Preacher cleared his throat and prayed his voice didn’t shake. “I need you and your boys to lay low for a while, wait and see if we get any blowback. But yeah, it’s done.”
Rocky started to smile, and Preacher turned his attention back to Salvatore. The old man had gone still, though his mouth still worked soundlessly.
Preacher was suddenly struck with a memory.
When his he and his brothers were little, The Judge would take them fishing at the pier. He taught them all sorts of things—various fishing line knots, and what bait worked best for which fish. The fish they’d catch, The Judge would slap across the dock, killing them instantly.
They should never be needlessly cruel, The Judge had told them.
Again Preacher saw the smear of blood on the trailer door—an image that would never leave him.
And then he walked off, leaving Salvatore gasping for air.
• • •
Inside the clubhouse, half his club trailing behind him, Preacher headed into the kitchen. Quickly peeling off his gloves, he tossed them onto the countertop and moved toward the sink. Behind him, his men filed in. Nobody said a word.
Turning on the faucet, Preacher cupped his hands and splashed several handfuls of cold water on his face. Dripping wet, he gripped the counter and bowed his head. Preacher’s arms began to quiver.
He’d done it. He’d actually fucking done it.
It was so fucking surreal, this entire day. He’d avenged his parents and effectively ended the Rossi family. Him. Just a no-good kid from the neighborhood.
“Preacher?” Frank leaned his elbow on the counter. “How you doin’?”
Preacher’s eyes slid to Frank. His longtime friend had killed men today with the same ruthless efficiency that he did everything else. He didn’t appear bothered in the least. In fact, he seemed almost… tranquil.
Preacher couldn’t even begin to comprehend that kind of calm. He was… hell, he didn’t know what he was feeling, exactly.
Killing Salvatore—it had felt horrible.
And yet, also exhilarating. Powerful.
Preacher ran a hand over his face and blew out a breath. “I’m good,” he lied.
Frank stared at him, his gaze full of speculation and doubt. Straightening, Preacher folded his arms across his chest. “I’m good,” he growled.
“Good. ‘Cause they aren’t.” Frank’s gaze shifted.
Preacher turned, facing the kitchen and the four men spread throughout. Still no one spoke or even looked at one another.
“Smokey and Jim come back yet?” Preacher quietly asked Frank.
“Not yet.”
Preacher nodded and pushed away from the counter. After grabbing two bottles of liquor from a nearby cabinet, he handed one to Hightower. “You okay?”
Hightower often bragged about his many kills in Vietnam. Still, Preacher couldn’t imagine that killing men in a firefight was anything like the carefully calculated, up close and personal hits they’d exacted tonight.
His expression unreadable, Hightower nodded slowly. “Right as rain, Prez,” he drawled.
Preacher clapped him on the arm and turned to Bullet. Unable to hold his gaze, Bullet stared down at his boots.
“I ain’t sweatin’ it, my brother,” Bullet muttered. “There ain’t nothin’ so bad in this world that a wet, warm pussy can’t fix.”
Suddenly laughing, Hightower wrapped an arm around Bullet’s neck and squeezed. “You know it!”
Across the room, Knuckles was seated at the dining table, pale-faced and staring at his hands splayed out in front of him. Joe sat beside him, staring vacantly across the room, an unlit cigarette quivering between his lips.
Setting the second bottle down on the table, Preacher gripped Knuckles’ shoulder and bent down beside him. “You did good today.”
Bloodshot eyes lifted and narrowed. “Yeah?” Knuckles’ voice was small and timid.
Preacher squeezed his shoulder. “Yeah, man. Real fuckin’ good.”
Knuckles let out a breath, then another, and then he grabbed the bottle. While Knuckles drank, Preacher pulled Joe into the hallway and lit his cigarette for him.
“Get some girls over here,” he said. “Smoke some shit, snort some shit. And you make sure you fuckin’ call me when Smokey and Jim get back.”
When Joe didn’t respond, Preacher slapped him lightly on the cheek. “Hey, you hearin’ me?”
Joe blinked several times. “Yeah, man, yeah. Get some girls over here. Call you when Smokey and Jim get back. Got it.” He continued to smoke—quick, successive drags. Sighing, Preacher turned to leave.
“You headed home?” Joe called after him, “You gonna make me go home to Sylvie tonight, too?”
“I’m goin’ home. You do whatever the fuck you gotta do.”
“Preacher! Shit! Preacher!” Shouting excitedly, Max swung his long body over the first-floor stair railing. “Debbie had the baby!”
As if he’d been punched in the gut, all air fled Preacher’s lungs.
Max rushed down the hall. “Debbie, she had the baby! She’s at the hospital! Sylvie’s with her—Tiny, too!”
“She’s at the hospital,” Preacher repeated dumbly. His heart thudded in his chest. He shook his head as if to clear it. “Is she… okay?”
Max skidded to a stop and gripped Preacher’s shoulders. “She’s fine. They’re both fine.”
Preacher stared at his brother. “Both?”
Max grinned. “Yeah, both. Preacher, you’ve got yourself a daughter.”
Chapter 30
Sandwiched between Max and Smokey on the sofa, Preacher swallowed the last of his beer and got to his feet. On a chair nearby, Crazy-8 held Louisa in his lap and was whispering something in her ear. Preacher winked at her as he passed, and she burst into giggles.
Across the room, Preacher stopped beside the group gathered around the television. A baseball game was on, the New York Yankees vs. the Detroit Tigers, but instead of watching the game they were arguing over which Hendrix album had the better lineup.
“Electric Ladyland tops ‘em all,” Preacher interjected, smacking Bullet upside his head.
Knuckles raised his beer. “You know it, Prez!”
“Fuck you, you crazy white fools!” Bullet shouted. “The Jimi Hendrix Experience, hands down!”
“It don’t count if he was already dead!”
“Dumbass kids,” Jim complained. “What about the greats? What about Sinatra?”
“Here we go again,” Anne muttered. “Sinatra this, Sinatra that.”
Knuckles made a face. “Man, screw Sinatra. The only Frank I’m listenin’ to is Zappa. And you, Ghost.” Knuckles nudged Frank. “If you ever come up with somethin’ useful to say.”
“Nice shirt,” Frank said wryly, eyeing the slogan printed across Knuckles’ chest—MY FACE LEAVES AT 10:00. BE ON IT. “That about sums up your thought processes, huh?”
As more insults were traded, Preacher moved into the hall and turned the corner. He paused briefly as he passed the kitchen, hearing Debbie’s soft laughter over the clanking and clattering of dishes. Preacher started to smile, then frowned as Sylvia’s horse laugh drowned out nearly every other sound.
Up ahead, amid a cloud of smoke, Tiny and Joe were seated at the breakfast table, sharing a joint. A bag of chips and a small handheld radio sat on the table between them, Fleetwood Mac’s Go Your Own Way playing.
On the floor nearby, little Frankie was pushing his toy trucks around a very frustrated-looking Trey. Not yet able to walk, Trey was relegated to making mad grabs for the trucks each time Frankie brought them near, only to have Frankie snatch them away at the last second.
Preacher bent down beside the boys and held out his hand. “How’s it hangin’ over here? You two gonna gimme some skin?”
Grinning, Frankie slapped his little hand down on top of Preacher’s. Trey, his face screwed up in concentration, batted furiously at Preacher’s arm.
“Preacher, brother, you look like shit,” Tiny called out.
Feeling like shit, Preacher staggered toward the table and sat down with a thud. Resting his head on the tabletop, he said, “Man, I haven’t slept in days. My kid does nothing but eat, shit, and scream.”