Page 46 of Single Mom's Daddies
He doesn’t answer.
“You’re amateurs,” I say. “And you’re playing in a league that eats amateurs.”
The second kid steps forward. “We didn’t know it was like that. We didn’t know it wasyou.”
“You do now.”
He nods. Rico mutters, “We were just doing a job.”
I go still. “A job?”
He glances at the others. “We didn’t pick that store. Someone told us to hit it.”
“Who.”
Rico hesitates.
“Do you really want me to hit you again?”
“The Costellos,” he breathes.
The words land like a punch. Everything in me goes still. Cold. And then—hot. Rising.
“The Costellos sent you.”
He nods frantically.
“Why?”
“They—they said it wasn’t covered. They said it was an easy take. They wanted a message sent.”
“To who?”
“I don’t know.”
I let go of his shirt.
He stumbles back. His breathing’s ragged now. The fight’s gone out of him. All that bravado, drained like air from a tire. The dislocated one finally stops crying. Tries to sit up.
I look at him. “You pull a weapon again. I’ll break your fingers. Then your nose. After that, I’ll get creative.”
He nods fast. Too fast.
I kneel beside him. “Where’d you get the gun?”
“We—we got it from the same guy. Same job.”
“Costellos.”
He nods. “They gave us the piece in case we needed to scare someone.”
I hold out my hand.
He hesitates, then reaches into his jacket and pulls out the pistol. It’s a small thing. Cheap. But I recognize the model. I turn it over once in my palm. The serial number’s been filed, but not well. I pocket it.
All three boys watch me like they’re waiting for a verdict.
“You’re done,” I say. “No more jobs. No more tailing shops. No more bullshit street crimes.”
