by Matt Wallace
“Gonzaga.” The Leader spoke in a quiet voice, a voice that dripped with death. Everyone at the table picked up on the hostile-but-calm vibe. They all sat very still.
“You may turn around, right now, and leave with your life,” Gredok said. “Say one more word, to me or to anyone in my organization — ever — and that life is forfeited.”
This was it, the point of no return. Fred swallowed, then worked his jaw side to side, trying to loosen the tension he felt all over his body. Gredok was giving him a way out — if he didn’t take it, sooner or later the gangster would make Fred pay.
Quentin turned toward Jeanine. The quarterback’s eyes narrowed — was that a look of recognition?
John and Ju sat quietly. They didn’t know what was going on, but the fake father did — Cillian Carbonaro fidgeted in his seat.
It’s too late to stop now. Finish the job. Are you going to quit now?
No, he would not.
Fred slowly shook his head.
Quentin looked at him.
“Fred,” he said quietly. “Look, why don’t you just go, okay? Whatever it is, I’ll try and help.”
“Barnes,” Gredok said, “stay out of this.”
Fred looked at his client. The kid was on top of the world, with that huge contract and millions of adoring fans, but despite all of that, he’d been dealt a crap life. All the man really wanted was family.
Fred would not fail him.
“Quentin,” he said, then gestured to Jeanine. “I want you to meet your sister.”
All of Quentin’s confidence evaporated. He stared, shocked, stunned into silence. The room seemed as still as a frozen winter. Then, finally, he spoke in a voice far too small for his oversized body.
“Jeanine?”
Her ever-present hard expression softened. She nodded.
“Yes, Quentin,” Jeanine said. “I am your sister.”
She pointed at the fake Cillian Carbonaro. “And that man is not our father.”
The frozen room thawed, giving way to a steadily increasing heat, all generated from Quentin’s shifting expression. That lost-little-boy look he had when Jeanine had given him the news, then the dawning of realization... and finally, a mask of rage slid into place.
Fred silently reached out his left hand and held Jeanine’s right. Quentin didn’t see it. If he did, he didn’t care, because his head turned, and his hate-filled face fixed on the Gredok the Splithead.
Jeanine took a half-step back. Such a small gesture, but enough for Fred to know that Quentin had failed her test.
There was a brief moment of possibilities, a chance that Quentin might settle this with words, then that moment vanished as his tree-trunk-sized arms reached past the fake Cillian, toward Gredok, grabbed the edge of the table and ripped it backward, sent it sailing through the air.
Fred turned fast, his arm around Jeanine’s shoulders, guiding her back to the kitchen before the table even landed. Behind them, a crescendo of violent noise filled the mostly empty restaurant.
He kicked out, knocking the kitchen door open. He guided Jeanine through, expecting her to resist, thinking she might want to go back and help her brother — but she needed no urging.
“Get me out of here,” she said. “Get me away from him.”
They ran through the kitchen to a back door, then into a trash-strewn alley. Fred had planned several escape routes. This was the primary, and from the sound of things, everyone was too busy to follow them.
Jeanine didn’t ask questions. As promised, she did what Fred told her to do, went where he told her to go. In minutes, they had shed the waiter coats and were in a grav-cab, headed away from Torba the Hungry’s.
In the back seat, Jeanine sat on her side, leaning against the door. Her hard expression had found its rightful place, chasing away what little softness had existed when she’d met her brother face to face.
“I’m sorry,” Fred said.
She didn’t look at him. She simply shrugged. “I’m not surprised,” she said. “Quentin looks just like Dad. I guess he acts like him, too.”
Fred didn’t know what Jeanine had gone through as a child, but from the aura of animosity radiating off of her, it hadn’t been a life filled with lollipops and circus clowns.
She finally turned to look at him. “I think you did a good job, Frederico. It’s not your fault. I’m not going back to Micovi, but I guess I’ll figure something out.”
“Oh, I’m not letting you out of my sight,” he said. “Gredok spent a lot of money trying to find you. He’ll keep looking. If word gets out about you, so will Anna Villani, maybe even Gloria Ogawa. You’re not safe on your own.”
She stared at him. She licked her lips, a bit of fear cracking the edges of her practiced hard-as-nails expression.
“I can’t pay you,” she said. “I... I don’t have any money.”
Fred smiled his best comforting smile. “Your brother has plenty,” he said. “I know him. He’ll pay to keep you safe.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And if he doesn’t?”
Fred turned away from her. He looked out the window at the constant, subtle curve of the circular road. He reached out his left hand, offering it. He felt her warm fingers lock in his.
Jeanine Carbonaro would never be a lover. Fred had known true love, and he knew he would never feel it again, but that wasn’t what he had with her. He hadn’t let her in, but she’d gotten in all the same.
“I’m here for you until you send me away,” he said quietly. “As long as I’m alive, no one will hurt you, Jeanine. Never again.”
He felt her other hand rest lightly on the back of his, felt it circle. She pulled his hand to her chest, held it tight.
“Thank you, Frederico,” she said. “Thank you for everything.”
He didn’t look at her. He knew that if he did, the sting in his eyes would turn into tears, and tears were a thing he’d given up back in the Purist Nation, shortly after a bonfire had taken from him the only thing he’d ever really wanted.
For the first time since Rafael had died, Fred had a friend. A true friend.
If anyone did try to hurt her? Well, there was a lovely man named Rico who would just love to make their acquaintance.
The End
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