Mikey hated going to church.

  Bunch of fucking hypocrites is what they were, churchy types that is. Always judging him for who he was and what he’d done, acting all holier than thou like they were better than him just because they got down on their knees to pray once a week. Thing is, when shit went wrong and they needed a hand, who did they reach out to? The Family, that’s who. A loan to keep the bank off their backs, a favour to get them out of prison time, protection from the gypsies, ragheads, mongos, and all them other foreign heavies running security for the caravans stopping in every other week. Whenever the locals had troubles, they didn’t go praying for help. No, they came to the Family to sort their issues out, because the Family got shit done.

  Even the clergy themselves weren’t above coming to the Family for help. When them rivalling rabbis got themselves a stained-glass window and the Church wanted to keep up appearances, who did they turn to? How about that time they found out Father Haversham liked the kids a little too much and the Church wanted to handle things in-house? Then of course there was that nasty bit of business with Sister Jolana’s pilgrimage and those burrheads who snatched her up right off the Highway. Sheriff and Rangers didn’t do shit, said there wasn’t enough evidence to condemn those animals, so the Church came to the Family, and the Family sorted those Umber savages right out.

  Nasty business that, stringing folks up and gutting them while they still breathing, but Don Pugliano believed in all that bible thumping nonsense. He didn’t want no one touching the Church’s people around these parts, and what the Don wants, the Don gets.

  Those sorts of results were just one of many reasons why folks turned a blind eye to the Family’s business, and the Church even let them hold their meetings here in the Basilica of Mount Rime. A fucking gilded castle is what it was, a massive stone building with tall towers, wide windows, and a big dome of an atrium where they held Sunday Mass. Bleak and depressing is what it was, with all them candlelit marble statues of Jesus on the cross and Saints suffering in all sorts of different ways. Had them an artist on payroll whose job was just to churn out statues’ day after day, of people bleeding from the head or arrows sticking out of their guts, a real nutjob if there ever was one. Once finished, his statues were then hoisted up onto the walls to fill one of the vacant spots they’d built into the Basilica from day one, a niche all dressed up in marble columns and gilded fittings.

  Now there was a real grift, selling salvation of the soul for a weekly donation, except the only way to find out if it was money well spent is to eat a Bolt first. Wasn’t no coming back from that, so won’t be no one asking for no refunds, now was there?

  Much as he hated the Church and all it stood for, Mikey still had to play the part of a good Catholic, because that’s how it was in the Family. If the Don wants you in Church every Sunday, then you show up for Church, and while Mikey didn’t much like having to make that weekly donation, he wasn’t stupid enough to short on it either. Or worse, take from the collections, because that was worse than stealing from the Don’s own pocket. Least that’s how the big guy saw it, so that’s how it was, but at least today, he wouldn’t be expected to make no donation, since this wasn’t no Sunday Mass. Just a Family meeting, one he'd been told not to miss, so he made sure to show up at the courtyard entrance good and early, a full five minutes before 6 p.m. Didn’t want to show up too early and get in the way, while being fashionably on time might make the Don think Mikey didn’t take the warning serious enough. He took it serious, that’s for sure, because these meetings weren’t for everybody. Usually just the Capos, while made men like Mikey served as security at best. This time though, even Franky, the Don’s own cousin and Consiglieri, was stuck greeting guests at the door, with a big fake smile and a cigar between his lips.

  “Buono Serra, Mikey,” Franky said in the thickest Boston accent Mikey ever heard while pulling him in for that euro hug, kiss-kiss crap. “Good to see you made it on time.”

  “Boss says jump, I jump.” Giving Bernie and Vito a curtesy nod, Mikey opened up his jacket to show his piece before slowly taking it out with two fingers. Vito took it and tossed it into the open chest, one which had plenty of hardware all stacked up nice and neat. Expensive hardware, nothing like Mikey’s cheapo Bashere 1915. There was an Aerie Falcon in there, a Savannah Jaguar, and even the Don’s Desert Vulture, an Orichalcum plated, 50 calibre, semi-automatic hand cannon that cost more than what Mikey made in five years. All quality, Italian-made Bashere handguns stacked nice and neat on the shelves, while Mikey’s trash 1915 just went into the box as is.

  Truth was, he didn’t blame Vito one bit. With their roles reversed, Mikey would’ve done the same. Embarrassing is what that was.

