Devious Vow: Chapter 30

“What do you think?” I grunt, nodding to Kratos. “We doing one more?”

He groans, looking as drunk as I feel as he shoves a big hand through his dark hair. “I mean…we could do one more.”

We’ve been saying this for the last three hours that we’ve been sitting in Bar Great Harry, in Brooklyn. Before that—which is the reason every single part of me hurts, especially my face—we were at the fights out in Bushwick.

I glance at Kelly, the bartender who’s been serving us way later than she should, and grin.

“Two more?” she chuckles from the far end of the bar, looking up from her book.

“Please and thank you.”

I drop my eyes to the book in her hand, which looks like the LSAT textbook to prep you for law school.

“You want to be a lawyer?”

She nods as she pours Kratos and I two more whiskies. “In a perfect world.”

“Cool, I’m hiring. I can’t work with my existing associate anymore. Personality conflicts.”

She grins and shakes her head. “Yeah, you mentioned that.”

“Like, ten times, dude,” Kratos mutters.

When Kelly goes back to her book, I turn to my friend.

“Hell of a night.”

He whistles. “Yeah, you wanna warn me the next time you invite me out for fight night if you’re going to be using it for therapy?”

Okay, tonight was a bit much. I can usually manage three fights in a night. If I’m feeling angry or need to work through some shit, I can do five.

Tonight Kratos dragged me away after eight.

He nods at me. “How’s the face feeling?”

“Like I slammed it into a bus, thanks.”

He nods. “And the rest of you?”

“I’m fine, Kratos.”

“I’m not talking about from the fight, if that wasn’t obvious.” He exhales slowly. “You wanna talk about the trouble in paradise back home?”

“I think I’m all set with barroom therapy, Kratos, but thanks.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Eight fights and then drinking until dawn is definitely a much healthier way to deal.”

I scowl. “It’s dawn?”

I turn and peer through the windows. Fuck me. He’s right.

“Jesus, Kelly, kick us out and go home already.”

She snickers from her book. “Don’t sweat it. My roommates are party animals. I get way better studying done here, believe me.”

Kratos raises a brow, looking past me. “You’re sure you don’t want to talk about it at all?”

“Positive.”

“Well, something tells me you’re about to, anyway.”

I turn as the door to the bar opens. Bleary-eyed, I blink as Taylor fixes me with a “what the fuck is wrong with you” look.

“Thirsty, Taylor?”

She rolls her eyes as she marches over.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Having a cocktail.”

She glares at me. “It’s five-thirty in the morning, Alistair.”

“I was working late.”

Her gaze lands on my left eye, which is starting to swell. “I can see that,” she mutters dryly. “Too busy being a drunk to answer your fucking phone?”

I frown, pulling out my cell. Shit. I’ve got like twenty missed calls and two dozen texts between her and my brother. There’s even a few worried ones from Tempest.

I raise my eyes to Taylor. “How’d you find me?”

She nods to Kratos. “His sister-in-law.”

He frowns, sipping his drink. “Which one?”

“Elsa. Hades mentioned this was one of your haunts. I figured, correctly, that my absentee partner would be here with you.”

“What can I say,” Kratos grunts. “Kelly’s the best.”

Taylor turns to level a cool eye at our bartender. “Kelly is also serving you both almost two hours past the legal serving time in New York,” she says pointedly.

“Hey,” I wag a finger at Taylor. “Be nice. She’s going to be our new hire.”

“She’s reading an LSAT study book.”

“As soon as she goes to law school and then passes the bar, she’s going to be our new⁠—”

“Outside,” Taylor mutters, grabbing my collar. “I need to talk to you.”

Outside the bar, I groan as I lean against the wall, shoving my fingers through my hair.

“You look like shit, by the way.”

“Good morning to you, too, Taylor.” I frown. “Aren’t you supposed to still be in Chicago?”

“I came back a little early.” Her lips thin. “Roberto Chinellato wants to speak with you in person. Like, now.”

I give her a look. “Yeah, that’s not happening. Sounds like a Gabriel job.”

