub in my silence and takes another sip of liquor. Then another. A second later, he’s finished off the whole damn bottle. “I’ll tell you what would surprise me though.” He slams the bottle down again, his eyes gleaming in the dim lighting. “Ifyouheard from Dante or that little bitch and didn’t think to enlighten me.”

I grit out a sigh. “I haven’t heard from either of them—”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, now would you?” He’s been drinking too much. The violet bruises beneath his eyes warn he hasn’t slept, either—though that can’t be completely blamed on paranoia or grief.

In six months, he’s turned the Gardai from a laughingstock into a force even Piotr Petrov has to acknowledge. Surprise, surprise, revenge fuels most of that newfound ambition. The best of men could forgive someone for bailing on them once.

Never twice.

And I know better than to pour salt into his wounds now. Dante can do his own dirty work.

“You haven’t heard anything?” he presses. “Not even a fucking postcard?”

“If I had, I would have told you.” I sound like a hostage reading a script, though maybe I am. I’ve memorized what to say when he’s like this. It’s become a fucking mantra. “Look. Dante’s my brother—”

“You think I don’t fucking know that?”

“But so are you. You were always there for me.Always.I won’t bail on you.” Tonight, anyway. “You know that.”

“Do I?” Arno hisses out a breath, his shoulders slumping as he braces one hand against the table. “I do—I fucking know that. Iknowthat.”

We both just needed to hear me say it, though for very different reasons.

“It’s probably just a fucking coincidence,” he adds, shaking his head. “Some new gang on the scene that wants a cut of the pie.Whoever they are can get in fucking line.” He runs his hand down the side of his jeans, his palm resting over where he keeps his gun.

That little tea party didn’t cure his itch for violence. Before the week’s out, he’s going to empty that chamber into someone. It’s another addiction he’s developed, in addition to booze.

“You said that guy worked for the Cartel, but he wasn’t from south of the border, if you know what I mean,” I say, changing the subject. “Jose isn’t known for his inclusive employment policy.”

“You’re right. He didn’t,” Arno admits between clenched teeth. “He was one of the Jersey Devils. Those crack-dealing punks. Their whole den got wiped out two nights ago, courtesy of the so-calledSpanishbitch, and he ran to Jose like a little pussy rather than remember who his gang owes their protection to. Word on the street is the arsonists are the same ones who ghosted the Russians, but no one seems to know where they hold base or just who they’re after.”

“Shit.”

“You got that right.” Arno hauls himself upright and runs a hand through his hair. The look on his face could be called a smile by some loose definition of the term. Nothing seems to reach him these days like the threat of a good fight. “But you didn’t come here about that.” He meets my gaze directly, and I almost think I see a hint of his old self. “You wanted something. What?”

It’s not an ideal subject to tackle while he’s still got Old Besty the revolver in his pocket, but rarely is he this lucid after downing a whole bottle.

“I have some friends who need jobs—and before you even ask, they both could bring trouble.” I inhale sharply, wishing I had a cigarette to take the edge off. “And…they’re Russians, both from Piotr’s territory.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Arno raises an eyebrow, hisfingers twitching in and out of fists. “I assume you have a good reason for bringing that shit into my bar.”

“Nogoodreason,” I admit. “They need protection—”

“What makes you think thatwewon’t need protection if they decide to bring their little Ruskie friends in for a tour?”

“It’s not like that. One of the girls was one of…one of theirs,” I say for lack of a better word. “Newly freed this afternoon. She needs someplace to lie low before I can get her out of the city.Andshe’s the one who fed me all that intel on Vlad and his operation. Information you can use now to take over some of the bastard’s territory, if you haven’t already.”

Arno always was an opportunist.

“As for the other… She killed Vladimir Olshenkov that night at the club. With an ashtray. Use your imagination to figure out how.”

“Damn,” Arno grunts. Whether in amusement or appreciation, I can’t tell. “So, Vlad’s dead.”

I nod. “I guess I never got to give you the full story of what happened.”

“I figured as much on my own. The Ruskies are running around the fucking city like rats without a queen. Piotr must not be back in the country yet. I might as well make my mark while I can.” He has that hungry look again. The one he typically wears before playing games of Russian roulette.

“So, can they stay?” I ask, bringing his attention back to the subject at hand.

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