Although if it came to fisticuffs, Bart would most likely beat me to death, given his far greater giant strength. Not the most cheerful thought, but I was too committed to back down now. So I closed the trunk, got into the car, and drove back over to the Vargas place.
It was just after six o’clock when I parked at the far end of the street, well away from the house. Most of the lights were on, although the cars that had lined the street earlier had all vanished. The mourners had gone home, back to their own lives, leaving Isabelle alone with her son and her grief. Every once in a while, I would see Isabelle through the windows at the front of the house, slowly moving from room to room, throwing away dirty cups and plates, straightening chairs and other furniture, and putting away all the casseroles, pasta salads, and other food the mourners had left behind.
I’d never understood why people brought over food when someone died. Sure, it was a nice gesture, but I’d never felt like eating anything after I’d lost someone I loved, especially not the day of the actual burial. But I supposed it was a tradition and a way for people to feel they were doing something helpful for you, instead of just standing around and pitying you.
Even though it was still early, the sun had set, and darkness had crept over the land. The only streetlights were the two in front of the Vargas house, but their golden glow wasn’t nearly enough to drive back the night.
I sat in my car and waited. Bart had said that he would be back at the end of the day for his money, and I was betting it wouldn’t be much longer before he showed up. Even though he knew that Isabelle didn’t have his money, the giant would be eager to come back and intimidate her—or worse. To him, beating people, hurting them, crippling them, was almost as good as getting his money. It would certainly be more fun for a sick bastard like him.
My phone beeped with a few more texts from Gin and Bria and one from Stuart Mosley wondering where I was, since I hadn’t shown up at the bank yet. I grimaced and texted Mosley back first, saying that I had car trouble and would be there as soon as possible. It was a totally lame excuse, and I knew he would see right through it, but if he finally fired me, so be it. Protecting Isabelle and her son was more important than anything else right now, including my job.
I also texted Gin and Bria, telling them that everything was fine and that I was heading over to the bank to help Mosley. I could have told them where I was and what I was doing, and they would have both offered to come and back me up. Maybe I should have asked for their help, given how dangerous Bart was. But I decided not to. They’d both been through enough the past few weeks, especially Gin, who’d almost died twice because of me.
Besides, this was my mess, my responsibility, and I wanted—needed—to take care of it myself. I needed to do something right for a change, after doing so many things wrong with Deirdre.
I’d just put my phone away when a pair of headlights appeared in my rearview mirror, and a familiar black SUV cruised past my car, pulled over to the curb in front of the house, and stopped. The doors opened, and Bart Wilcox got out of the vehicle, along with the two men who’d been with him earlier.
Unlike me, Bart was still dressed in his fancy gray suit, with those gold rings still glinting on his fingers. His goons were both carrying baseball bats, but Bart’s hands were empty. He didn’t have any weapons, but then again, he didn’t need them. His giant strength would be more than enough to deal with most problems.
However, Finnegan Lane wasn’t most problems.
I made sure that my gun was ready and got out of my car, slamming the door shut loudly enough to draw the attention of Bart and his goons. The three of them watched me as I walked down the street and stopped in front of them.
Bart looked me up and down, recognition flashing in his eyes. “You again. Three times in one day.”
“Yeah.” I grinned. “I’m like a bad penny. I just keep turning up.”
He studied me a little more closely, his face twisting into a mocking sneer. “What’s with the black ninja clothes? Did you finally get rid of that cheap-ass suit?”
“Nah,” I said. “I just didn’t want to get your blood all over it.”
His black eyebrows shot up in his face at my casual threat, and the other two giants clutched their baseball bats a little tighter, looking back and forth from me to their boss, waiting for him to give the order to attack me.
Bart’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
“I know exactly who you are. Bart the Butcher, Ashland’s most sadistic bookie.”
He nodded. “Then you know why I’m here—and that nothing stops me from collecting on a debt.”
I shook my head. “Isabelle doesn’t owe you anything. You want to beat the shit out of someone, go talk to Paul.”
“Ah, but you see, Paulie doesn’t have two nickels to rub together, whereas Mrs. Vargas is about to come into a very hefty life-insurance settlement.” Bart grinned, baring his teeth at me. “But then, you know all about that, since you’re the reason her husband is dead. Right, Finn?”
I froze at the sound of my name.
“Oh, yeah.” Bart sneered at me again. “I know exactly who you are. Finnegan Lane, one of Gin Blanco’s little lapdogs. And you know what else? Word’s gotten around about that attempted robbery at First Trust and how you opened the front doors and let those thieves walk right in. How does it feel, being played for such a fool? And by your own mama, no less?”
He threw his head back and laughed, and his two goons joined in with loud, hearty chuckles.
Red-hot rage scorched through me, along with the familiar bitter waves of guilt and shame, and my cheeks burned with embarrassment, despite the cold air. But I forced myself to remain calm in the face of the giant’s cruel taunts.
“Get in your car, leave, and never come back here again,” I said through gritted teeth. “And I’ll let you live.”