  “Remember the rules.” Cradling Mikey’s head and looking him in the eyes all serious as the grave, Franky said, “No violence. No bloodshed. No hats. You got another weapon, you throw it into the chest now, because if they find something on you, then that’s a long, slow death, you hear?” Sticking his bony finger in Mikey’s face, Franky made it clear he wasn’t joking around. “I mean it Mikey. You on thin ice as it is, and I already stuck my neck out for you. Don’t make me look the fool.”

  “Okay, I got it,” Mikey said, sweating bullets while doing his best to play it cool as he handed over his boot and belt knives. “What’d I do?”

  The question earned him a slap to the back of the head. “You’ll find out soon enough,” Franky said, waving him on in. “Just keep your mouth shut unless someone addresses you directly.”

  On that ominous note, Franky waved him inside, and soon as Mikey stepped through the doors, he felt a weight come off his shoulders and head. Like walking into a breath of fresh air it was, or dropping the mother of all deuces with a lit cig in hand. Refreshing and relaxing, these Consecrated grounds were, shutting out the constant buzz of the Mindspire that the Rangers still couldn’t lock down. Fat lot of good they were, which was why he was glad he didn’t pay no taxes, because if he did, he’d be real steamed over their lack of progress. Wasn’t nothing else to do besides wait though. Even the Don didn’t have enough juice to bring in a certified Warder, not one good enough to do his whole house, and the Church didn’t Consecrate any ground which wasn’t a church, not even for a donation fat enough to choke a moose.

  Mikey’s hat went onto the rack, and he wiped his boots on the mat too just to be sure. After taking a few test steps onto the marble floor to make sure he wasn’t tracking nothing in, he set off into the chapel turned dining room to glad hand the bigwigs in the room. The Don wasn’t in yet, and Franky was out front, so Mikey started with Underboss Gio and his two flunkies, Dom and Matty. Capos the both of them, but there were Capos and then there were Capos, and Dom and Matty were the real deal. They didn’t run the girls, booze, or the docks. They ran the whole fucking mines along with Gio, and the three of them got fat doing it, looking like a trio of calzones with legs while smoking their fancy gold-foil cigars. A real preemo gig that was, one they all earned by being loyal to the Don and sticking it out with him from the start. Smart move, divvying up the mines into three and giving the smallest portion to Gio. Kept him honest, because even though he was the underboss, Dom and Matty controlled 70% of the mines between the two of them and could easily edge him out on the Don’s say so.

  Not for Mikey, who made his bones only some 7 years back after doing 6 for manslaughter. Some drunk spic started talking wise, then wanted to throw hands, so Mikey put the beaner in his place good. Wasn’t his fault the burro fucker couldn’t take a hit and cracked his head open on the bar, but the law didn’t see it that way. Sent him upriver to a lumber camp to serve his time, which is where Mikey met his current Capo Louie P, and the rest, like they say, is history. Back in the camps, Louie P had Mikey’s back all the way, but in the present day, the big man looked damn near ready to serve him up on a platter himself. “What’d I tell you, Mikey?” Louie P said, lumbering on over like he wanted to lay a smackdown on Mikey before remembering the rules and fixing his tie instead. “Juice ain’t worth the squeeze, goin’ after homesteaders like that. Ain’t worth the squeeze one bit.”

  Funny that, considering how happy Louie P had been not two weeks back when Mikey came back from collections with an extra G. All of which went to line Louie P’s own pockets mind you, except he wasn’t remembering none of that now. Didn’t give Mikey a chance to say nothing either, just gave him a look warning him to keep quiet before throwing a meaty arm around his shoulders and guiding him over to the end of the room. “Whatever the Don says, you just smile and nod, understood?” Louie P didn’t wait for no answers, and Mikey didn’t have none, as he kept quiet and let the other man go on. “Don’t whine, don’t complain, don’t try to explain your side, because didn’t nobody ask. If someone does, then you tell them the truth, straight up, no lies, no half-truths, no evasions, nothing. Then and only then do you stand a chance of making it back home alive, and you best thank the Lord and the Don both for their mercy.”

  “Got it boss.” Now Mikey was really starting to sweat, and he still didn’t know why.

  Couldn’t ask either, because Louie P brought him to the corner of the room and said, “Now stand here, keep your head down, and your mouth shut.” Mikey nodded, which was exactly what Louie P was looking for, but he didn’t move off either. Instead, he stood an arm’s length away like he was screening for him in a game of football or something. Gave Mikey time to collect his thoughts and study the crowd as people filtered in over the next half hour. Was a real who’s who of the Mafia, and not just the Puglianos either. All the Family’s heavy hitters were here of course, but there were also several guests he’d never met yet recognized on sight all the same.

