A low sound rumbled out of Benito. He raised his head a fraction, showing Mickey his reddened eyes, gaze so fierce it was clear who’d taught Gianna to glare fire at anyone stupid enough to cross her. “You’re not a shit human.”
“You don’t know me.”
“Then fucking show me who you are. Don’t act like I don’t want to know.”
“It doesn’t matter. It can’t happen. I already told you—”
Benito gripped Mickey’s hand and pried it from his neck, lacing their fingers together. “You told me how you think I live my life. I told you I’m a taxi driver. One of us is wrong.”
“Or lying.”
“I have some fucking loose ends to tie up. Don’t write me off.”
“I have to. You’re my tenant’s son.”
“And I’m a gangbanger. A dirty road man with deep pockets and a fucking piece in my waistband. Fuck you, man.” Benito lurched to his feet, wrenching their hands apart.
His scowl was terrifying, but Mickey faced it down. It’s better this way.
Benito gathered his things from the table. He looked as though he had more to say, but the silence was deafening.
He turned to leave.
Mickey caught his arm. “I’d never write you off. It’s me, don’t you get it? I’m gonna do everything I can to help your mum and your sister, but I can’t see you again, not like this.”
The heat drained from Benito’s glare, leaving cold resignation in its place. He shrugged Mickey’s hand from his arm and left.
11
Benito woke to the buzz of a phone. Groaning, he rolled over in bed and fumbled for it under his pillow, but it wasn’t there. Or rather, it was, but it was the wrong phone. The one that had woken him up was on the floor by the clothes he’d abandoned last night.
He rolled out of bed and lunged for the phone, catching it seconds before it rang out. “What do you want?”
“There’s another run. Ipswich this time.”
“Ipswich?” Benito tensed, wide awake. “Why?”
“Why do you think? They don’t want to risk Coventry again so soon after you slammed it last time.”
“When?”
“Friday. I know the timings, but I’m not sure of the route.”
“Text me from the road.”
“I’m not gonna be there. Asa thinks I need to keep my head down in case what happened last time was personal.”
Benito retrieved his other phone and brought up a map of the south-east. There were multiple ways to get from Ipswich to London, and worse—or better, depending on how he looked at it—all of them took him deep into territory he had no business getting tricky in. The Coventry gangs didn’t scare him—and they didn’t care if Asa lost product as long as they were paid. But the firm running Ipswich would cut his head off if they caught him on their turf.
So don’t get caught. Leave it alone.
“You know he was talking about you the other day.”
Benito snapped back to the present. “Who?”
“Asa. I think he misses you.”
Benito gripped the phone tighter. An ominous creak sounded, and he made an effort to loosen his fingers, glad the caller couldn’t see him. “How much is on the run?”
“Two. Can we meet soon? I want my cut.”
“Soon.” Benito calculated how much such a small haul would net him. It wasn’t enough, but each run brought him closer to the magic figure he needed to buy his freedom and the life he needed to live for Gianna.
For himself.
Maybe . . .
He closed his eyes and pictured the pain in Mickey’s eyes as he’d gazed at Benito and seen nothing but truth, even when Benito had lied to his face. Maybe if they’d met a few years later, things could’ve been—
“Martell.”
“What?”
“My money, man. I need to see some cash.”
“Why?” Benito growled. “You know I’m good for it. You know too much for me to fuck you over.”
“Not if you kill me.”
Benito snorted. “What good would you be to me then?”
“I’m not the only one who’d help you. You only hit me up because I hate Asa for cheating on my sister.”
“What do you want from this conversation?”
“I told you. A meet. I need my cash so I can get it somewhere safe. You know, in case something happens.”
“Expecting trouble?”
“No. But you know Asa, man. He’s shady as fuck.”
“He’s dumb as fuck. If he wasn’t, you’d be dead already.” Benito hung up, knowing his mole needed the money too much to back out anytime soon.
He dropped the phone on the carpet and flopped onto his bed, tired gaze fixed on the ceiling. If he had any hope of pulling off a raid at an unknown location against who the hell knew how many men, he needed more sleep, but his brain was a buzz of maps and worst-case scenarios. He needed a motor. And a weapon. He’d already dumped the pipe he’d used last time.
Leave it alone.
Benito pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, hard enough to make his skull throb. No. He couldn’t. As risky as the low-yield raid was, he needed every penny, and soon. Asa hadn’t set a limit on his freedom bounty, but Benito knew the game well enough to know it was finite. Or at least a matter of time before the price went up.
I hate that motherfucker.
He didn’t, though. “Remember, Martell, I could’ve left you at the side of the road. Or with a bullet in you, like you did Dante.”
Benito leaned against the wall of the darkened underpass, blood seeping from the slash wound in his ribs. “I didn’t shoot him.”
“You did, though, didn’t you? You went around him and made deals with the Albanians to fuck him over. How long before you do the same to me?”
It wouldn’t have been long. Asa had moved first. It was the only reason it was Benito on his knees instead of him.
It’s the game, man. And if Benito wasn’t gonna play, he had to pay.
Eventually, he fell asleep again, sprawled out sideways across the bed, legs hanging off the edge. Sometime later, he woke to a muscle spasm in his back and his phone buzzing under the pillow.
He moved stiffly to retrieve it and answered without opening his eyes or looking at the screen, swallowing a groan. “Yeah?”
“Morning.”
Benito’s eyes flew open, and another unintelligible sound escaped him.
Mickey laughed dryly. “Are you awake? I need to talk to you about your mum’s repayment plan.”
“I—uh. Fuck.” Benito sat up, stretching out the kinks in his spine. “I’m awake.”
“We can do this later if you don’t have time right now.”
“I have time.” Another spasm of pain rocked Benito. He cringed. “Motherfucker.”
“Are you okay?” The concern in Mickey’s rough, northern brogue was hard to miss.
And hard to take. Benito didn’t want his concern. He wanted his kiss, his touch, all the shit he couldn’t have. Mickey had made that clear yesterday. And Benito had accepted it.
Just.
Maybe.