“The killer in the alley,” I began. “Angelo. He didn't have a gold gun. That's not what the muzzle flash was reflecting. It was a ring. A gold ring. On his middle finger.”
Rafe frowned. “Huh. How sure are you?”
“Positive,” I said, pulling the covers up around me and shivering. The room wasn't that cold, but letting myself remember the killing in so much detail was making me feel chilly and exposed. “Is that something you can use?”
“I don't know,” Rafe answered. “If nothing else, it explains the whole 'gold gun' thing, since that didn't make a lot of sense. I don't remember Angelo wearing a gold ring, but I guess he could have gotten one at some point over the past seven years, while I was...away. Still, though...” He trailed off, thinking.
“So now what?” I asked.
“Remember when I said I've got other Reapers making moves for me on this?” Rafe replied, getting up. “I've got a couple of calls to make, to see if any of this makes sense. Stay put. I'll come back with some breakfast. You drink coffee, right?”
As he talked, Rafe gathered his wallet, Swiss Army knife, burner phone, and handgun from the top of the dresser next to the door. The way he was grimly putting his things in his pockets and tucking the pistol into the back of his pants—it looked like he was preparing to go to war.
“Uh, yeah,” I answered, rubbing my temples. I remembered how many cups of cheap wine I'd had last night and realized I had never been this morbidly hung over before. The sunlight was like spikes being shoved into my eyes, and my limbs felt boneless. Coffee sounded perfect. “Lots of milk, lots of sugar.”
“Cool,” he said. “I'll be right back.”
Rafe put his hand on the door handle, then stopped and turned back to look at me. His expression was hard to read.
“Listen, about last night...” he started.
“We don't have to figure that out right now,” I said. “We were both pretty drunk, and it's been a very weird couple of days, at least for me. Just go make your calls so we know what our next move is, and we can go from there, okay?”
Rafe thought about it for a moment. “As long as you're not feeling, y'know...”
I forced a smile. “I'm fine. Go.”
Rafe returned my smile and nodded. “Okay, then,” he said, stepping out the door and making sure it shut behind him.
I got up and put my clothes on, thinking. What had he been about to ask before I cut him off? “As long as you're not feeling like you're getting serious about me because of last night?” “As long as you're not feeling like last night was a huge mistake?”
What if both were true?
Chapter 24
Rafe
As I walked down the steps from our second-floor motel room and dialed the number for the Devil's Nest, I thought about what I'd been about to say to Jewel.
The truth was, I had no fucking idea. Of course last night had been sexy as hell, but it could also complicate things, which was the last thing either of us needed while we were trying to make it through this mess with Jester in one piece.
I'd originally figured the more wine she drank, the more relaxed she'd be and the more sleep she could get. Had part of me hoped she'd get drunk enough to make a move on me, though? I didn't want to believe that about myself, but it was hard to ignore the thought.
When she got on the floor naked next to me, I knew I should have stopped her. But after seven years in Potawatomi, a stiff breeze was enough to give me a hard-on, and the fact was that I just didn't have the willpower to stop her when she'd seemed to want it so badly. I'd even wanted to take it further, but after she'd finished massaging my cock, the inevitable post-climax moment of clarity made me see what a mistake it would have been.
And now what? She talked a good game about being cool with it, but would she expect something from me now? Did she want this thing between us to be more than it was now?
For that matter, did I?
I put the phone to my ear, listening to it ring on the other end. Boomer picked up. “Devil's Nest. An' Sperm, if you're doing another one of your stupid prank calls, the refrigerator won't be the only thing running...”
“It's Rafe,” I chuckled, fishing a cigarette out of the pack and lighting it. “But hey, since I got you on the line, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
“Ha ha fuckin' ha,” Boomer said. “That would be funny if the dickhead hadn't actually tried it two hours ago, as though he fuckin' just thought it up himself or somethin'. I swear, he must be gettin' these things from a book he found in a public toilet. Anyway. How're you holding up out there?”