  There was Renato 'Revolvers' Rossi, the Cattaneo Family’s fixer, looking like a snake with arms as he leaned against a column on the other side of the room. Was wearing his shoulder harness, but his four holsters were empty and missing his 4 signature revolvers, Ranger Issue sidearms he took off his kills. A Rattlesnake, an Arbiter, a Longsword, and a 44 Special, choice weapons one and all which Revolvers Rossi bought with blood and used to clean up any mess the Cattaneo Family might need cleaning.

  On the other side of the room was Paolo ‘Admiral’ Vigliotti, a bullheaded Capo who oversaw the river runners for the Zampano Family. A cold man who carried himself with steely confidence and strict discipline, his back straight and shoulders square as he stood there with a wine glass in hand, acting like he owned the joint when truth was he was more like a fish out of water in hostile territory. Wouldn’t nothing happen to him in this room here, but the Zampanos and the Puglianos had been feuding for the better part of a decade now. The Puglianos had the mines, while the Zampanos had the rivers, so even though they worked closely together to net themselves a nice profit, neither side was happy with the current arrangement.

  Even John Lanzetta was here, the fucking Watchman himself, with a suit that fit like a second skin with how it flowed along every line and angle as he moved through the crowd. Had a mug that gals would call pretty and guys would call fruity, but never to his face, and a big smile pasted over it as he gladhanded everyone in the room like he was at the bottom of the pyramid instead of damn near the top. Had his signature Mithril wristwatch on too, a real work of mechanical art with its sapphire crystal face and diamond studded dials. Precise too, which is what the Watchman valued above all else, or so it was said, since it let him follow Don Manfredi’s orders to a tee, orders which earned him the title of the Mastermind. The Manfredi Family was big out west, but didn’t have much going on round here by the Bulwark, so Mikey wasn’t really sure why the Watchman was in town.

  Wasn’t about to ask either, because questions like that made you look like a rat, and didn’t no one like rats in their house.

  There were a few other Families represented here today, but no one Mikey recognized at a glance, nor did anyone come over to see him. The Watchman gave him a look like he thought about coming over, but Louie P’s presence was clear indication that the Don didn’t want no one talking to Mikey. That wasn’t good, but if they wanted him dead, a chapel was the last place they’d bring him. A murder on Consecrated ground would ‘profane’ the area and dispel the Abjuration, leaving the clergy with plenty of questions about what happened here, and no way to re-sanctify the grounds without first reconciling their faith. Bunch of bullshit is what that was. The faith bit, not the dispelled Abjuration, but it was enough to keep a priest from re-sanctifying the grounds and a believer like the Don from willingly profaning holy ground. Wouldn’t stop him from having someone drag Mikey out into the courtyard to shoot him, but it was something at least.

  Soon enough, the Don made his appearance, the grand calzone to end them all. Time was Ignazio Pugliano was a hulking bear of a man, a fiery presence to match his prowess on the battlefield. Wasn’t even all that long ago. When Louie P put Mikey’s name up for the books, Iggy was the one who straightened him out. Brought him out to make his bones on a raid against some backwater skinheads looking to muscle in on the Family business. Now there was a fight to remember, bursting into the building where all them Nazis were sleeping and unloading on them with everything the Family had. Bolts and Blasts from their Bashere 1915’s and Black Eagles, with Iggy leading the way like the warrior he was. Wasn’t just muscle either, but brains too, a bonafide Magus whose Spell of choice was a Scorching Beam, a radiant shaft of searing sunlight that shot out of his hands and zigzagged around the room to strike his targets, setting them aflame and turning them into a screaming, burning mess. That was Iggy’s trademark see, how he got the name ‘Firebrand’ to start with, and it was a sight to behold, one that struck fear into the hearts of every gang and Family still vying for power over the operations in Mount Rime.

  A war the Pugliano Family won soon after a series of gruelling and merciless strikes, ones Mikey played no small part in. Lost a lot of friends and ate no less than a dozen Bolts in those fights, but he was the Snow Show after all, an Abjurer with Elemental Armour in his back pocket to eat up all those shots without batting an eye. Even saved Franky’s life once by diving in front of a double barrelled Blastgun to take the brunt of the shot, a favour that didn’t go unnoticed. The Don gave Mikey his choice of operations to run after the fact, outside of the mines of course, but Mikey was too dumb to pick something safe and boring like running books or girls. No, he wanted to make up for lost time spent hacking at trees, get out and see the Frontier, so he asked to head up outside operations, run the shipments and caravans going out of the mines.

