Page 2
ONE
SNOW
ROYCE
I ’ve always hated the snow.
It’s cold. Wet. Damn inconvenient, too. Springfield gets its fair share of it, but there was no such thing as snow days in the city when I was a kid unless we were talking feet instead of inches, and I’d bet part of my dislike stems from way back then.
Two decades later and I still curse under my breath when I see the first flakes fall—and for a totally different reason than when I was a ten-year-old icicle, tromping my way through the eight blocks it took me to get to my elementary school.
The snow makes clean-up duty a bitch.
Countless footprints crunch the crusty, icy, day-old layer. Some of the snow melted through the day, turning into a solid sheet once the sun went down and the February temperature dropped. I’d prefer the fluffy shit. At least, then, I could kick aside the prints and no one would know we were here.
Instead, to mess up the scene, I instructed Marco and Case to add even more steps around the back of this empty lot while Killian searches for any shell casings we missed on our first sweep.
While I supervise, I stamp my feet, trying to get some feeling back in them. I can just hear Devil’s low growl as he mutters that I should’ve grabbed boots before I set out. My insistence on wearing my Italian loafers out to the scene meant I slipped once already on a patch of black ice I thought was a safer bet than the unplowed lot. One of the guys snickered. Too busy trying to keep from busting my ass, I don’t know which one it was, but they were all conveniently doing their tasks when I looked around before.
We’re a well-oiled machine. There’s five of us that Link calls on when there’s body duty, and All-Thumbs is back at the van, laying out the tarp so we can bag up the DB and store him until we can bury him.
If it wasn’t a syndicate-related hit, I’d leave him here. Good riddance. For the last six months, Garrett Fink’s been a pain in my ass. An informant who traded his info for free drinks down at the Playground, he kept hinting that he was going to spend more time over on the East End. It was his heavy-handed way of saying that he thought he’d get better perks informing for the Libellula crime family, and that the Sinners needed to step up.
I didn’t bother Link with that. I gave Garrett a couple of ‘sure’s and ‘maybe’s before eventually telling him that, if he wanted to see what being a Dragonfly was like so bad, go right ahead. He didn’t have Devil’s mark on his skin. He wasn’t a Sinner. He wasn’t a prisoner of the Devil’s Playground, either. He could leave whenever he wanted.
Garrett must have, too, since we got the call in earlier that his body was found in neutral territory, just a shade closer to the East End Damien Libelulla rules than the West Side where us Sinners have our turf.
It would be so much easier if the boss hadn’t gone along with the idea of a truce between us and the Dragonflies. I understand why he did. When his rival had his gun to Ava’s head, Link was willing to sacrifice anything to keep his wife safe. If that meant finally giving in to Damien’s insistence that his Family and the Sinners didn’t have to be constantly at war, fine. He would’ve done anything to get Ava out of danger.
Did I expect that he’d follow through with it once she was locked up tight, safe and sound inside of their penthouse? No. Last August, I had every one of our guys on guard, ready to retaliate.
Link had us stand down. First, because he was distracted by the big church wedding he was throwing for Ava. Then, because he found out that he was getting that heir he wanted after all. He’d knocked Ava up, and suddenly the idea that there wouldn’t be a firefight between the two main players in Springfield seemed a lot more attractive to the father-to-be.
Or maybe the friendship he once had with Damien meant enough to Link that it was worth seeing if we could have a little peace.
Not like I could say anything. The other Sinners wouldn’t dare, but as Link’s second, I technically could— but when I remember that I’m the reason the big divide between Sinners and Dragonflies really began to grow six years ago and… yeah. He wants peace?
I’ll do whatever the fuck I have to to get that peace for Link. And if that means standing here when it’s twenty degrees out, just about freezing my nuts off, I’ll do that, too.
There’s gotta be at least four inches of snow behind the warehouse from yesterday’s storm. That icy layer is cracked beneath the weight of Garrett’s body, the blood shimmering against the unbroken plane of ice next to him that cradles the former informant’s chest. And while the snow makes it easier to find the shell-casings, that’s about the only thing it’s good far.
Snow tracks prints. Vivid red blood spatter stands out against the white powder.
It’s a clean-up nightmare, and we’re out here longer than I want to be.
Killian’s the one who found the baggie of Breeze during the first sweep. Doesn’t take a true crime genius to figure out that while Garrett had a rep for being a snitch for the Sinners, there was a reason he drifted this close to the East End—and it wasn’t for intel. The Libellula Family are responsible for the drugs in Springfield, and this seems like a buy gone bad.
“Okay, fellas,” I call out once the body’s been moved and Case used a shovel to disturb any bit of bloody snow he could find. “Let’s finish up and get the fuck out of here.”
My hands are numb as I cup my mouth, letting my voice carry on the winter wind. There’s no one besides us back here, and even if there was? The locals ignored a man being shot and left for dead in the snow. In Springfield, they couldn’t care less about a crew of guys cleaning it up after the fact.
Especially since, even if they called the cops, odds are they’d be on the phone with someone on either Link’s payroll—or Damien’s.
