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ARCHER

L eaning back in my black leather chair, I lift my feet and prop them up on the edge of my desk. I’m not sure how much faith I have in the conversation that just took place with one of my informants, but I’m weighing all the intel in my head. Deciding if it’s worth my time to look into it more deeply.

It involves Miceli Rossi and his family. Normally, I wouldn’t worry because I know Miceli can take care of himself and his people. But a lot has happened to his family lately and I’ve been keeping an ear open. If I come across any information that can help or, in this case, warn him, I pass it along.

To be clear, I owe him nothing; he owes me nothing.

Although, technically, I suppose Miceli does owe me, but I told him not to worry about it. Owing me is like owing the devil. No one wants to go there. I’ve seen things, done things, know things…that no one else should. Or, would ever want to be aware of because they’re dark and deadly secrets.

I have my pulse on the underworld and make it my business to know what’s happening in the city at all times. If a threat arises, I handle it. My league of informants, mostly a web of criminals, keep me in the loop. I also have contacts in the police department and stay on good terms with a former CIA agent.

So when I say I know what’s happening, well, it’s a bit of an understatement. I’m like the TMZ of the NYC underworld. I get the gossip and the facts first, and then I decide how best to use that information. Who to tell, who not to tell—and who will pay the most to learn what I know.

While I rule the underworld, Miceli Rossi, on the other hand, rules the mafia kingdom. Along with the other five ruling families who made their way over from Italy and Sicily generations ago, they run the city’s businesses. While he rules the day, I rule the night.

After all I’ve done and seen, it’s where I belong—in the darkness.

I live a solitary life and that’s how I prefer it. I have no desire to ever meet a woman, get married and have a family. Darkness consumes every aspect of who I am, where I’ve been and where I’m going. There’s no room in my life for innocence. Besides, I’d probably be allergic and instantly break out in hives if I came in close proximity to anything remotely pure or good.

My attention falls on the invitation sitting on the edge of my desk. It’s for a charity masquerade ball and normally I’d ignore it. Run it through my shredder without a second thought. But, in this case, it behooves me to go. The couple holding the event recently reached out to me and asked for my services. I didn’t accept or decline yet because I like seeing people in person first, so I can watch how they interact and conduct their business before taking them on as a client. Because, let’s face it, the shit I do, that they want me to do, isn’t always on the up and up. I need to know I’m working for decent human beings because even the devil has standards. Plus I figure I can also keep a close eye on the Rossi family while I’m there, just in case trouble surfaces. Two birds, one stone kind of thing.

Rumor has it that Carmine Gallo is planning his revenge on the Rossi family and he’s willing to do anything to make it happen. Granted, Angelo and company are supposedly responsible for burning the man’s mansion down and forcing him to go into hiding because he was being hunted down by bounty hunters. But in all fairness, Gallo had put the original hit out on Angelo and his new wife, Blake Serrano Rossi. They just outsmarted him, flipped the tables, and now he’s pissed.

My gaze moves from the invite over to my cell phone, and I snatch it up. After hitting Miceli’s number, I lean back further in my chair as it rings. The other man answers almost immediately.

“Archer, how are you?”

“Oh, you know,” I respond easily, “same old, same old.”

I’d like to say I’m calling Miceli out of the goodness of my heart, but that would be a lie. It’s always business and how best I can increase the money in my coffers.

“What have you got for me?” the other man asks, getting straight to the point which is fine with me. I wouldn’t necessarily call Miceli Rossi a friend, more of a strategic business acquaintance. It’s not like we ever hang out, drink beers and shoot the shit together. No, instead, we deal in information.

And, of course, cold hard cash. Which is exactly the reason for my call. By keeping Miceli informed, which is the best and most priceless thing I can do, he will pay me back generously with favors and money. It’s a win-win situation for the both of us.

“I wanted to give you a heads-up,” I say, flicking a piece of lint off my black T-shirt. “Gallo is on the warpath and has vowed to bring you and your family down. By any means necessary.”

Rossi curses under his breath. “That asshole is becoming a thorn in my side.”

“Yeah, well, you might want to make sure he’s taken care of sooner rather than later.”