“He specifically asked for you.”

I groan. “Okay, fine. I’ll grab a cab⁠—”

“He’s in gen pop at Fairview now.”

I tense. “Wait, what?”

There are two kinds of criminal who are generally “fine” in the general population of a large prison: the small guys no one gives two shits about, and the big fish who are so well protected that nobody fucks with them.

Roberto Chinellato is the unlucky type that falls right in the middle. He’s not small time, but he’s not a kingpin, either. And he’s been in this game long enough to have a list of enemies a mile long. Worse, even I’ve heard the rumors of Roberto being a snitch here and there a decade or so ago.

Taylor nods grimly. “He got moved last night. That’s why I’ve been calling you, and why I flew back early.”

Son of a bitch.

“Who the fuck authorized that?” I hiss, suddenly far more sober than I should be. “He’s a walking corpse in Fairview.”

“Why the hell do you think I got on a plane at midnight?” Taylor mutters, tapping away on her phone. “It looks like it was the new assistant DA.”

“Fuck,” I hiss, just as Kratos joins us outside. “We need to go see Roberto at Fairview, stat.”

Kratos makes a face. “I’m definitely not driving anywhere right now.”

“No shit. Same.”

Taylor sighs. “I’m parked up the street. Let’s go.”

“You look like shit, counselor.”

Roberto Chinellato is old-school, dyed-in-the-wool, mama’s gravy and meatballs Brooklyn mafia. He’s pushing seventy, but still has the look of a man who’s spent his life cracking skulls and taking names. A crucifix tattoo covers one forearm, with the Virgin Mary and Child on the other, alongside the Italian flag.

He grins a toothy smile at me, running his fingers through his thinning silver hair.

“Nice shiner, too,” he grunts, nodding at my eye.

I take a sip of shit coffee as Roberto leans his elbows on the table between us. We’re at Fairview Prison up in the Hudson Valley, about thirty minutes outside the city. Instead of in an indoor interrogation room or visitors hall, we’re outside in a fenced-in side yard at one of the half dozen bolted-down picnic tables.

Why? Because that’s what they do with prisoners who’re suddenly being transferred into protective isolation.

I raise my good eye to the bloody bandage on Roberto’s neck, then down to the clean one wrapped around his hand.

“Pot-kettle-black,” I grunt, nodding at his fresh wounds.

Roberto was moved to Fairview gen pop without warning, despite that being a shitty idea for a guy with as many enemies as him, and sure enough, somebody made a play for his life within an hour of him being dropped off there.

Luckily, Roberto is tough as nails, and managed to wrench the shiv out of the attacker’s hands. His hands are pretty sliced up for his troubles, but he did grab the homemade knife before it could damage his neck too badly.

Roberto chuckles as he rolls his shoulders. “You should see the other guy.”

I smile wryly. “Well, protective isolation should put an end to that. I’ve already submitted a motion to extend that as long as we deem necessary, by the way. How’s the neck?”

“Enough small talk.” His brow furrows. “I asked you here, Mr. Black, because there are some things you need to know.”

“Well, I am one of your attorneys, Mr. Chinellato. And you’re enjoying client privilege right now, even out here. No cameras, no recordings. You can speak freely.”

He pauses, then smiles. “You and your gramps aren’t exactly on good terms, I hear.”

My jaw tenses. “I’d say that’s putting it mildly.”

“Well,” he winks. “It’s about to get worse. You know he and I have done some business together, yeah?”

I nod. It’s one of the reasons Charles has been hounding Taylor, Gabriel, and I so much about this goddamn case.

“Well, a few months back, I was involved in a deal with some people in Chicago. I didn’t know it, but your grandfather also had some money invested with these assholes. When the deal went tits-up and sideways, well…” Roberto grimaces. “I…may have tried to walk with the merchandise and the cash.”

Jesus Christ.