There are two cars parked next to the van: a basic, boring black sedan, and a basic, boring silver one. The van itself is white, blending in with the snowy backdrop; so long as you don’t see the city grime turning the edges of it black and slushy.
Garrett’s body is loaded up in the back of the van with All-Thumbs getting the shit end of the stick, sitting back there with it. Marco’s got the wheel, Case sitting next to him. Like me, Killian drove to the scene in his own ride. His is silver. Mine is the black one.
As the head of the crew, I’ll be the last one on the scene. I wait for the three younger soldiers to get situated in the van first, then for Killian to start up his car before I even think about heading for mine.
No matter how much my toes feel like rocks in my loafers.
Once Marco turns on the engine, he rolls down the window and raps the top of the van. Case bitches about him letting the cold air in, but he ignores his partner.
“Hey, yo,” he says instead, talking to me and Killian. “We’re heading to the Playground once we put Fink on ice again.” We have our own quasi-morgue storage where we put bodies when the ground’s too frozen to bury them right away. That’s where I’ve decided Garrett will go for now. Once it warms up a little, he’ll be nothing more than a memory to Springfield. “You guys wanna come with?”
Killian answers before I do. “Sorry, but I promised Jas I’d be home as soon as I finish up here. Maybe next time.”
Killian and Jasmine got married about a year ago now. For the first few months, the other guys gave him a gentle ribbing over how devoted he is to her, but when Twig—fucking Twig who didn’t learn to shut his mouth all the way up until Link blew his cock off—went too far one time and Killian knocked him out with a well-aimed punch, the other guys decided his wife was off-limits.
As she fucking should be.
Marco nods, wisely not say a word to Killian before he jerks his chin my way. “What about you, Rolls?”
Good question.
Up until the beginning of November, that would’ve been a no-brainer. If Link didn’t have a job for me special, and none of the Sinners needed me to step in between them and our boss, my back-up gig was running the Devil’s Playground. Officially, I manage the place. Unofficially, Jessie Byers does, and I sit in my assigned booth off the dance floor, keeping my eyes on things when Link can’t.
The other Sinners like me being approachable. Compared to Link, I definitely am, and part of that means giving them access to me. The Playground isn’t just our money-maker. It’s our headquarters, with a club and a brothel and a casino out front, and the rest of our operation filling the buildings attached to it. We own the entire block the Playground sits on—and a good chunk of the surrounding streets, too, one way or another—and anything a good business needs, we have.
Me? I prefer the limelight. I don’t mind everyone in the club knowing who I am, and even if they don’t jump when I enter the way they do when Link does, I’m respected there—and welcomed.
But then, in November… well, I still spend a lot of my time at the Playground, but that’s only because I have a reason to be there now. When I don’t?
There’s somewhere else I’d rather be.
“I don’t know, Marco. Let’s see. How ‘bout… heads I take a rain-check, tails I join you.”
Pulling a quarter from my pocket, I give it a practiced flip. It goes about a foot high before arcing, landing in my palm. I slap it against the back of my other hand, snorting to myself when I see George Washington’s profile peering up at me.
I tilt it so that Marco can see what it landed on, then palm it. “Looks like I’m gonna have to pass this time. But you have fun without me. Tell Jessie I said you get two rounds on the house to get the chill out of your bones, yeah?”
Case hoots. “‘Atta boy, Rolls.”
A muffled voice comes from the back of the van. “Since you’re wimpin’ out early, does that mean one of us can have your rounds?”
“Sure,” I say with a shrug. I can just imagine All-Thumbs’ greedy expression in the back, and how quickly it’ll slide off his bearded face when I add, “One for Marco. One for Case. None for the big mouth who thinks I can’t handle the cold when he’s the one who asked to be on bag duty.”
Dickhead. He spent half the clean-up in the van and he wants to yank my chain? I’m not Link. I won’t retaliate by swinging my fist or pulling out my piece. But if depriving one of my guys of some free booze reminds him where his place is in our hierarchy?
Yeah. I’ll do that, too.
Killian drives off first. Marco rolls up his window, more to drown out All-Thumbs’ groaning that I’m being an ass than because Case is still complaining that it’s fucking cold out.
Once they get gone, I open up my curled fingers, glancing down at the quarter nestled against my palm. There’s ol’ George Washington again. With a grin, I flip it, nodding to myself when I see him on the other side. Maybe it’s not fair, rigging my pockets with a double-headed quarter in the right one, and a double-tailed one in the left, but life’s not fair, is it?
Besides, I never leave anything up to chance.
When I started checking her schedule, seeing what shifts Jessie put her on, I should have known it was more than just making sure the new waitress I hired for the Playground was settling in well.
At first, I told myself that she was new to the job and the life. It isn’t often we take on waitresses that don’t have the sort of experience our girls need, but when Officer Burns suggested Nicolette Williams for an opening, I did the interview as a favor for one of Link’s cops. If I didn’t think she would be a good fit for us, I’d say I tried, then send her on her way.
Well. That was the plan.
