Nodding at him, I eyed the crusty stairwell that led down to the door. Barnie’s was a refurbished cellar that had been used in the glory days of Prohibition. The bar had a history, it was a place worth taking care of. The Deep Shots didn’t give a shit.
Putting my hand on my holster out of instinct, I started past Costello. His hand gripped my elbow, freezing me. “You don’t pull your gun,” he said into my ear. The heat of his breath reminded me of a wolf snarling at my throat. “Not unless I do first.”
“I’m not going to whip it out like it’s a cock-measuring contest,” I said. Staring him in the eye, I cracked a half grin. “Though, if it was, we all know it wouldn’t be fair for me to get involved.”
Costello didn’t smile. “Keep it in your pants.”
Shrugging away from him, I reached for the door. “You and Thorne just watch for anyone with a happier trigger finger than mine.” Considering that I was expecting to face the people responsible for trying to hurt Sammy . . . they’d be hard-pressed to find someone edgier than me.
Barnie’s was dark—not like a shadow, but the way the underside of your dirty fridge is dark. In spite of the smoking laws, gray clouds swam through the air, searing my nose and ruining the taste in my mouth.
Shoved back by a well-worn pool table, our hosts waited for us.
The table was just big enough to fit three men on one side. In the middle, more nose than much else, was Frock Monroe. He was topped with a mop of curly, red hair that he often shoved beneath a pale brown cabby hat. His thick beard climbed up his jaw like jungle vines. It was the same hair that made him and his son Brick look so similar.
Both of them were lean; I’d heard that in his twenties Frock had been an underground boxer. While the Deep Shots’ leader was bent forward into the light, his son was reclining into whatever shadows he could find.
But even that couldn’t hide Brick’s bare chin. I almost didn’t recognize him.
“Shit,” Hawthorne hissed near my shoulder. “He lose a bet?”
Ignoring my brother, I scanned the last member of the trio in front of us. The guy on the left, I’d never seen him before. He was wearing a thin, green tank top, his white jacket spread open to show off his hard body. I was sure it was an intentional move.
The stranger was decked out in corded muscles that matched mine. Sitting like he was—one arm thrown over the back of his chair—he had a casual air to him. Either he was relaxed because he wasn’t scared, or he was too stupid to think about who he was facing.
He gazed at me without a hint of emotion. As intense as his physique was, the guy had eyes that reminded me of a deer’s. Soft, gentle—aware. It didn’t matter if he was sweet or not, he hadn’t stopped watching my brothers and me since we’d opened the door.
Guys like that are always deadly.
Frock spread his hands on the table. “Get them some chairs.”
From the back wall, two heavily armed men approached with seats for us. Reinforcements. It made sense that the Deep Shots wouldn’t let their guard down, but I was surprised to see so many bodyguards blending into the smoky corners.
“I’ll stand,” I said, “if it’s all the same to you.”
Hawthorne shrugged, dropping onto one of the cushions. “I’ll park my ass, thanks.”
All eyes turned to Costello. He just folded his arms. “We won’t be here long enough for me to settle in. Standing is fine.”
Brick rocked his chair forward, the feet clacking down. “Oh, shit. Big man on campus over here.”
His father gave him a warning look. Linking his fingers, he stared not at me, but at Costello. “You said you wanted to talk about a little police action the other day.”
“Some prick working for you cased our joint,” I said. Brick grunted, drawing my eyes back to him. Squinting, I looked him over with a slow burn of suspicion. “Actually, the guy kind of looked like you, Brick. I didn’t even think about it before because of that giant-ass beard you normally sport.”
“Yeah,” Hawthorne said, stretching over the table. “Kain’s right. Where’s your beard at, hm? Did you seriously fucking shave it just to pretend to be a waiter at our little party?”
“I don’t have to answer you,” Brick said, “but no. I wasn’t there.”
Clenching my fingers, I stared the man down. “I think you’re a liar.”
“You’re calling me a liar?”
“He literally just fucking said you were.” Thorne laughed. “Hey, Frock.” My brother jerked a thumb at the leader’s scowling son. “Your kid here caused a lot of trouble for us.”
“He says he didn’t. Besides, from what I heard, you guys didn’t suffer much in that police raid. You were back on the street in a few hours, and you didn’t lose any hardware.”
“Bet that makes you real sad—”
Cutting off Hawthorne, I said, “We almost lost a friend.”
Everyone went quiet. Next to me, Costello breathed through his tightened jaw. I knew I was about to say too much, but the longer I stared at Brick—the more I realized it was him in the photo—the angrier I got.
This is the guy that attacked Sammy.
Frock lifted his hands, his voice eerily calm. “What are you talking about?”
“This asshole son of yours went after a girl the other night,” I growled.
Frock shot a look at Brick. “What’s he talking about?”
“I don’t have a damn clue.”
That was it; the denial was my breaking point. Bursting forward, I reached for Brick over the table. My hands coiled in the front of his shirt. The air rattled with surprised shouts and metallic clicks; every gun in the place was trained on me.
Wrenching him closer, I sent glasses tumbling to the floor. Someone had left an ashtray out; it spilled gray dust everywhere, making people cough as it rolled away. I didn’t care that the ashes burned my nose. I was too focused on Brick.
This close, there was no doubting the fragile, red stubble growing over his face. If I stuck a suit on him, he’d be a ringer for the photo in Fran’s phone.
Movement wobbled on either side of my view; I still didn’t look away from Brick. His fingers dug into the backs of my arms, his sneer as vicious as mine.
I jerked him closer to me. “Tell them what you did.”
“Nothing.” His calmness just infuriated me further. “I didn’t touch any damn girl.”
Hawthorne groaned. “Fucking hell, Kain. This isn’t the way to do this.”
“Listen to your brother,” Brick said, grinning so wide I saw his fillings.
My forearms tensed. “It’s the only way to get him to admit what he did.”
Frock barely moved, but he managed to lean into my view. “He says he didn’t touch her.”
“He’s a fucking liar,” I hissed.
“Yeah?” Brick asked, his lips pulling back. “Where’s your proof? It’s your word against mine.”
“It’s her word against yours, and I’d believe her over you any day.”
Costello said, “This game is ridiculous. We know you were at the party, Brick. We have a photo of you there.”