Page 6 of Dark Empire

Alfie didn’t have to say it, but I heard thebullshitall the same. I doggedly refused to look up from the sink. Instead, I was busy channeling all my rage and heartbreak and guilt into the task at hand, scrubbing furiously at the blood under my fingernails. That was the problem with blood, though. You could scrub and scrub, but long after the visible stains were gone, it lingered. And tonight, it felt like my soul was dripping with it.

“This wasn’t your fault, Con.”

Wasn’t it, though? Johnny wasmysnitch. He trusted me to look out for him. To guide him, to know when he was getting in too deep, and to pull him out before he got hurt. To protect him. Hell, the kid was only nineteen, barely even out of high school. His Ma played poker with Alfie’s every Thursday.

Johnny was family. He was my responsibility, and I had let him down.

But on the flip side of that guilt was the burning curiosity over whatever he had been trying to tell me. It must have been something earth-shattering, otherwise he never would have risked public contact like he had.

I closed my eyes and forced myself to take a deep breath. Forced my racing pulse to slow, forced myself to find that cold, dark center deep within me. It was my equilibrium, my sanctuary. The guys all said I had ice water running through my veins, and I had plenty of practice cultivating that reputation. Only Alfie knew the truth of it.

“Connor.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“It’s a bad fucking business with Johnny, man.” Alfie folded his tattooed arms across his chest, never taking his eyes off me. “I know you feel like this is on you…"

“Enough, Alfie.”

“…but this was nothing like Aiden.”

Okay, so we’re doing this. Bastard just wasn’t going to let it go, and then he had to go and bring my cousin’s name into it. If there was anything that was going to send my blood pressure through the roof, that was it.

“You done peckin’ at me like a mother hen?” I snapped. “You ain’t me mam—”

“And thank god for that.”

“Then stop shite-ing on about Aiden—" I clenched my jaw, muttering under my breath, a mixture of obscenities and half-formed Gaelic curses.

“Careful there, Con—your Irish is showin’.”

My lips twitched. Goddamnit. My accent only came out to play when I got especially agitated, something Alfie loved to instigate almost as much as he loved to point out.

“I just want to know where your head’s at, brother.” Alfie’s usual smirk was gone, replaced with such genuine concern that I immediately regretted snapping at him.

I sighed, looking at the reflection of my best friend in the mirror. “John’s got something, Alfie. Something big.” I shook my head. “I’ve never seen him like it. Kid’s as clutch as they come, but I’ve never seen him this spooked.”

Alfie frowned. “Moretti planning on making a move?”

“I can’t even begin to guess. That’s the problem.” I ducked my head and splashed some water on my face. Ice cold water.

Johnny didn’t need me losing my head to the spiral of guilt. He needed a brother who could take care of business. I didn’t mention to Alfie the one thing I had been able to make out of what Johnny was trying to tell me in the back seat of that Town Car, because I was praying it wasn’t true—that we had a mole. I needed to talk to Johnny when he woke up. I needed to know the truth of it before I started busting heads. Just the possibility of one of my guys turning coat and selling us out to the Italians was enough to make my blood boil, and it was more than enough to clear my head.

“The second John’s stable, I want him moved to the safe house,” I said. “We’re too exposed here.”

“We didn’t have a choice. The kid was in a bad way.”

“I know.” I said. “I’m not bustin’ your balls over it, you did the right thing. But if Moretti finds out the kid’s still alive, he’s going to come back and finish the job.”

“You’re sure it was them?”

The thing was, Iwasn’tabsolutely sure it was the Italians who had gunned him down. Johnny had been the one to set the meet in Back Bay, and while it wasn’t quite Moretti’s territory, it wasn’t ours, either. I hadn’t even made it around the corner where Johnny was waiting when the first shots went off. By the time I had made it to his side, Johnny was down and all I could do was fire blindly at the retreating shadows. I never got a good look at shooters.

But if it wasn’t then Italians, then who? The Irish dominated South Boston. My uncle, Callum McTiernan, controlled everything east of Dorchester Avenue, including the coveted Seaport District, while his associate, Arthur Sullivan, ran a crew out of South End. Irish to the south, Italians to the north. Small rivals popped up here and there, wannabe kingpins rising out of the street gangs to challenge our holdings or just create some trouble, but none of them held a candle to Moretti’s outfit. The Italians were organized, they were ruthless, and they were unrelenting.

And it was no secret they wanted the Seaport for themselves.

That’s why I’d had Johnny keep an eye on them. Half Irish, half Italian, he could pass muster and knew enough contacts in the North End to make it believable. For months, Johnny had just brought back crumbs, tip-offs to minor deals or the locations to some of the smaller drug caches. We didn’t deal the dope ourselves, but we knew plenty of people that did, and in the end, all that mattered was less money going into Moretti’s pockets. But finally, Johnny had hit pay dirt, and he had stumbled across something big enough to land him in the hospital.

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