Even in the dark, I can see that smoke is still rising from the roof of the small building.
With a sigh, I slow to a stop and park along the curb at the end of the block. It’s not like I thought our guy was lying, but part of me was hoping that maybe it was just a little fire. Some outlet catching.
A pair of firetrucks are still parked outside the building, along with other emergency vehicles, but all the lights are off, and the fire is out, so clearly the main event is over.
I take the time to finally button up my shirt as I exit my Suburban and do a quick glance at my hands for blood.
Pony’s pants kept the initial blood spray pretty under wraps, and I don’t see anything on me, so I’m calling it good.
I head toward two firefighters who are leaning against the back of one of the trucks chatting.
The taller one spots me first, and he stands up straight. “You can’t go in there.”
I glance at the brick building covered in char marks, with all the windows broken out, and an interior that’s unrecognizable from a few days ago, and lift a brow. “No, shit.” I don’t stop until I’m right in front of them, then I hold out my hand. “King Vass.”
I don’t often name drop, but most people in this city have at least heard of me, and it opens mouths.
“Oh, hey.” They both shake my hand. “Did you own the place?”
I debate saying yes, just to speed it along, but it’d be a stupid lie to get caught up in.
“No,” I slide my hands into my pockets, staying casual. “But my wife just had an art show here and she’s friends with the owners. Told me to come make sure everything is okay. You know how wives are.”
When Guy Two rolls his eyes, followed by a derogatory muttering of women, I have to remind myself that it won’t be worth it to punch a firefighter in the face.
“Mine’s the same way,” Guy One says with a nod. “But there was no one here, so no one got hurt. And, as far as we can tell, the place was empty. No signs of art, or whatever, in the place. Which is good for the insurance companies.”
I grunt, “That’s good. Any clue how it started?”
“Arson.” Guy Two rocks back on his heels.
“You can tell already?”
“Yeah. Whoever did it, didn’t try to make it look like anything other than arson.” When I lift my brows, he continues. “Best we can tell so far, the guy, or whoever, poured gasoline around the exterior of the building, flooded the floor inside with it, and even splashed it around the doorways. Then,” he points to the building adjacent to the gallery, “he pours a line of gasoline all the way to the far side over there. Presumably that’s where he was when he lit the trail. Probably trying to protect himself behind the other building in case the ignition blew something up. But everything was electric in the place, no natural gas appliances or anything like that. So it would’ve been intense, and hot, but no explosions.”
Something…
Something he’s saying…
I take a step back.
“Yo, you alright?”
I nod, even as I take another step away. “Yeah. Thanks for the info.”
Gasoline around the doorway.
Why is that fucking familiar?
A dark feeling swirls in my gut and I turn and stride back to my vehicle, climbing in and starting it before I’ve even shut the door.
I pull a U-turn and head toward home as I dial Nero.
“What’d you find?” he answers.
“Do you remember a guy that would torch buildings by lining the perimeter and doorways with gasoline?”
“Shit, that sounds…” Nero is quiet for a long second. “Are you talking about The Hand?”
The Hand.
Donnie O’Reilly.
Nicknamed for his preference of strangling.
It all slams back into my memory. The Irish piece of shit that worked for the same family as I did, before Nero and I wiped them out, along with the Russians, to form The Alliance.
He was a psychotic bastard. About my age, grandson of the Boss, and second in line for taking over as head of the family. He was full of entitlement and evil as they come.
“Did we not kill him?” Nero questions.
I shake my head as I accelerate down the road. “Asshole was arrested two days before our hit, for killing a family of four. And I think he burned their house down, just like this. Which is why it felt familiar. But he’s in prison. He got a fucking life sentence, no parole.”
“Hold on,” Nero starts typing on something.
“He’s in prison,” I repeat.
“Fuck,” Nero’s curse chills my blood and dread fills me, because I know what he’s going to say. “He’s out.”
I press the gas pedal all the way to floor. “How?!”
Nero is moving too, filling the line with noise. “Technicality. Evidence thrown out.”
“I didn’t put any alerts on his name because he was supposed to be in prison until he died. Fucking stupid! And why the hell would he torch…”
I trail off, the weight of the world pressing against my chest.
“I’ll be right behind you,” Nero says through the line.
Volcanic rage flows through my veins, pushed through by fear.
“Savannah.” I can hardly get her name out. Can hardly make myself say it.
He’s going after Savannah.
This madman is going after my family, because I murdered his.
“Right behind you.” Nero’s words remind me that I’m the closest.
That I’m the one who needs to save her.
