At this, Ronny gives a spit of a laugh. Then he raises his hands a bit—a begrudging concession. “You know what? Boss Colletto might agree with you. Hell, I agree with you. Our entire outfit had Loretto and Mongi’s numbers for what they did—caving to the Feds, selling a prime asset like your father down the river to save themselves a couple years in jail. It was wrong. Boss Colletto wanted to make things right. Lots of folks wanted to make things right. Trust me,” he says flatly, “things have been righted.”
I don’t give this thug any kind of nod or indication that I agree. I’m sure Loretto and Mongi, the two goons who rattled off my father’s laundry list of crimes to the Feds this past spring when they were caught with fifty gallons of remedial spells marked DANFREY PHARMA CORP. in the back of their Model T—I’m sure they’re riddled with holes right now. Stuffed into some Dumpster or floating at the bottom of the Potomac for thinking of their own skins over the future of D Street. But that doesn’t do anything for me. That doesn’t give my family our lives back, doesn’t erase the year of pressure and threats that Colletto wielded over my father. And so even though my heart’s so wound up on fear it might spring out of my chest, there’s something else ticking inside me too. Relief. Maybe even excitement. Because this is a moment I’ve actually dreamed about—a chance to tell Colletto’s gang how much I despise them. Regardless of what’s for the Feds, this moment—this is also for me.
Ronny gives a big, put-on sigh and looks back to his table of D Street cronies in the corner. “Look, I understand your . . . hesitation to make amends, Baby Danfrey.” He shifts in his seat. “But it’s time to let bygones be bygones. You understand? You let the past go.” He drops his voice, I assume so the guards can’t hear. “You work for us until your father’s debts are paid.”
I stare at Ronny for a long while, way too long. It’s definitely more uncomfortable for me than for him, but I make myself do it. “I’m not ready for that.”
The corners of Ronny’s mouth start twitching. “I urge you to rethink that, ’cause your father had an arrangement with Boss Colletto. And that final shipment of spells he owed us? That was paid for in advance, check signed, sealed, and delivered. So as far as we see it, anything you’re trying to sell on your own in DC should fall back to us. And any way you slice it, you running magic is something Boss Colletto needs to know about. We own you, till you make it right.”
“No.”
Ronny grabs my hand across the table, ending my meal. His face has started to flush, and there’s a thin coat of perspiration seeping from his patchwork hairline to his brow. “Excuse me, did I just hear a no? This isn’t a negotiation.”
I force myself to look him in the eye again. “You’re right”—I wedge the words past the lump in my throat—“we’re done here. I’m finished with your guinea operation.”
Ronny tightens his grip around my wrist, twists his neck a bit, and slowly leans forward. “What did you just call me?”
I’ve gotten into tons of fights before, but nothing like this. I’m trying to push a gangster past the brink. A gangster from a gang that kept my father drenched in sweat and nightmares. A gangster almost double my size. Howie better be watching.
“You heard me.” I focus on keeping my voice steady and my lunch in my stomach. I pop an overcooked carrot in my mouth and push it to the side with my tongue. Then I add with a bite, “Guinea.”
An odd, thick vein in Ronny’s forehead starts pulsing, and his face begins to redden. He’s big, but he’s fast—he lets go of my wrist and grabs my tray with both hands in one jerky motion, then throws it right in my face. The dull metal edge knocks me in the chin, and the last of my potatoes hits my forehead with a thick, wet thwap.
I don’t let myself pause to wipe my eyes.
I spring out of my seat like a jack-in-the-box, lunge for Ronnie, and grab his collar. Then I send his head crashing onto the table.
The mess hall goes wild, and the D Street boys in the corner shove away from their benches and start running toward my table to aid their man, shouting, fists up and ready. I can feel their advance, I can see them out of the corner of my eye—and if Howie and his dirty Shaw men don’t decide to hop and come to my rescue, I’m going to get pulled apart.
A lukewarm shout of a warning comes from one of the prison guards in the corner. “All right, settle. Settle!”
But none of the guards have moved, and the D Street boys keep coming for me, a tidal wave in the distance approaching like a slow, steady roll.
Ronny lurches and thrashes against my grip, his hands snaking and jerking over his head, blindly trying to grab me and pull me off. I tighten my hold, pull him across the table, and throw him onto the floor at my feet.
For a second, my desire to use magic burns like an itch. I could conjure a spell quicker than this thug could blink, could try to teleport a tray right into his skull. Better yet, conjure a force field around me and slip out of the mess hall. But I can’t risk it. If a guard catches me sorcering a single trick, it would double my sentence.
Besides, I don’t want the help of tricks.