Page 2 of Unchained
“That will do. We still need to discuss mom and which assisted living location she needs to go.” She paused for a second, knowing I disagreed with putting our perfectly healthy mother in a place that wouldn’t take care of her needs. She was doing just fine on her own. Truth be told, sis just wanted to put our responsibility off on someone else.
“See you in the morning.”
“You better show up, Deacon.”
I ended the call and took a left before parking along the street.
I sat in the car and looked over at the Little Havana club, where a lot of Miami’s undesirables spent their time. Most of the city knew I was the D.A., but very few people knew I’d quit my job.
Roger was right. I’m not Batman. I’m not the savior of the city. Yeah, I prosecuted criminals, but I could never singlehandedly rid Miami of the criminal element. But what I had been doing is hunting down Miami’s worst offenders, killing whoever I found and then dumping their bodies into the ocean. The Miami underground knew what was going on, though none had figured out I was the one doing the killing. Could I have killed one of those responsible for Suzanne’s death? Possibly.
I got out and crossed the street, still wearing a suit and black bowtie. It brought a certain amount of respect, though I was sure those in the Little Havana could give two shits about my bowtie.
“Deacon O’Neil,” the large guy at the entrance said. “You played quarterback for the Seminoles.”
I nodded and then recognized the guy. “Henry Bledsoe. Linebacker for Florida?”
“The one and only.”
“Blew out your knee in your final season.”
“Fucked my professional career.” He patted his knee. “Fucking D.A. You didn’t do too bad after college. Sorry about your wife. That was some shit.”
“Appreciate that.” I started to go inside, but he stopped me. “Some mean motherfuckers in there, Deacon. Some you put away. Watch your ass.”
“Will do.” I opened the door and entered Miami’s low-life haven.