  Only for the Don to start sub-contracting schmucks outside the company to handle shipping not two years later, because the Family earned more that way.

  Which might even be true, but Mikey wasn’t seeing none of that extra cash. While everyone else was earning fat stacks sitting around at home, he was legging it up and down the Highway just to scrape by. Too many Rangers and checkpoints along the road to make bank smuggling like that, and Mikey’s stomach couldn’t handle travelling by boat, so he was shit out of luck there. If he hadn’t run into that Soviet spook Gunin and made a connection with Ron, Mikey might well have been relegated to working as muscle or protection for one of the Capos, a shit gig for a made man who’d been around for as long as he had. Course, the Family didn’t want nothing to do with the drugs Ron pushed, so Mikey had to step outside the lines and sell in markets far from home without using his regular connections, but the Family turned a blind eye so long as they got their cut in a fat fucking envelope every quarter.

  That choice gig was gone now, and Mikey didn’t have no luck making a play for Ron’s suppliers, because he couldn’t get no backing from the Family to do it. It was one thing to smuggle a couple bricks or bags from point A to point B, but the Don didn’t want no one involved in the production side of things. Was leaving a lot of money on the table, but the fat greasy fuck had long since lost his appetite for risk. Too much of the finer things in life to gorge on instead, like the rich meats, aged vinegar, fine cheeses, and expensive wines he brought out for his guests. And only his guests, meaning the wise guys from out of town who got a seat at the table, while the Don’s own people stood around with glasses of the cheap stuff and their thumbs up their asses.

  Gone was the warrior Mikey followed into battle all those years ago, and in his place was a grand poobah of pudge with more rolls than a bakery. Man wheezed coming down the stairs alongside his fat fuck of a son, the heir apparent to it all, Antonio Pugliano. The oldest of Iggy’s brats and the worst off for it, but the favoured son nonetheless. Both were dressed to impress in the finest furs and silks this side of the Divide, with jewels aplenty wherever they could fit them. The Don even had a fat ruby egg nestled into the handle of his cane, one done up in Mithril because why the fuck not? Most telling of all though was the ring on the Don’s pinky finger, one which once held an ugly, mottled red and brown Aberrant Fire Stone so he could sling his trademark Spell at a moment’s notice, and now had a diamond the size of a walnut sitting on that fat sausage of a finger. Was almost grotesque how he flashed his wealth around, but Mikey couldn’t blame the man for it. If you got it, flaunt it, only while Don Ignazio and his choice pals were living it large here in Brightpick, his people were scrambling for whatever crumbs they could get that’d fallen out of his cavernous mouth.

  Wasn’t right is all. Wasn’t right to keep so much for himself and leave nothing for the people who helped get him there.

  And Antonio? Little Lord Fuckwad had all of his daddy’s worst traits and none of his best. Kid was sharp as a cue ball and about the same shade of pasty white. Had a beak so long he could smoke in the rain, and an attitude that was straight cunty. Never worked a day in his sixteen years and expected everyone in the Family to treat him like fucking royalty, and the Don played along because Antonio was his heir apparent. Punk-ass little shit wasn’t even a made man and got himself a seat at the table at Daddy’s left, kicking Underboss Gio down a seat and showing everyone where the future of the Family lay. Wasn’t subtle about it either, cracking wise about cutting in and laughing at his own stupid jokes. Chump that he was, lardass Gio donkey-laughed along, and so did Dom and Matty standing behind him. Four calzones all gathered to one side looking all greased up like hogs at a county fair. Wouldn’t take much to run those four fat piggies down, but much as Mikey would love to share the joke, Louie P wasn’t having none of it, keeping him squirreled away in the corner like the ugly daughter at the debutante ball.

  Heavy breathing was the Don’s way of signalling for silence, that plus a raised glass once everyone important was seated. Man looked like a gorilla in a silk suit, having to turn his whole body to get his arm up front and in the air. Had tits bigger than Franky’s wife, which was really saying something, and you could see the Don struggling to hold his cup up for that long. How far the mighty have fallen, and it was almost enough to bring a tear to Mikey’s eye if it didn’t turn his stomach so much. The Don had a few things to say in his thick Sicilian accent to welcome the guests, but Mikey let it all wash over him as he stood in his corner unnoticed, watching the Don sweat and heave from the sheer exertion of walking a few meters and saying a few words.