“You? Will let me live?” Bart’s low, sinister laughter echoed through the night like dark, ominous thunder. “Oh, that’s cute.”
It was just after six o’clock when I parked at the far end of the street, well away from the house. Most of the lights were on, although the cars that had lined the street earlier had all vanished. The mourners had gone home, back to their own lives, leaving Isabelle alone with her son and her grief. Every once in a while, I would see Isabelle through the windows at the front of the house, slowly moving from room to room, throwing away dirty cups and plates, straightening chairs and other furniture, and putting away all the casseroles, pasta salads, and other food the mourners had left behind.
I’d never understood why people brought over food when someone died. Sure, it was a nice gesture, but I’d never felt like eating anything after I’d lost someone I loved, especially not the day of the actual burial. But I supposed it was a tradition and a way for people to feel they were doing something helpful for you, instead of just standing around and pitying you.
Even though it was still early, the sun had set, and darkness had crept over the land. The only streetlights were the two in front of the Vargas house, but their golden glow wasn’t nearly enough to drive back the night.
I sat in my car and waited. Bart had said that he would be back at the end of the day for his money, and I was betting it wouldn’t be much longer before he showed up. Even though he knew that Isabelle didn’t have his money, the giant would be eager to come back and intimidate her—or worse. To him, beating people, hurting them, crippling them, was almost as good as getting his money. It would certainly be more fun for a sick bastard like him.
My phone beeped with a few more texts from Gin and Bria and one from Stuart Mosley wondering where I was, since I hadn’t shown up at the bank yet. I grimaced and texted Mosley back first, saying that I had car trouble and would be there as soon as possible. It was a totally lame excuse, and I knew he would see right through it, but if he finally fired me, so be it. Protecting Isabelle and her son was more important than anything else right now, including my job.
I also texted Gin and Bria, telling them that everything was fine and that I was heading over to the bank to help Mosley. I could have told them where I was and what I was doing, and they would have both offered to come and back me up. Maybe I should have asked for their help, given how dangerous Bart was. But I decided not to. They’d both been through enough the past few weeks, especially Gin, who’d almost died twice because of me.
Besides, this was my mess, my responsibility, and I wanted—needed—to take care of it myself. I needed to do something right for a change, after doing so many things wrong with Deirdre.
I’d just put my phone away when a pair of headlights appeared in my rearview mirror, and a familiar black SUV cruised past my car, pulled over to the curb in front of the house, and stopped. The doors opened, and Bart Wilcox got out of the vehicle, along with the two men who’d been with him earlier.
Unlike me, Bart was still dressed in his fancy gray suit, with those gold rings still glinting on his fingers. His goons were both carrying baseball bats, but Bart’s hands were empty. He didn’t have any weapons, but then again, he didn’t need them. His giant strength would be more than enough to deal with most problems.
However, Finnegan Lane wasn’t most problems.
I made sure that my gun was ready and got out of my car, slamming the door shut loudly enough to draw the attention of Bart and his goons. The three of them watched me as I walked down the street and stopped in front of them.
Bart looked me up and down, recognition flashing in his eyes. “You again. Three times in one day.”
“Yeah.” I grinned. “I’m like a bad penny. I just keep turning up.”
He studied me a little more closely, his face twisting into a mocking sneer. “What’s with the black ninja clothes? Did you finally get rid of that cheap-ass suit?”
“Nah,” I said. “I just didn’t want to get your blood all over it.”
His black eyebrows shot up in his face at my casual threat, and the other two giants clutched their baseball bats a little tighter, looking back and forth from me to their boss, waiting for him to give the order to attack me.
Bart’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
“I know exactly who you are. Bart the Butcher, Ashland’s most sadistic bookie.”
He nodded. “Then you know why I’m here—and that nothing stops me from collecting on a debt.”
I shook my head. “Isabelle doesn’t owe you anything. You want to beat the shit out of someone, go talk to Paul.”
“Ah, but you see, Paulie doesn’t have two nickels to rub together, whereas Mrs. Vargas is about to come into a very hefty life-insurance settlement.” Bart grinned, baring his teeth at me. “But then, you know all about that, since you’re the reason her husband is dead. Right, Finn?”
I froze at the sound of my name.
“Oh, yeah.” Bart sneered at me again. “I know exactly who you are. Finnegan Lane, one of Gin Blanco’s little lapdogs. And you know what else? Word’s gotten around about that attempted robbery at First Trust and how you opened the front doors and let those thieves walk right in. How does it feel, being played for such a fool? And by your own mama, no less?”
He threw his head back and laughed, and his two goons joined in with loud, hearty chuckles.
Red-hot rage scorched through me, along with the familiar bitter waves of guilt and shame, and my cheeks burned with embarrassment, despite the cold air. But I forced myself to remain calm in the face of the giant’s cruel taunts.
“Get in your car, leave, and never come back here again,” I said through gritted teeth. “And I’ll let you live.”
“You? Will let me live?” Bart’s low, sinister laughter echoed through the night like dark, ominous thunder. “Oh, that’s cute.”