I caught a glimpse of myself in a car windshield, with the blonde hair and the outfit. “I've changed more in the past two days than I did in seven fucking years in the slammer,” I said, taking a long drag from my cig.
“Well, as long as your cock's still the same length, I guess,” Boomer quipped. “If you're callin' about Rosie, we went up an' grabbed her yesterday, no problem there.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I wasn't, but that's good to know.”
“So what can I do for you?” Boomer asked. “Are you close to squaring this thing so you can come back an' collect yer patch?”
“I'm not actually sure,” I said. “Seems like every step I take forward, I get knocked a couple steps back. There was something else I wanted to ask you about Angelo, though.”
“About that weird gold gun thing?” Boomer replied. “'Cause I gotta tell you, the more I've been thinking about that, the less sense it makes...”
“Yeah, well, I just got some new info on that,” I said. “What if I said instead of carrying a gold gun, Angelo was wearing some kind of gold ring? Would that ring a bell?”
“I dunno,” Boomer answered. “That makes about as much sense as the gun thing, to be honest. I mean, it's not like any of us have spent time around Angelo recently, not since the thing between you an' Jester. But still, walkin' around wearin' gold jewelry an' shit? That would have been too gaudy for a guy like Angelo, so...” He trailed off for a moment.
“Boomer?” I asked, flicking my ash away. “You still there?”
“What finger would this ring have been on?” Boomer asked. “Do you know?”
“Yeah, uhh...” I hesitated, trying to remember. “The right middle finger. Why?”
“Fuck,” Boomer said. It sounded like all the breath had been knocked out of his body.
“What?” I asked.
“Do you know if the ring had anything engraved on it?” Boomer said.
“I don't know,” I answered. “It might have, but the person I got this info from wasn't close enough to see it that clearly. I mean, she only just remembered it was a gold ring instead of the whole gun. What aren't you telling me, Boomer?”
Boomer took a deep breath. “It's mostly a rumor,” he began. “Somethin' that popped up about a year or two ago. People started talking about some kind of secret society that was forming within the crime families in Chicago. They called it The Family of Thorns. Real old-world Sicilian shit, like some kind of mafia-within-the-mafia.
“Membership was kept under wraps for the most part, since their loyalty to each other outranked their loyalty to their individual organizations. They'd do deals with each other under the table, even if the rest of their gangs were on the outs with each other. Which would be enough to get 'em in deep shit if the gangs they were pledged to found out.
“But whenever one of them gets inducted into the Thorns, they get a gold ring with the Sicilian flag symbol on it—a Medusa head with three bent legs around it in a circle, and three stalks of wheat or some shit. They're supposed to wear it on their right middle fingers. Most of 'em keep the rings turned around so the symbol's on the inside, to keep a low profile.”
Well, that certainly didn't sound like good news. “So if a guy like Angelo were to suddenly start walking around with a gold ring...”
“Yeah,” Boomer said. “That'd mean he's one of them. Which means Jester probably is, too, if Angelo's still his right-hand guy.”
“So what else is known about these Thorn guys?” I asked hopefully. “Is there any way to find out how many there are, or where they hang out?”
Boomer sounded uncertain. “There is, maybe, but...”
“Come on. What is it?” I asked. “Anything could help. I'm gettin' desperate, here.”
“Bard's on pretty friendly terms with Hollis Grady, the Chicago Police Superintendent. They've got some history together, and...”
“Wait, what the fuck do you mean Bard's 'on friendly terms' with the city's top fucking cop?” I asked. Bard may have had a whole bookish, meek-and-mild routine in place to catch people off guard, but he was the most badass outlaw I'd ever known. The idea that he could be ratting to the cops on the reg and that Boomer didn't seem to have a problem with it...
“Chill out, man,” Boomer continued. “We all thought it was pretty weird too when we found out, but it turns out they were in the war together or somethin' an' they don't usually discuss business with each other. Grady pulled our asses out of the fire a little during that thing with the Bonaccorsos. He seems like kind of a decent guy. Y'know, for being one of the pigs, I mean.”