He was the Don, and I was just some pretty plaything. The moment I gave him what he wanted, he’d be sick of me, like a toddler with a new toy.
Cast aside, I’d be nothing.
I only had to keep him interested for five years. Then I could collect my millions and never see this place again.
The whistle of a kettle pulled me back into reality, and I wandered over to spend some time in the comfortable presence of Bea, where for a while I could pretend my world was a tiny bit normal at least.
11
Dean
Mags looked gorgeous behind the wheel of her Alfa Romeo. It was sleek and gorgeous, all Italian curves and luxury, just like her. She guided the car down into the city like she was born to it, and I could tell she was having fun, weaving through traffic on the edge of reckless. My bodyguards in the car behind were probably losing their shit.
“I didn’t know you were into driving,” I said as she exited off the freeway and slowed down as she drifted into the city proper.
“I guess I didn’t know it either until you gave me this car,” she said. “I never owned one before, you know.”
“But you’ve got your license?” I asked, tilting my head.
She grinned sheepishly. “You never asked if I had a driver’s license.”
I barked a laughed, aghast at her audacity. I couldn’t believe she’d drive without a license and not bother to tell me about it.
What a hilarious girl, a little wild risk-taker.
“Look at you, breaking the law,” I said.
“I guess you bring that out of me.”
“I like it,” I said, leaning toward her. “Take a right here. We’re going this way.” I pointed toward the west and she shrugged, guiding us down quiet, residential streets.
Deep into Healy territory.
She didn’t know that, of course, or if she did, she didn’t seem to mind. West Philly was packed with old row homes with big balconies and Victorian-style peaks and towers. Some of the buildings were truly magnificent, or at least they were at one point. These days, half of West Philly was rundown and decrepit, and all that incredible architecture was starting to decay. New style buildings were coming up like weeds, these modernist-styled things with square lines, lots of metal and glass paneling on the front, like Lego blocks for an architecture student. I hated that new style, but it was popular, and kept appearing all over the place.
Part of me held a deeply rooted nostalgia for a past I never experienced. That was my father’s generation influencing me. The old mafia men talked about how things were in the better days, when cops were lenient and the city thrived. They had this notion that things were better—but I always found that hard to believe.
Things were always bad. At least for somebody. From what I could tell, life was always getting a little bit better, even if certain groups of people lost some of their old privileges. Those privileges were only spread out to more and more, and eventually everyone would get lifted up and would benefit.
Fortunately, I wasn’t out in West Philly to worry about poverty.
“Pull over up there.” I pointed out a spot in front of a fire hydrant at the corner of the next block. She frowned at me, but obeyed.
“What are we doing here?” she asked, looking around. It was an average residential street, all houses on either side, most of them in decent repair.
I popped open the glove box and took out a gun. I checked the slide and made sure it was loaded before slipping it into my waistband. She stared at me, her eyes wide with surprise.
“Stay here,” I said, pushing open the door.
“Wait,” she said, grabbing my arm. “Hold on. What are you doing?”
I looked back at her. “Taking care of something. Ronnie and Curt will keep an eye on you.”
“Dean,” she said, but I pulled away and stepped out onto the sidewalk. I shut the door hard before she could argue more.
It was midafternoon, a pretty nice day. A young girl walked her little fluffy white dog past me and I smiled at her. She glared at me like I was some creep. Fair enough, probably the right reaction. I whistled to myself as I approached a house in the middle of the block with a big green door and bars on the downstairs window. I pulled up my collar and knocked a few times before turning my back and pulling the gun into my hands.
“Who the fuck’s that?” someone called from inside, the voice of a young man, slightly raspy.
“Package,” I said, looking over my shoulder. “Need a signature.” I was wearing dark dress slacks and a tucked-in light blue shirt and definitely didn’t look like a delivery guy, but people were wired to respond to packages these days, the fucking internet shopping addicts. Not that I was any different.