Page 48 of Hate to Love You
Ending the call with Igor, I shove my phone into my pocket. He was given strict instructions on what to do should The Brunette show up to The Studio tonight, and that asshole better not fuck things up a second time.
…Or he will be in a casket before the morning.
But just as I’m reaching to light a cigarette, I hear my phone chime.
Unknown Number
11:03pm: 501 Chelsea Pier. 12am. Come alone.
Seriously?
Me
11:04pm: First of all, I never come alone. That’s what whores are for, dumbass. Second, this is a parley, not a bad 90’s gangster movie. Third, you don’t give me instructions. If we aren’t negotiating, then I’ll just get back to the whores.
I think I’ll let these bastards suck on that for a minute.
It’s about this time that I notice I also have another text.
And about fifteen missed calls.
Pasha
11:01pm: What the fuck, Ro?! You said we were all going at 11pm, but I just got out of the shower, and everyone was gone. Called all of you, and Niko just texted back and said you guys left 25 minutes ago!
Me
11:05pm: You just got out of the shower at 11:01pm. I think that answers your question, doesn’t it?
Pasha
11:05pm: I’m always fast Roman.
11:05pm: …except in bed.
Me
11:06pm: Why don’t you send some of those wounded shirtless pics to the booty girl from Instagram and get laid?
Pasha
11:06pm: She’s going to be here in ten. Btw, we’re finishing your scotch. The GOOD scotch.
I chuckle to myself as I sit in the car…at the Chelsea Pier.
It was a reasonable guess, as all my research into any sort of meeting with the McCleary’s always led me here.
And Cillian isn’t the only one who trains rats. I have a few little “pets” myself, hiding in the shadows amongst his ranks.
It wasn’t easy mind you, getting someone inside. But I didn’t try to send him someone new. I had my brother Lev, who’s in of all our recruitment, find me someone old.
Lev, who sits in the front seat of my Cadillac, has several different ways that he sources men for our ranks, but his personal favorite is the underground boxing circuit. Most nights he is just an observer, sipping drinks and dropping hundreds on the fighters he thinks will win.
Occasionally he finds a diamond in the turd that is this city. Some scrappy kid, from a large poor family that is desperate to prove his worth. And his grit. Once Lev has a target he fosters that relationship, gets to know everything he needs to know, before finally picking a fight…himself.
Lev’s always been a good fighter. The best of all of us in hand-to-hand combat.
Perhaps it’s the fact that he grew up as the most middle child a middle child could possibly be. After all, Lev’s a twin, and the third boy of four, and so naturally he grew up fighting for attention, and position.