  Ron had it right. Discipline and shared profits, that was the key to continued growth and success. The Don got in early here at Mount Rime, bided his time and struck at the opportune moment, but had since squandered everything he’d gained. Wasn’t no money going into the Family, only flowing out into the Don’s pocket. Forget fancy silk suits and expensive jewellery, most associates in the gang were still using cheap 1915’s same as Mikey, while the better, more expensive weapons were mostly decorative like what he saw in the weapons locker earlier.

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  This wasn’t the place to get into it though, not in front of outsiders, nor was it Mikey’s place to speak out. Soon as the formalities were all out of the way, the Don sank back into his chair with a meaty thump that had Mikey praying the wood would snap and break. Someone had thought ahead though, likely Franky since that was his job as Consigliere, and the Don was seated in a real sturdy, steel-framed monster of a cushioned throne, one he’d see as ‘befitting’ his status rather than a necessity given his massive tumour of a lard ass. “As you may-a know,” he said, in that soft, almost lyrical way them Sicilians spoke, “We are-a here today to speak on the matter of our joint-a venture, and the set backs encountered in New Hope, yes?”

  “Set backs you encountered.” The Admiral was a tried and true American, and not one to mince words even in hostile territory. Laid the blame square at the Don’s feet, and you could tell by his deafening breathing that the Don didn’t like that much. Didn’t stop Paolo though, as he sat upright in his chair, spine several inches from the back of his seat and palms laid out flat atop the table. “Am I wrong?” he asked, in response to the Don’s heated glare and heavy breathing. “We had everything set up, got you all the papers and passes your people would need to see them free and clear of town, only for them to fumble it off the snap. Four dead not two minutes into the op, just after setting foot inside the Sheriff’s Office, and here we are two weeks later with nothing to show for it.”

  “There were… extenuating circumstances.” No denial, no rage, just pure, unbridled frustration from the Don in response to the Admiral’s accusations, which meant there really wasn’t anything else the Don could say. More terrifying was how the big man’s eyes darted over to Mikey, but only for a moment. “Sherrif Barone was kind enough to procure us the crystal, so that we might all see what happened, yes?” Waving a fat, meaty hand, the Don had Antonio start the show, but Little Lord Fuckwad couldn’t even get that right. After fiddling with the projector disc for all of a minute, Franky stepped in to get the show rolling, only for Antonio to throw a little hissy fit and claim he almost had it, but don’t no one pay him no mind.

  Mostly out of habit, but also because every eye was watching the show, one shot from multiple security cameras in the New Hope Sherrif’s Office. One pointed at the front door, two at the security desk, and the fourth and final one showing the waiting room. Only people on screen was the Deputy at the desk and a couple sitting in the corner, a cowboy and a silver-haired girl in a sundress cuddling a baby calf of all things. Mikey couldn’t help but gasp, and the noise earned him the back of Louie P’s hand across the chest. It was the kid, the fucking Firstborn, standing up and saying something to the Deputy like he was making ready to leave. Crystal didn’t capture no audio though, only video, so they could only guess at what was said. Finished with the conversation, the Firstborn turned to face the girlie who was still sitting with the calf, just as Sando strolled right through the door without so much as batting an eye. Didn’t glance at the cameras or check the exits, didn’t stumble, waffle, or waver, just walked in like it was a regular day on the job as a trusted Civil Guard of New Hope.

  That’s probably why they sent him after all. Nerves of fucking steel. The Firstborn though? He glances over two or three times while Sandro’s talking it out with the Deputy, though about what, Mikey could only guess at. Then Sandro turns his head in a casual glance, and catches sight of the Firstborn looking over their way, and the both of them freeze in obvious recognition. They both take a beat before all hell breaks loose as the kid guns down all four mooks backing Sandro up, quick as a blink. Sandro, he don’t shift a single inch, just stands there and slowly raises his hands, all tense and full of rage that Mikey could only imagine as the Firstborn’s Mage Hands pat him down. Then the recording cut off and the disc went dark, leaving Mikey full on sweating bullets because he finally figured out why he was here.

  Because before Sandro left for New Hope, Mikey told the man the Firstborn killed three of his people and wanted him to rattle the kid’s cage just a bit.

