Chapter Six: Danny
I’d met a lot of dicks in my life, but Richie Silvestri took the prize. Just being in the same room with him made me feel dirty and tainted, and I’d spent a lot of time in the company of junkies, gangbangers, and whores. I think part of my distaste came from the fact that Richie Silvestri wasn’t stupid.
So many of the people I’d come across in this line of work had never had any opportunity to rise above the station of their birth due to either circumstances, poverty, or actual stupidity. Richie had come from money—his family owned several legitimate businesses in Chicago and the Midwest—had political clout, and had educational opportunities up the ass. Still he’d chosen to be part of the problem instead of the solution.
I, however, was part of the solution, and I had a score to settle. I was tired of the drugs polluting young minds, the gangbangers ruining the lives of decent citizens, the men who thought they were above the law and no one could touch them. I was the law in this city, and I was determined to make it safe for my neighbors and friends. To do that, I’d decided to play a game—think like them, act like them, become them. When I looked in the mirror, I sometimes cringed because I was in so deep now that I often saw my worst nightmare.
But then, something would happen to make it worthwhile. I’d manage to get a junkie to rehab. I’d find a young kid on the street and get him into a sports program. I’d help a young mother find a job that didn’t involve stripping or prostituting herself. Those days were good days.
But today… today had been exceptional. I’d turned around and seen a glimpse of beauty, a flash of sunshine in my drab, dreary, pain-filled world.
Hannah Silvestri.
Raven hair, light blue eyes, dark olive skin that shone with health, and a rockin’ body, even in that ratty old bathrobe. I saw a glimpse of her cleavage when her robe dipped, and my cock ached to squeeze between those tits and pump away until I spilled cum into the deep valley.
But I was getting ahead of myself. I thought I’d made an impression, but hopefully I’d get a chance to get up close and personal with Miss Hannah and see what happened between us. Was it smart? Hell no. Richie would blow a gasket, as all Italian brothers would, and that Frankenstein monster Richie kept a leash on—Butch Collette—would probably be up my ass in a heartbeat. Before I made it back to the club, I did a quick glance behind me, hoping for another glimpse of Hannah, only to find that behemoth staring at her like a free buffet. So, no, the last thing I should do, for my health, sanity, or survival, was put the moves on Hannah.
But I was playing a role, and in my view, Danny O’Shea was the sort of man who might hit on the most beautiful girl in the joint, no matter the consequences. Boss’s sister or not, Hannah would be that girl. There was no doubt about that. Plus, I wanted her.
That little giggle in the hallway had done something to me, brought me back, for a split second, to reality in which pretty girls were happy, filled with hope. My cock had perked up, eager and willing to add to that sense of happiness and bring that girl to a world of delights she had never known, a festival of carnal pleasures.
Was she happy? No clue. Did I care? I wasn’t sure yet. I was pretty good at determining the worth of a person right off the bat. Few surprised me, but I hadn’t spoken enough words with Hannah to know for sure how she led her life or whether it made her happy. I hadn’t seen despair in Hannah’s eyes, so I had no idea how good or bad her life was, but exploration was in the cards. If she wanted some attention, I was more than willing to toss some in her direction.
I got back in my car to head to my undercover shithole a couple miles away. When I was in deep, I kept as far away from my real life as possible. I pulled my burner phone from my pocket. It was pretty damn late, but I needed to check in.
My commander answered on the first ring.
“Domino’s,” he said with a sleepy tone. “May I take your order?”
“I’m in,” I said.
“Good,” he said. “Keep me posted.”
There was no need for chit chat. The message had been relayed. I hung up and made another call to my dad. Pops would want to know how the evening had gone.
When I heard him pick up the phone, I pulled out into the street.
“Hey, Pops. I’m in.”
“Good, Danny. That’s great. I knew that idea would work.”
“Yeah, thanks. Stan came through like gangbusters.”
“Stan was a good cop. One of the best under my command.”
“You shouldn’t have retired, Pops. We could have taken Silvestri down together.”
“I’ve had enough dirt on my hands to last a lifetime. Gotta keep my hands clean now for the grandkids. Got one on every branch of the tree but yours.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I sing-songed. “You’re starting to sound like Ma.”
Both of us fell silent for a minute. My mother had been dead only six months, and every mention of her still caught us off guard. For a split second, the pain was so intense at the mention of her name that neither of us could breathe.
I stopped at a red light, trying to find any words to say to make this better. The quiet between us was palpable, painful.
“Damn,” Pops said finally. “I miss her.”
“I know,” I murmured. “Me too. Sorry I brought it up.”
“No, never apologize,” he said suddenly, firmly. “We need to bring her up. We need the grandkids to see her as we saw her. The most beautiful, brave, loving goddamned woman in the universe.”
“She was.” My words were quiet, barely there. Pops was quiet again as I traveled down three blocks of flashing neon and corners filled with losers. I’d finally reached my street and was able to find a parking space only because the tenements on this street held very few licensed drivers and even fewer people with cars.
“Danny…”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful, son.” It was Thomas Dutton giving me a direct order, both as my former commander and my dad.
“Always, Pops.”
“And check in.”
“I know the drill. Tell everyone hi, and tell Moira I’m sorry I missed her birthday. I got her that pony set she wanted though. I left it in my hall closet, wrapped in pink, so you’ll do that for me?”
“Consider it done. Night, Danny.”
“Night, Pops.”
I hung up the phone, got out of the car, and left it unlocked. There was nothing of value in it, save some change in the cup holder, and it kept scavengers from breaking my window to find out. I glanced at my fourth-floor window.
“Home crap home.”
I used my key on each of the front door’s four separate locks and let myself in, trudging up the stairs, avoiding fast food wrapper, used needles, and a couple of people passed out on the landings.
My apartment smelled like piss and old farts. I wouldn’t have dropped my worst enemy into it, even with a gas mask. I opened the window to let in the lovely aroma of car exhaust and greasy fried food. It was the best alternative I had. The furniture looked like it might have been new in the early fifties, not that nice retro furniture you saw in high-end thrift shops but the kind that had literally been picked out of an old dump.
I dropped my clothes where I stood, did my business in the bathroom, and then fell onto the stained messy mattress. I’d covered it with sheets I got at the used store down the street because it was good for my rep to be seen poking around the neighborhood shops. The musty smell wafting up from the sheets was probably better than that of the mattress, but not by much.
The clock on the nicked nightstand read 1:30 AM.
I had to be at Pussy Whipped in a bit over ten hours.
Plenty of time for a good night’s sleep in my craptastic studio apartment in the ass-end of Chicago.
Good night, Danny O’Shea, you dirty Irish bastard.