There it was. The opening to mention my suspicions about Scotty’s side job as an undercover. It would be so easy to do. A hell of a lot easier than shooting Lucas had been. “Then what am I supposed to do? They killed my best friend. I—I . . . Shit. I can’t let that go.”
“You have to, until we have a foolproof plan. Until then . . .” Tate slammed something else down, and I heard someone speak in a low voice. “Okay, yeah. Your pops called in from the airport. He suggested you take some time to yourself, and I agree. Lie low. Heal. Drink. Fuck it out of your system. Whatever works for you.”
I gritted my teeth. Of course my pops immediately assumed that I was weak and would need time to heal. And worse than that, if he knew I had tried—and failed—to kill Lucas, and that his death was a ruse, he wouldn’t be so quick to protect me. And I would get one of his legendary beatings that would make a gunshot to the shoulder and a few cracked ribs look like a walk in the park. “Are you sure? Don’t you need me there? I mean . . . Christ. Lucas.”
“I know.” Tate sighed. “You do you. We’ve got this. We’ll make plans, and when we have anything concrete—”
“I’ll be the first to pull the trigger.”
“I promise,” Tate agreed.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, glancing down at my blood-soaked T-shirt and brown leather jacket. If I didn’t sew up that bullet hole soon, I would go from dying to dead. “I appreciate it.”
“Sure thing.”
The line went dead, and I dropped my hand to my thigh. Holding up the phone took too much effort. Hurt too much. But it was nothing compared to the guilt trying to choke the life out of me. Banging my head on the wall hard enough to see stars all over again, I said, “Son of a bitch, Scotty.”
Didn’t he know how much danger he was in by doing this? By pretending to be in the gang while reporting back to the boys? If Tate found out about Scotty . . .
Gritting my teeth, I struggled to my feet, wavering.
I’d lost a lot of blood, and unless I truly wanted to die in this alley, I needed to get moving. There was a closed pharmacy in the swanky part of town, outside of Steel Row, which Southies generally avoided. But this one was in the Sons’ employ, thanks to Pops and his fondness for gambling. If I could get in through the back door, I could grab supplies and pain meds, stitch myself up, and then . . .
Then what?
Fuck if I knew.
Trust that Scotty, the cop, didn’t turn me into Tate? Trust that he wouldn’t tell the man of my deceit and betrayal? If he told them, they would kill me, no matter what Pops said. I would be a dead man.
Even worse, what if Scotty used the other side of his advantage—and turned me into the boys? Told them all the shit I’d done and locked me away behind bars?
Maybe I should tell Tate about Scotty’s dirty little secret first and be responsible for yet another “disappearance” in the Donahue family.
Or . . . I could just hide out.
Wait and see how all this blew over.
Nothing good ever came from rash decisions, and after the death of four Bitter Hill guys, there was more than likely going to be some reaction. And that backlash would circle around to me. I’d sworn Phil and his men to secrecy when I hired them to take Lucas out, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t blabbed to someone.
Men like them always did.
I stumbled down the alley, each step hurting more than the last. Lucas had kicked my ass within an inch of my life, and he should have killed me. I should be dead. Maybe I should just lie down and wait to bleed out. It was a fairly peaceful way to go for a guy like me. I could just let my blackened blood spread across the grimy cement until nothing remained of me but a dried-up shell.
But that damn survival instinct in me refused.
I fucked up big-time by betraying my best friend—that much was true. But to just give up and let the devil drag me to hell? I couldn’t do it. And Scotty, fool that he was, had a lot riding on this whole affair, too. If he wanted to remain undercover, he would need me to back his story up. Vouch for him.
If he told them I was there, too, I needed to agree.
It was the only way to keep Scotty whole.
I had to play my part. Tate and the rest of the guys at Steel Row would expect me to be vengeful, bitter, and upset. I could do that. It might be too late to make it up to Lucas, to let him know how sorry I was for what I did, but I could save Scotty.
Because I owed it to Lucas.
It was a small thing to do, really. Not even close to big enough to make up for all I did, or the lies I told in my quest for power and Pop’s approval.
But it was something.
And it had to be enough.
Rounding the corner, I clutched my bleeding shoulder and rested against the wall, breathing heavily. The world spun in front of me, and I rested against the rough brick. I needed a few seconds to gather some strength.