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PART I
SPEAKING IN TONGUES

38-A
(Please note: This is a long-ass chapter in which many of your questions get answered. I’ve split it in four [yes, four] parts.)

TREY SAT IN HIS mezzanine office, door closed to muffle the clamor, his elbows on his desk and his head propped on his fingertips. He should have been out at his table three hours ago, drinking and smoking and watching, but his give-a-damn had taken the last six weeks off.

He was feeling it. Every second he ruled his little section of Paris, he felt it. Every time he dropped onto the divan formerly owned by Gil Scarritt, he felt it. Every time one of his employees yelled at him because they were again secure in their income and shelter, he felt it. Every time Lazia’s soldiers, led by Charlie Carrollo, sauntered in to “chat” and assess the speak for the opportunity to take it from him, he felt it. Every time Boss Tom’s soldiers, led by Solly Weissman, or KC coppers dropped by for a very long drink, but did not summon Trey to the Jackson County Democratic Club, he felt it. He’d been cut off to make him feel the weight of Tom’s rage at having lost 1520 and remember, every minute of every day, that if he made one wrong move, he’d be under a fresh slab of concrete in Brush Creek and 1520’s occupants would have their lives turned upside down.

He was so sure choosing his people over Marina was the right thing to do, but he’d made the wrong choice. Again. Boss Tom always kept his promises, and Trey should’ve had faith he’d keep the one to let him carry on as if nothing had happened. Should he or shouldn’t he go back to Boss Tom and tell him he’d changed his mind? It’d be a simple transfer of the deed back to Pendergast, but Trey didn’t know his mood and he didn’t know if he’d say no just to punish Trey. Furthermore, Trey was paying Boss Tom about the same in protection money as he had when he was turning most of the profits over to him. The only advantage was that now, Trey didn’t have to keep a set of books just for Boss Tom.

As for Gio … Trey didn’t know whether to tell him about Boss Tom’s threats or not. He ought to give Gio the chance to run, but if Gio knew, he might do something stupid and, since Lazia was actively scouting for him, Gio might catch his attention. As it was, to everybody but Boss Tom, Gio was just one of Trey’s nameless gigolos who’d kept Dot Albright occupied while Trey seduced Marina. Trey also didn’t know how vindictive Boss Tom could be, since he was known to be a gracious loser, but it would only take one telegram from Boss Tom to any Mafia boss in New York for Gio to be dragged back home to die. Trey didn’t really think that would happen, as inviting the New York families into Kansas City meant they’d drag the Machine and the Kansas City Mafia into their turf war and never leave. But Boss Tom had done stupider things, like … wager 1520 for revenge he clearly didn’t find as satisfying as he’d expected.

Worst of all, Trey missed Marina. He missed her sharp mind, all the lily pads he had to explain because she hopped over them so quickly, her face lighting up like a spotlight when he did that, when she knew she was understood and then understood all the leaps she’d made.

He missed her soft, heart-shaped face that blushed with the slightest compliment or smile or long sly look. He missed her ducking her head to hide her blushes and the pleased smiles. He did not miss that girl he’d lain with, but he barely remembered her. And Gio was right. What did he think would happen if they married? Sweet Marina in the daytime and good-time Marina at night? He couldn’t have one without the other because unless she had a twin, she was Jekyll and Hyde.

Not even the spoils of war had cheered him up. Once Boss Tom learned Scarritt’s congregation was in an uproar, he had ordered Trey to take the KCPD with him over to the parsonage, take inventory of its valuables then strip it, as none of it had any business belonging to any church.

In front of the church elders and deacons, whom Trey had summoned with a little help from a KCPD escort, Scarritt had fallen to his knees and sobbed as his precious desk was removed from the house and loaded into Trey’s ICE truck. Next was the red velveteen divan and chair set. Trey wanted the divan. After that, everything in the cellar—art, wine, guns, all expensive, all collectible—was going to Boss Tom.

Trey didn’t know art, barely knew which wines were valuable, and hadn’t picked up a rifle (for anything other than skeet shooting with Scarritt) since he fell in with the Machine because he’d be damned if he ever had to hunt for his food again. There were a couple of nice Colts he had liberated from the boxes bound for the Jackson County Democratic Club, a shotgun, and a few other valuable things. Trey would get all the books with Boss Tom’s blessing. It just so happened that those books were chock full of cash—around three grand before Trey stopped counting and simply packed them up as fast as possible.

While the house was being stripped, Trey had stood in front of Scarritt and let him beg, figuratively sucking Trey’s cock. “’Member this, Scarritt?” Trey drawled with immense pleasure. “Prolly oughta know who you’re puttin’ on his knees and why ’cuz that shit’ll come back on you.”

“Trey—”

“Shut up, you pathetic motherfucker and re-dedicate your life to Jesus.”

