Page 45 of The Mafia Heir's Obsession

I keep going until the man stops crying and pleading and goes limp.

A rattling gurgle fills the air.

“Is he a good boss?”

The dude clears his throat, looking green. “No, he doesn’t pay us enough.”

The woman’s way more together, and the disgust that spreads over her face tells me things, too.

“So no one would miss him?”

“No, Mr. Murphy,” she says.

This time I look at Seamus. “Call the cleaners.”

And I pull my gun and shoot the fuck in the head. Then I turn and fully face Estevez. “Make sure people are paid. You should get enough from transporting and holding. If there’s a problem with anyone, let me know. I expect payment on time every time. You’re in charge. Someone will be by to clean up this mess.”

“Yes, Mr. Murphy.” She then hurries to a safe and unlocks it, pulling out a stack of money she gives to Seamus, who puts it into his pocket.

No need to count it right here. Everyone now understands what happens when you fuck with me.

Clive hands me a rag he got from who the hell knowswhere so I can clean the blood off. I put my gun away and light up another smoke as we head out to the car. As I get into the SUV, cigarette in my hand, Seamus says, “Feeling better?”

“No.”

That’s the short answer. And as we head out of Brooklyn and back to Manhattan, I close my eyes, listening to the call Seamus has with Torin about our other interests of the day, smoking my cigarette, and I think, no. No, I don’t feel better. Beating up and killing that piece of shit hasn’t relieved a thing.

There’s only one person who can, and that’s Lucie fucking Joy.

“Pull over,” I say a few blocks from the brownstone.

Seamus grabs my arm. “Fuck, Cal, there’s blood on you.”

“It’s New York, no one cares.” And I get out.

I cross to the bodega on the corner, stubbing out my cigarette before I go in. I buy some supplies and, at the last minute, some fancy bottles of Mexican Coca-Cola.

When I leave, I wander down along the street and I turn onto West Eleventh and head up near the little park. He’s there, near a tree. “Hey, you wanna come home with me today? Got me a pretty girl you’ll like.”

The dog whines, ducking after letting me pet him once. He’s not that old, and the German shepherd mix is big, but not as big as he could be. He’s growing but still a puppy, just not the cute small puppy anymore, which is why, I suspect, some fuckers dumped him off here. He growls but I rub his head, crouching and working open the first little tray of dog food for him.

He forgets his fear and pushes me half over in his haste to get to it. I give him a second one, then a third, then I open the kibble and put some in the trays. They’re clean in minutes flat.

He whines, nosing for more, and when I stand, taking the bag, he barks. “Stop that, Arnold,” I tell him.

He does, tilting his head, big liquid eyes gazing anxiously at me. “You could come home with me, fella. You don’t have to come inside, but we have this thing called a New York yard. It’s a small area that’s a postage stamp on either side of the steps, but it’s fenced. You could stay, come, and go.” I bend in and shake the bag. “Give you some more food and water.”

He whines.

Arnold the stray is a beautiful dog, but since I haven’t had the chance to see him in the past week, I don’t think he’s been eating much other than dropped food. I can see his ribs.

He’s followed me before, so I’m banking on him doing the same now. Maybe this time I’ll get him in that yard where I can lead him through the basement and into the actual walled-off garden in the back. If I can, then… then he’ll be safe.

I grab a handful of the kibble and start to walk, dropping some every few steps. Arnold follows.

We get close, really close. To the fucking gate close. But a siren lights up the street with sound and an ambulance careens past.

Arnold barks and backs off, turning and running.

---