Page 61 of Tortured Hearts
I rest the open bottle on my lower lip and smile. “No.”
“Dick.”
“Lesson two: never make a Marchesi repeat himself. It’s not a good look fora turncoat.”
“I’m not a…” he starts, biting back the last word when I arch an eyebrow at the bloody cloth still clenched in his hands. “Goddamn it.” The curse is low and full of contempt—for me, for Henry, for the situation, but mainly for himself—for not seeing the signs before everything spun out of control.
I know. I’ve been there.
Shit, I’m there now.
Slowly and cautiously, he follows my lead, unbuttoning his blood-splattered shirt, then unclipping his prized bulletproof vest. Stuffing them both in the garbage bag along with the cloth, he kicks it toward me, then meets my eye and holds out his hand.
The corner of my mouth twitches. He’s a quick learner. That bodes well for both of us. I toss him the remaining T-shirt, waiting until he jerks it over his head before passing him the bottle. I’m impressed and a little concerned when he downs a quarter of it in one breath.
I need his head clear, not pickled.
Owen tips his chin at the label as I pry the bourbon out of his hands. “Maker’s Mark Gold Label VIP. You Italians don’t fuck around after a slaughter.”
We Italiansdon’t fuck around ever. Which brings me to the reason I’m here. I drag the only remaining chair across the floor and set it in front of him. Taking a seat, I tip the bottle back again, welcoming the burn as he watches in silence. When it’s obvious I’m not passing it back, he slumps back in his chair.
“So, what is this place?”
“An old meat packing plant. My friend, Paulie, owns some businesses I have exclusive access to.” I swing the bottle around the decrepit room. “This one hasn’t been operational for over a decade as far as the state of New Jersey is concerned.”
After a few intentional moments of said silence, he drags his palm down his face with a heavy sigh, stilling as he takes in mydress slacks and designer shoes. “You look … different.”
“And you look relatively good for a dead man.”
He exhales roughly. “I guess getting shot three times makes me a real gangster, huh?”
“No, because it’s not 1928. Besides, none of those bullets actually hit you.”
“What do you call this?” He pulls the collar of his T-shirt to the side and points to… Well, I’m not sure what the hell he’s pointing to. There’s a dot on his shoulder that could be a bruise, maybe a mole. Honestly, he may want to get that checked out.
I shrug. “Bad aim?”
“Fuck you.” He releases his collar with a scowl. “You know, Henry used to ridicule me for wearing a bulletproof vest. He said I was being paranoid. Looks like the joke was on him.”
“People are chameleons, Holmes. They adapt to fit their surroundings.”
“Henley.” When I say nothing, he studies his hands again. “My last name isn’t Holmes. It’s Henley. You weren’t the only one operating under an alias.”
“Found that out the hard way,” I mutter into the bottle.
“Johnny, I?—”
“Gianni.”
“Right.” He drags his fingers across the blond stubble on his jaw. “That may take some getting used to. Regardless, I hope you know I would’ve never walked you into a war zone if I’d known…” When his hand drops from his face and goes for his pocket, so does mine. However, as I go to draw my Glock, I see the black leather square in his hand. I watch carefully as he flips it open and removes the silver star-shaped U.S. Marshal badge. He twirls it between his thumb and forefinger and chuckles dryly before tossing it by his feet. “Checks and balances, my ass.”
I swipe it off the floor seconds before his heel comescrashing down on top of it. At his cocked eyebrow, I place the badge back in his palm. “Do the feds know Henry was dirty?”
Owen shakes his head and closes his fingers around it.“If we don’t report a problem, they don’t go looking for one. I forwarded the link to him, too. That’s why he shot me,” he says, clenching his teeth. “He knew it was just a matter of time until he was exposed.”
“Erase you, erase the link,” I mutter. “That asshole really thought he was the only one who’d seen it.”
“Henry could never see beyond his own ego. It’s why he assisted missions instead of leading them.” He glances down at his hands. “And why even after pulling that trigger, ransacking my office, and texting himself from my phone, he forgot one important detail…”