Then I met her. I got my first glimpse into those haunted brown eyes of hers. I looked at her wavy, golden blonde hair—a few shades darker than my own—and imagined it spilling across my pillow. The tiny diamond stud in her nostril winked up at me, tempting me in a way I couldn’t understand at the time. And when I asked her why she wanted the job, the frank way she said, “Because I desperately need money,” resonated with me.
She was working at an Italian restaurant in downtown Springfield already so she had server experience. When I probed her more on how much she was looking for, she had another honest answer: “More than I’m getting at Mama Maria’s, but not as much as I’d get if I sold myself alongside some whiskey.”
I respected that. Anyone who’s in Springfield long enough to learn about what the Sinners Syndicate sells discovers that we do the three g’s: girls, gambling, and guns. For a cut of the profits and promised protection, we have rooms on the floor above the Playground where ‘wallets’—our customers—can buy a night with one of our girls.
Nicolette didn’t want to become one of them. She just wanted to sling drinks and earn tips, and with Burns’s recommendation in my ear, I took her on—and that’s fucking bullshit. Link’s the one who deals with the crooked cop. I didn’t hire her for Burns.
I hired her for me .
It’s hard to explain. From the moment she walked into my office for the interview, I was snagged. She caught my attention, and I kept waiting for her to lose it. Due to my own twisted code of ethics, as soon as I gave her the job, she became untouchable to me.
Three months later, and I’m regretting that.
I don’t fuck my employees. It’s a thin line, but one I don’t cross. And I would have had to have been a bigger asshole than I am to refuse her a well-paying job just because something about her made me want her at first glance.
So I gave her the job, put Jessie in charge of her, and tried to keep my distance.
Tried.
Definitely failed.
The spark was there during the interview. No denying that. Nicolette caught my eye, and whenever we were at the Playground at the same time, I unerringly found her. She seemed to fit in easily with some of the other waitresses, making friends with a couple of the downstairs girls. Then I heard through the grapevine that, despite how clear she made it she was in it for the cash, she gave one of the other girls half her paycheck so Tina could buy Christmas presents for her kids.
I arrange bonuses for the Playground employees every Christmas. Following Nicolette’s lead, I doubled it for the front staff out of my own pocket so that anyone working for the Sinners had a merry Christmas. When I realize that I did that because I wanted her to have one… well, I didn’t play favorites.
I want to play favorites.
She’s so fucking cute. I can’t explain it. I’ve gone for all kinds of women before. Knock-outs, plain Janes, women who are more adorable than attractive. I’m a ‘personality’ guy, first and foremost, and the little hints of who she is behind her apron and her serving tray intrigue me. More than that, though, she’s cute . Only a couple of years younger than I am, the twenty-seven-year-old waitress has a perpetual smile on her face, and whenever she’s not being drowned out by the thumping bass coming from the club’s dance floor, she prances around the kitchen, humming songs under her breath.
I recognized one. Some Disney shit, about a spoonful of sugar. It’s an infectious melody that got stuck in my head for days, to the point that I fired up my TV, found the film, and watched Mary Poppins for the first time in my life to see what she liked about it.
That’s not all I did, either.
It’s Link’s fault. When I couldn’t get her deceptively innocent face out of my head, I started watching her as she made her way around the club, taking orders and serving drinks. The tiny uniforms our waitresses wear might be good for business—and excellent for tips—but when I couldn’t go a single night without stopping by my personal office and rubbing one out… I knew I was in trouble.
Then, when I stopped chasing other women because none of them compared to her… I accepted that I was fucked, and obviously not in the good way.
So, pulling a page out of Link’s book, I started to watch her. No. Let me be clear. It became stalking, and I knew I crossed a different line the first time I looked up her schedule, saw she was off, tapped into the HR files, got her address, and went by. I just wanted to see if she was there, and when she was ? I didn’t leave.
Just like I caught Link doing three years ago, I sat in my car and I watched Nicolette’s windows for any glimpse of her I could find.
I spied the cameras the first time I drove over to her house. They’re not like the regular doorbell ones that some homeowners get. She has that, yeah, but two pairs of obvious surveillance cameras. One on each side of her house so that there aren’t any dead spots, plus another couple posted on the back to guard the fenced-in yard.
The last thing I needed was it getting back to the Playground that the club’s boss was stalking one of its waitresses. I stay away from them, but the amount of cameras—coupled with a few things I’ve picked up on since watching over Nicolette—has me sure that she’s not just being diligent. She’s looking out for something… and that gives me the perfect excuse to do the same.
That’s how I justify it. I’m watching her. I’m keeping her safe.
From what? I have no clue. From the outside, nothing. She goes to work, she goes to the house that’s in her mother’s name, and she lives alone while her mother is currently visiting family in Florida; I overheard her mentioning that to another one of our servers and turned that into further justification for keeping my eye on her. Taking as many shifts as she can to get the money that she needs, she’s at the Playground almost as much as I used to be, and when she isn’t?
She’s here.
And, fuck , I think to myself as I park my car in its usual spot down the street from her house, so am I.