“Noted. I appreciate the heads-up. Like always, I’ll make sure you’re compensated.”

I sit up straight, my boots dropping down and hitting the floor with a dull thud. “Good doing business with you, Rossi.”

“Same.”

We hang up and then I stand up and stretch. Once again, my eyes focus on the invitation and I grab it. It’s a black envelope with my name embossed in fancy handwriting on the front. I open it and slide the black card out. All the information for the party is there in silver, foiled writing, including the part where masks and costumes are greatly encouraged.

I sigh. Playing dress-up isn’t high on my agenda, but I’ve heard all about this particular party, so I know that everyone dresses up. In fact, the guests go all out and dress to the nines. No one removes their mask until midnight and it’s a tradition that’s been going on for the past ten years.

And who am I to break tradition?

Nobody. So that means my ass has to put together a costume. Of course, I’m dreading it and have zero ideas. I also have zero friends to help me figure it out.

Shoving a hand through my black hair, I remind myself it’s for the best. Remaining alone and detached is for…the…best. I repeat the phrase to myself a few times, driving it home.

A long time ago, things had been different…and look how horribly that had turned out. No, I refuse to ever endanger anyone ever again. That means I won’t bring anyone into my world or allow myself to get too close. Especially to a woman.

Without warning, an image of Caitlin fills my head. My body reacts the same as it always does and nausea pummels my stomach. She didn’t deserve what happened to her and no amount of time that has passed has helped ease the weight of my guilt. My grief has lessened over time and that probably just makes me a bigger bastard than I already am.

Truthfully, I don’t think I’m capable of love. I’ve heard about it, read about it, even witnessed it. Hell, the Rossi men have all fallen and now their worlds revolve around their wives. But I can’t fathom meeting a woman and having my world tilt and my stomach fill with butterflies. If she’s attractive, the only thing I can count on is a hard-on and, if I’m lucky, a one-night stand.

It’s all I’m capable of, anyway. When Caitlin died, any humanity and warmth I had died along with her. I’m not a good guy. I’m cold, ruthless and enjoy the power that comes along with information. I’d much rather count the dollars in my various bank accounts around the world than cuddle with some needy woman. Because eventually they all turn needy and want more than I can give.

With another sigh, I walk over to the large picture window that overlooks New York City. The sun set a few minutes ago and the night is upon us. Bright lights glow all around and I take a moment to soak it all in. This city is my domain and I like to keep it clean of vermin and scum.

Maybe that includes you , a little voice taunts.

Shaking my head, I lock all the guilt and doubts away and cross my arms. As a former spec ops guy, I’m good at compartmentalizing. The military also taught me to be tenacious, focused and I learned how to get shit done. It also made me hate showing any kind of weakness. Projecting strength and confidence is key. It’s who I am now and there’s no going back.

As I gaze out over the city I love, my mind wanders back to Carmine Gallo. He moved here not quite two months ago and instantly started causing problems. From what I can deduce, he’s interested in taking over as much here as he can. Word on the street is he was asking a lot of questions about the other mafia families. From what I’m hearing, it sounds like he wants to take over the Five Families alliance. Or, possibly crush it entirely.

Gallo doesn’t want to share; he wants all the power and control.

He’s a greedy sonofabitch, a threat to the setup here that’s working quite nicely lately. I don’t want him riling up alliances and creating new enemies. For the first time in a very, very long time—hell, ever—the five powerhouses of this city have found a peace that always seemed to elude them. Gallo needs to be handled and I’m hoping Rossi will get it done. Otherwise, I’ll take care of it myself.

In the meantime, I need to figure out a costume for the masquerade party. Not my area of expertise, that’s for damn sure. I’m a simple guy and prefer my T-shirt and cargo pants. Comfort is a priority, but I suppose I can suck it up and put on a suit and uncomfortable mask for an hour or two.

There’s a black suit in the back of my closet somewhere. The last time I wore it was to Caitlin’s funeral almost five years ago. An image of her cream casket decorated with tiny pink roses makes my stomach roil. Some days it seems like just yesterday that she died and other times it feels like forever and a day. But the one constant, the one thing that never changes, is the heavy guilt.

Because if I had been here, if I’d been home to protect her, Caitlin would still be alive.

