Page 60 of Alfie: Part One
“Were you just bullshitting me when you said you were never gonna hurt anyone?” I asked. “Or do you honestly believe the O’Sheas will let you keep your hands clean?”
He cocked a brow and had the nerve to chuckle. “Funny you should use those words. It shows how little you know about this, West. The management does keep their hands clean—and yeah, I trust them.” He took a breath, and I did my best to keep calm. If I wanted more information, I couldn’t yell at him. “Don’t believe everything you see on TV. This ain’t New York in the ’50s. Hell, half the wiseguys today run a podcast or a YouTube series. There’s no juice left.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re using lines from my own fucking show—and don’t come here and tell me they don’t commit heinous crimes like murder anymore.”
“I’m not sayin’ that,” he defended. “I’m just sayin’ it’s not an everyday thing for a mobster to go up and shoot someone. Mob-related killings make headlines today because they’re so rare. I’m not gonna hurt anyone, West.”
I shook my head and had to look away from him. I couldn’t make eye contact with a glittery butterfly who spoke of organized crime in such a casual manner. I knew very well that the mafia today was very different from the glory days before RICO—and the couple of decades that followed. But there was more to go to prison for than murder.
Alfie had been on the phone earlier, something about someone compromising a location. What the hell had that been about? Even if he spoke the truth and he ended up never hurting anyone physically, what would he be doing? And what had he meant by the management keeping their hands clean? Was Alfie management? Just like that, because he happened to be related to an old boss he’d never met?
My God. My head was swimming.
“Lemme ask you this,” he said. “Why do you still own a gun? You stopped competing in your twenties.”
I frowned at him. Where the fuck was he going with this?
“Doyouown a gun?” I countered.
“Yeah, and that’s neither here nor there,” he replied flippantly. “I’m asking why you do. Don’t tell me it’s only sentimental value.”
“It absolutely is,” I insisted. “It was the one sport I shared with my father.”
“I don’t believe you. I think it makes you feel safer. I think it brings you some comfort to know it’s there in case you’d need it.” He jutted his chin. “The Sons are my gun. I’ve never felt safer. Ellie and Trip…? Yeah, they were probably as safe as they’ll ever be when we were at their pool party. Myhouseis now rigged tighter than a bank. The windows in my car are bullet-resistant, and if Ieverneed help with something, I have people I can call.”
I stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. I didn’t know this man. Who the hell was he?
It killed me as much as it brought me relief, because maybe, just maybe, I could move on after all. Maybe I could mourn him as if he were dead, because clearly, the man I’d fallen for was nowhere to be found.
Maybe he saw it too. He flashed me a self-deprecating smirk, one that screamed of pain he didn’t want me to see. “Good thingI told you I’m outta your life, huh? You don’t wanna be near me anymore anyway.”
I swallowed.
My chest hurt. My face felt hot and itchy. I didn’t know what the fuck I wanted. I didn’t know what to think at all. I was a mess of temporary and extreme reactions and emotions.
“I should go home,” I heard myself say.
His expression shuttered, and he nodded once. “Aight.”
CHAPTER 8
Alfie Scott
West was gonna kill me, and maybe I was asking for it.
As I drove the kids out toward Ardmore, I had about a dozen voices yelling at me in my head.Go to Villanova instead! Emilia will happily watch them! Don’t give West another reason to look at you the way he did earlier! Take the next motherfucking exit!But I didn’t. I didn’t text Emilia—or Finn, for that matter.
Kellan and I were handling this, and we didn’t involve the boss.
I eyed the kids in the rearview, both decked out in new PJs we’d bought after the festival today, and both tuckered out. But ready for this late-night adventure to Daddy’s.
Ellie’s new pajamas had a bunch of bunnies on them. She’d picked them at the store and shot me her best Veruca Salt look, along with, “I want a bunny, Daddy.”
Her confident, half-spoiled approach didn’t work with me. She didn’t get that way often, so I wasn’t too worried. But everynow and then, she tried to demand things, and fuck that. I’d laughed and patted her on the head.
She’d been pissy for half an hour, before retreating back to her usual negotiator personality. Trust, I’d shot that down too, but at least it was cute and bearable.
She wasn’t getting no fucking bunny.