“Guns came out, I got two of this other prick’s lieutenants, he got a bunch of my guys. The deal was fucked, and needless to say, Charles and me, we had a bit of a falling out. I don’t exactly expect a Christmas card from him anytime soon. Still, your gramps and me, we worked out a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“Well, these other pricks wanted my ass, and Charles and me both knew the feds were itching to come down on me too. So we came up with an agreement where he’d get his grandsons—you and your brother—to get me a reduced sentence, since you’re a couple of superhero miracle lawyers.”

I frown. “Mr. Chinellato, we’re planning on getting you no jail time at all. You’re going to get those charges dropped entirely.”

He smiles thinly. “Yeah? What about until someone makes another play at me in here while we wait to go to trial?”

I shake my head. “You don’t need to—” I frown. “Sorry, what exactly was this deal?”

He shrugs. “I paid him and everyone else back what they lost when that other deal went south. And, well, let’s just say I know more than a few of the skeletons your gramps has in more than a few of his closets. So I promised to keep my mouth shut about those. In exchange, he said he’d look out for my family on the outside. I lost a bunch of my crew in that bad deal, and there are lots of people out there who want me deader than disco.”

What the fuck.

I stare at Roberto. “Mr. Chinellato, all due respect, why the hell are you telling me all this?”

His face darkens. “Because your gramps is going back on his word,” he snaps, jabbing a finger at his bandaged neck. “This was him.”

I arch a brow. “Mr. Chinellato, again, with all due respect, you have a number of enemies⁠—”

“I know who my enemies are, counselor,” he growls quietly. “Why the fuck do you think I spared the little bitch who tried to cut my throat after I turned his own blade on him?” He sneers. “Your gramps is cheap, and he hires dumb motherfuckers who’ll give up whoever hired them once they’re in trouble themselves.”

Holy fuck. I stare at Roberto, my blurry hangover and fighting pains receding as my brain begins to crank up to high gear.

“You’re telling me this man literally told you that Charles Black hired him to fucking kill you?” I mutter coldly, my pulse racing.

“Does the Pope wear a big-ass hat and work Sundays, counselor?”

“You’d testify to this?”

“Last night?” He shakes his head. “No, because I ain’t a snitch…” He smirks. “Well, unless Uncle Sam is paying me to be one. Also, I settle my own debts…plus, the man was watching over my family. But after this morning?”

I raise a bewildered brow. “What the hell happened this morning?”

Roberto’s face turns a deadly shade of red. “Someone tried to take out my mom, my sister, and her kids. I don’t believe in coincidences.”

Holy shit.

“I haven’t heard about this at all,” I snarl, yanking out my cell phone.

“That’s cause the few guys I’ve got left stopped it and took my family somewhere safe—somewhere your prick grandfather can’t touch ’em. The little bitches they caught trying to ambush my family?” His lips curl dangerously. “They were some of Charles’ go-to thugs. My guys recognized them.”

Fuck me sideways.

I lean back from the table between us, my brain going a million miles an hour as I try and make sense of the facts and the timeline.

Charles and his buddy Roberto have a falling out. Roberto’s got some bad guys after him now, plus the feds are looking to put him away for murder and racketeering. So my enterprising shit-stain of a grandfather cuts him a deal: pay back what he owes, and Charles gets his grandsons—Gabriel and yours truly—to do what we do best and get Roberto off on all charges, or at the least get a reduced sentence. And in return Charles will protect Roberto’s family in the interim.

But aside from Charles being an asshole, why the hell would he go back on that deal? And why the hell is he trying to kill the very man he wants us to get out of jail?

Shit.

Abruptly, it clicks.

Charles has never, ever forgiven a debt, or a fuck up, or being crossed. Not once. I mean hell, he stopped sending my siblings and I fucking Christmas presents because of our dad defying him. Why the hell would he forgive Roberto for a deal that went bad that cost him, Charles, money?

He wouldn’t.

He wants us to fail. It’s why he’s been slowly stacking the board against us, including voting in his own wife, Caroline. Then when we don’t get Roberto out of prison time, because Charles has him killed while awaiting trial, our grandfather can sway the board to boot us from our own firm, citing gross incompetence.