Okay, enough, I chastise myself. You have to let it go.

I wish I could. I really fucking wish I could stop blaming myself, but I can’t.

Turning away from the bright lights of the city night, I wander back over to my desk and drop down. The seat squeaks as I maneuver it closer to the desk and my laptop, and I quickly pull up a website and search for a mask. Hundreds and hundreds of options pop up and I honestly don’t give two shits. I just need something to cover my face and not draw attention. My plan is to stick to the shadows, like I’m good at doing, and keep an eye on the Rossi family from afar. Of course, I’ll make contact with Miceli, let him know I’m there, and he’ll deposit a ridiculous sum of money into my bank account. He’s grateful like that and it’s one of the reasons I keep him up to date on what’s happening.

I stop scrolling when a skeleton mask snags my attention. First, I like that it just covers the lower half of my face, not obscuring my eyes. And, second, it’s badass as fuck. Creepy, too. I hit buy and choose the overnight delivery option. The masquerade benefit is this weekend so I need to throw this costume together asap. I guess I have it already, though.

That wasn’t too hard, I think, sitting back and lacing my fingers.

Now what?

The question flits through my head and I suppose I could kill some time with a beer, a pizza and the newest Netflix drama. My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I haven’t eaten dinner yet. The urge to get out of my apartment fills me, though, so I decide to grab that beer and some food down at the corner pub I like to frequent. After holstering my Glock 19 at my back, I slip a jacket on, lock up and leave. I never leave home without my piece concealed somewhere on my body. The military taught me well and without a weapon, I feel naked.

I live in a warehouse apartment on the edge of the Hudson River, not too far away from Greenwich Village. My neighborhood is quieter than the Village, though, and I dig the industrial vibe of my place and being so near the docks.

When you do what I do and have done, it’s important to maintain a low profile. I don’t like drawing any attention to myself or standing out. I much prefer being a ghost, a shadow who is hard to track down, not easily found or identified. Because even though I have a lot of good connections, I also have endless enemies. People who want to usurp my power and control from me and others. Assholes like Carmine Gallo who need to be kept in their place and dealt with. They need to understand the hierarchy of this city and accept that they’re at the bottom of the totem pole.

The walk down to Flannigan’s is quick and easy, barely a block from my place. I like it because, although it can get busy, it’s never too crowded or too loud. The service is friendly, but not overly so, and the food is good.

As usual, I sidle up to the bar and perch on the end stool in the corner. It allows me to keep my eyes on the other patrons and on all of the exit points. What can I say? Old habits die hard. Jimmy, the usual weeknight bartender, heads over and greets me.

“Hey, there, what can I get you? The usual?” he asks, and I nod.

Although I don’t like to get too chummy with anyone, I’m a regular customer here, so it makes it hard to avoid. But Jimmy never asks too many questions and doesn’t pry, so I don’t mind. The other bartender, Missy, usually works the earlier shift, and even though I’ve kept my distance and answered her questions with cool, vague answers, she’s made it known on more than one occasion that she’d like to get to know me better. A whole lot better. Of course, I had to shoot her down and put an end to that real quick, but the woman is persistent. So, lately, I’ve avoided coming here when she’s working. It’s just easier.

A basketball game plays on the large TV, but I ignore it. I’ve never been overly interested in sports, unless it involved some type of shooting or martial arts. That grabs my attention because I enjoy both. But men running around and throwing balls? Not so much.

Jimmy cracks open a bottle of Heineken and slides it over to me. I order the bangers and mash which I love. It’s an Irish dish that consists of jumbo Irish sausages with homemade mashed potatoes and served with baked beans and gravy. Sounds a little disgusting, but it tastes like heaven on a plate.

After scoping out the crowd and not sensing a threat, I take a sip of beer and allow myself to relax. Well, as much as I can relax. I’m always ready to launch into action at a moment’s notice and can thank my years on my ghost ops teams for that. Dangerous missions full of enemies instilled that innate readiness and constant vigilance. Sometimes, I think it’s a good thing. Other times, I think it’s a curse.

But it’s who I am: a former operator who chose his career over his woman.

And because of that decision, which will haunt me until the day I die, she is dead and never coming back.