The missus stood straight and tall, looking Trey in the eye. She spat in his face. He’d wiped the spittle off with his pristine handkerchief and said, “I respect that.” She looked surprised. “What I don’t respect is why you put up with this worthless cat.” Her jaw clenched, and he gave her a saucy grin and wink. “If you had more gumption, you could’ve steered this ship clear.”

As for the two prime breeding studs Scarritt had stabled down south at Benjamin Ranch, Boss Tom had been thrilled. Trey had been tempted to keep them to himself because they weren’t on any of Scarritt’s inventories (although those were falsified before Trey started falsifying them), but Boss Tom loved the ponies, owned a few of his own, and probably had connections at Benjamin Ranch. If he didn’t, Lazia definitely would, since he had his own herd of thoroughbreds. One or both of them would find out and Trey’s honesty would come under a microscope. Nobody would find anything else amiss, but handing unaccounted-for merchandise over to Boss Tom cemented Trey’s illusion of being perfectly straight with him.

But here Trey sat, still stewing in his Pyrrhic (he didn’t know how to pronounce that, either) victory, missing Marina, looking at Scarritt’s divan and wanting his old one back.

Trey did not regret one second of the time he’d spent with Marina. He regretted not having thought through the whole thing and declining to participate. But he’d done a lot of that the last few years, acting impulsively, getting his ass kicked on the back end because he was rash and impulsive and never stopped to consider long-term consequences.

Shit, he wasn’t smart enough to see long-term consequences even if he thought about them. To wit: Having chosen Gio over Marina.

All he’d have had to do was fire Gio and run him out of town (to hell with how much Gio would hate him for it) then take the deed back to Boss Tom.

“Trey!” one of his hostesses called from outside his door. “Somebody’s askin’ for you. Looks official, so I put him at your table.”

Trey sighed. Official meant budding politicians wanting a favor.

“Trey!” She pounded on the door. “You in there?”

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’.” He straightened his collar and put his suitcoat on over his suspenders, summoned his swagger, and left his office. “Yeah, mac?” he said to the dapper cat already sitting at Trey’s table. The man didn’t rise or take Trey’s hand and his look was stone cold. Trey got his first stirrings of unease. This wasn’t a soldier from the Machine or the Mafia and he wasn’t properly deferential to an underboss. An expensively dressed man who displayed his alpha to Trey Dunham was a man with nothing to lose. Trey sat as coolly as he could. “Drink?”

“You’re getting married,” he said flatly. “You can do it with a smile or you can do it with a gun in your back.”

If only it were that easy.

“People who threaten me get a friendly visit from the KCPD.”

“I’ll pit a quorum of angry Mormon elders against the Machine and Mafia any day.”

“Well, Bishop,” Trey said with a little pop on the p. “Seems we got a problem with that.”

“What.”

“You can kill me for not doing it or Boss Tom can torch me for doing it. Either way, we all lose.”

He shook his head slightly. “Taken care of.”

Trey blinked. “How’d you know to do that?” he demanded.

“Gene,” he sneered, “came to confess.”

Trey’s jaw dropped. There were so many implications to that, he didn’t know where to start. “I never told him Boss Tom threatened me.”

“He said there had to be a reason you weren’t on my doorstep the second you got the deed to 1520 and you were moping around.”

Trey scowled. “If you knew all that and went to Boss Tom to do … whatever, why’d you come in here heavy an’ lookin’ to kick my ass?”

“Men say a lot of things to get what they want and Matteo wants Dot. It was a last-ditch effort to get her. Didn’t work, because I’m not letting him anywhere near her. She’s heartbroken enough without finding out who he is, where he came from, what he was doing here before you promoted him, and what’ll happen to him if the Cosa Nostra gets wind of him. I’ll keep his secrets, but he doesn’t get another crack at my kid.”

Trey’s raging curiosity would have to wait. “I’ve gotten myself into a bunch of pickles because I haven’t thought things through. Now I am. First, what’d you say to Tom to get him to back off?”

“I pointed out that he has daughters he loves dearly,” Albright said. “How would they feel if Lazia made a bet with one of his underbosses to get one of them pregnant as revenge?”

Trey’s eyebrows rose. “He bought that?”

Albright scowled. “He didn’t buy anything. TJ’s a lot of things, bad and good, but first and foremost he’s a family man. Loves his wife. Loves his children. He didn’t think it through, either. The most powerful man in town saw an innocent sixteen-year-old girl as a chess piece and discarded her when he was done with her.”

Trey grimaced.

“That’s what he said. It doesn’t excuse you, however.”

“I know,” Trey muttered.

“I’ll take that drink now,” he said conversationally, suddenly much less hostile. “Sarsaparilla, if you have it.”

38A

If you don’t want to wait 2 years to get to the end, you can buy it here.

Speakeasy staff.