Or more likely, to own us.

It first came up years ago, when we were setting up the firm that would become Crown and Black. Charles bullied his way in, offering money, connections to city licensing boards, access to clients, and so on. In return, we’d act as his own personal weaponized legal team, that he could use as a bargaining chip with his shady buddies. As in, “Do business with Charles Black, and you get access to his hotshot grandsons and their little friend who all happen to be killer lawyers”.

We ended up bargaining him down to just a seat on the board. But again, Charles never forgets shit. And now this is his pay: torpedo the Roberto Chinellato case, and thereby own us.

Roberto smiles coldly as the realization spreads across my face.

“You connected those dots yet, counselor?”

“You could say that,” I growl. My brows knit. “Mr. Chinellato, can you prove any of this?”

He snorts. “Yeah, I can prove it. I just need to stay alive to do it.”

I nod. “Protective custody is a start⁠—”

“But not enough. You need to get me out of here, counselor,” he growls. “I know too much about too many players.”

“I can protect you from my grandfather and his people.”

Roberto snorts. “So can I,” he grunts, pointing to the bandage on his neck. “But that ain’t who I’m worried about, Mr. Black.”

I frown. “Who else wants you dead?”

His face hardens. “Massimo Carveli.”

Fuck.

“Why would Massimo want you dead?”

Roberto smiles coldly. “Because of what I know about him that he knows I know.”

When I raise my brow, Roberto just purses his lips and shakes his head. “You don’t wanna know, counselor.”

“On the contrary, I actually need to know if you want me to help you, Mr. Chinellato. Again, you’re enjoying attorney client privilege here.”

He exhales slowly, looking away. “You can get me out of here?”

“I need six hours, at least. But yes.”

He nods. “Okay, fuck it.” Roberto slowly swivels his gaze back to me. “Two things. The first is that Massimo probably doesn’t want anyone looking too closely at that will his pops left, giving Massimo full control of the Carveli family.”

My brow cocks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean if it stinks like horseshit, counselor, you should open your eyes and look around for Mr. Ed.”

“Are you suggesting that will is fake?” I say grimly.

“I’m not suggesting a thing,” he mutters back. “I’m just saying I knew Luca, and he fuckin’ hated his prick of kid. He wasn’t going to leave him a goddamn dime. Yet now, the little shit is king.”

My fingers drum rapidly on the table between us, my pulse thudding.

“And the other thing?”

He swallows, looking away.

“Sometimes, counselor, it’s best to let things lie.”

“Excuse me?”

“Look, the will is the one that matters.”

I frown. “Mr. Chinellato, what else do you know about Massimo that he doesn’t want getting out?”

He taps his foot, his eyes darting around the yard nervously.

“You got a good relationship with that brother of yours, Mr. Black?”

The fuck? My brow furrows as I nod. “I do.”

“You got a sister too, yeah? You two get along?”

“We do.”

He nods, swallowing again before his gaze swivels back to me and intensifies.

“Mr. Chinellato, I need to know⁠—”

“You ever wonder where you came from, Mr. Black?”

Something icy shivers through me.

“You’re referring to the fact that I was adopted as a child. And the answer is no, not really. I know who my family is.”

“But I’m talkin’ about your real family.”

My eyes narrow. “Generally speaking, Mr. Chinellato,” I growl, “I take great offense to anyone insinuating the people who raised me are in any way not my ‘real’ family.”

He rolls his eyes. “You know what the fuck I mean.”

“The answer is still no,” I grunt. “I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

He smiles quietly. “You might want to start.”

I tense. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means⁠—”

The coffee cup right next to my hand suddenly explodes. A corner of the plastic picnic table we’re sitting at sublimates into plastic mist.

Oh FUCK.

“Roberto!” I roar, lunging across the table. “Get the fuck dow⁠—!”

Blood explodes from his mouth to splatter against my shirt and jacket. His eyes roll back, and just as I grab him to yank him to the ground, he goes limp.

…And blood begins flowing from a quarter-sized hole in his back as the prison alarms start to wail.