Page 23 of Lawbreaker

He grew more somber as she spoke. His black eyes narrowed and grew sad. “Yes, they do,” he replied quietly.

One big hand was toying with a button on his jacket, and she frowned, looking at it.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I wanted to ask, but it seems a little, well, personal,” she began, nodding toward the very obvious scar on the back of his hand.

He drew in a breath. “I was in a gang when I was fourteen,” he said, his eyes with a faraway look in them. “There was a rival gang. I got careless, and they caught me out. Took me to a warehouse that was deserted. It was where they hung out. The gang leader smiled and said they were going to give me a nice tattoo before they killed me, so everybody would know who did it.”

He studied the scar. “This was their sign. He carved it into my hand with a knife. Then he put the knife against my throat and told me to say my prayers, if I did that sort of thing.”

She was listening intently, her breath suspended, hiding horror at what could have been.

“There was a rattle at the door that diverted him, just long enough.”

“What happened?” she asked when he didn’t continue.

He searched her pale, innocent eyes. This wasn’t a story he could share. “He got a lesson in manners and went home on a stretcher, so to speak. His gang broke up.”

“You could afford to have the scar removed. But you didn’t,” she said softly.

He nodded, his face somber. “I kept it because it reminds me to never get careless, never puff myself up with false pride. I thought I was one tough guy, invincible. I wasn’t. It was a life lesson I never forgot. This—” he indicated the scar “—is a talisman, of sorts.”

“I’m glad he didn’t kill you,” she said with simple honesty. “But how did you get away?”

“I had a gang, too,” he replied with a smile. “My guys were a little tougher than his. My best friend missed me and guessed what had happened. They came after me. That’s all. But there’s always somebody bigger, stronger, smarter, more dangerous. That’s why you never let your guard down, with anybody. You can be sold out by the best friend you ever had.”

“I guess that’s true,” she said sadly.

His eyes were ancient as they met hers. “It is. Did you ever read about the former head of the criminal organization in Chicago, what they call the Outfit?”

She nodded. “I have this book about painting houses, except it doesn’t have anything to do with painting houses...”

He scowled. “You read that stuff?”

“I read everything,” she said simply, smiling. “I like true crime stories and mystery novels, that sort of thing.”

He was fascinated by her and trying very hard not to betray himself. “There’s a story in that book about how one of the leaders died. Remember it?”

She nodded. “They said his best friend killed him. That was true?”

“It’s like this,” he told her. “People who get high up in those circles are suspicious of everybody. Nobody outside can get close enough for a hit. So you pick a close friend and you say either you do him, or we do you and him, and he’s still dead.” He shrugged. “That’s how it works.”

Her lips fell apart. “I thought it was just a story.”

He searched her eyes until his body began to ache. He pried his away. “No.”

“Goodness.”

He glanced at his watch. “It’s late.”

“Yes.” She turned to Rudolf and bent to pat him on the head. “Thanks for sharing your space with me, sweet boy,” she said gently.

The big snake just looked at her with his big red eyes, but he moved restlessly and blinked at her.

“Somebody told you that Donalson hates snakes, I guess,” he mused.

She chuckled as she stood up. “Yes. I couldn’t get by him to go back upstairs because he was heading right for me. So I thought about Rudolf and I came in here.”