Page 43 of Arranged Addiction
I stare for a long moment, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing.
My name is written in red dripping spray paint.
It’s all over, on almost every single surface. My name repeated a few dozen times, some small, others huge.Declan, Declan, Declan. It’s bizarre.
“Did Seamus see this?” I ask softly.
“He did, but he didn’t say much about it.”
“I’m guessing it’s all cleaned now?”
“Yes, Mr. Whelan. But I wanted to show you, just in case you knew something about it. I lost two days of business plus thousands in damaged customer clothing. It’s an enormous blow, if I’m honest.”
“We’ll help cover some of the cost, and I’ll do what I can to help your reputation.”
“I appreciate that.” He clears his throat, shifting in his chair. “It’s just that, this is all very strange. Why would someone write your name on my walls?”
“I don’t know.” I push the photo back to him. “But thank you for bringing this to me. I’ll handle it from here.”
Doyle puts the photos back into his briefcase. I walk with him to the door. We make small talk about my family, mostly about my father. I stay with him to the elevator and make sure he gets on before returning to my little command post in the conference room.
I don’t sit back down. I’m way too on edge for that. Instead, I call Seamus on speaker.
He answers right away. “If it isn’t Declan Whelan speaking from on high. What’s the deal today, m’lord?”
I swear, Seamus can’t do a damn thing without turning it into a joke.
“I just spoke with Patrick Doyle.”
“Fucked up what happened to his place. I had some guys look into it, but nobody has a clue who did it.”
“You weren’t going to mention anything to me?”
He’s silent for a moment. I hear street noise in the background and feel a stab of jealousy.
“What’s there to talk about? It was just some bullshit prank.”
“Prank? Seriously?”
“Come on, what else would it be?”
“They wrote my name, Seamus.”
“Well, maybe, or maybe they wrote his youngest kid’s name. You know he’s got a son called Declan, right?”
I frown, furrowing my brow. “I forgot about that.”
“It’s a common name. I didn’t think it had anything to do with you.”
I start pacing, hands behind my back. “Right now, we have to assume everything’s connected. Senesi’s out there poking around.”
“Come on, you think the Butcher of Milan broke into a dry-cleaning place and tagged it up just to get your attention?”
“I’m not sure what he’s capable of these days.”
“You’re being paranoid.”
“And this is Vincenzo Senesi we’re talking about. You’re not being paranoid enough.”