  “Fascinating,” the Watchman said, leaning in over the table like a kid at the diner watching the waitress make his milkshake. “May I?” In response to his gesturing, Franky looked to the Don before sliding the disc over to the Watchman, who rewound the video back to just before the shooting starts. “Look here,” he said, eyes fixed on the image before him, with the Firstborn standing sideways with his left to Sandro as they made eye contact for the first time. “See how they both freeze? They recognize each other.” Clapping his hands with a laugh, the Watchman paused and rewound the recording again before playing it in slow motion. “And the kid tries to let it pass! He glances away, right there, and your man sees it and deflates. How fascinating. Too bad about the other guys though. If they’d kept their cool, we might be having this sit down with our target in hand and new information to discuss.”

  “A joke is what this is.” Making no effort to hide his disdain, the Admiral snarled, “You let one brat still stinking of his mama’s milk ruin not just weeks of preparation, but years of groundwork making connections and establishing contacts all over town. The uniforms, the guns, the paper work, the bribes, everyone who was in on this operation got swept up these last two weeks, including the fixer who arranged it all inside.”

  “Might be a kid, but a damned good one.” Revolvers Rossi had a deep, smooth voice that belonged on a man twice his size, like an aged whisky served in a shot glass. Didn’t seem right, but worked all the same as he watched the shooting play back in slow motion. “Capitulates to your man, but stays ready. Draws second, shoots first. Doesn’t unload all six shots in a panic. Picks his targets with care, hitting them only after they go for their guns. One, two-three, four, pause, double tap to finish the job. Five shots, four kills, all without moving from his spot in front of the girl. From a side pose too, which limits his speed and stability, but he gets the job done all the same.” Taking a long drag of his cigarette, Revolvers Rossi leaned back in his chair and gave a little nod of appreciation. “Kid knows that gun good as any, and has the confidence to play it cool when stakes are high. Extenuating circumstances. I get it.”

  High praise considering the Firstborn had a Rattlesnake, same as Revolvers Rossi. A 22-10 instead of 44-40, but otherwise their guns were the same, so if the Firstborn knew it as good as any, that was the same as saying he was as good as Revolvers Rossi.

  “I see the problem now.” Picking up where the other man left off, the Watchman said, “Our inopportune gunman must be the Firstborn, the Marshal’s own Disciple as it were.”

  A fat, meaty hand slammed into the solid wood dining table and all the glasses jumped. Mikey did too, just a bit, but he’d never admit it, not out loud at least, showing Iggy the Firebrand still had a good bit of heat left to him. “Sì,” the Don growled, “And the Marshal, that brazen bastardo, he send me message. Tells me it ends here. My men dead. My operation failed. My contacts ruined. And he think he can tell me, it is over?!”

  “Oooh, a threat from the Marshal. How exhilerating.” The Watchman was damn near giddy at the news, while everyone else shifted in discomfort. That’s because the Manfredis were the only ones who didn’t have skin in the game out here along the Highway, so he didn’t know who he was dealing with. Other men you can bribe, threaten, or even talk sense into, but the Marshal? Only thing keeping him from sweeping the Highway clean of all criminal activity was the collateral damage. In civilian casualties, not economic concerns, which was the reason the Marshal’s higher ups used to keep him in check, but everyone knew that if you pushed the Marshal too far, he’d push back, and he wouldn’t go at it alone. Couldn’t even if he wanted to, because once word spread that he was the warpath, there’d be an army of Rangers nipping at his heels and ready to clear the Pugliano family out by next week.

  Only for another outfit to move in, because that’s how it was, which was why didn’t nobody do nothing about the Puglianos. So long as they toed the line, then the Rangers looked the other way, because wasn’t their job to enforce the law. Only keep the peace, and so long as too many bodies weren’t dropping at their feet and the ore kept flowing, they were content to leave things be.

  “So what you mean to say is that the operation is a complete failure with no hope of salvage,” the Admiral said, looking like he’d just eaten a bowlful of lemons. “Don Zampano will not be pleased.”

  “I do not give a fuck if that insignificant cunt Alexandro is displeased.” A chorus of chuckles sounded out in support of the Don, as there was no love lost between the Puglianos and the Zampanos, but the Don wasn’t finished. “But we cannot stop-a here. We must know where Vanguard National kept their explosives or learn how they were made.”

  Only after all this could Mikey breathe again, because it looked like they were glossing over the Firstborn. Or it did until Little Lord Fuckwad decided to chime in with, “Hang on. We just gonna move on like that? What about him?” Gesturing at the video, which was paused on the Firstborn holding his gun on Sandro, Antonio growled, “We need to send a message, show people what happens when they fuck with the Puglianos.”

  “Kid’s untouchable as they come.” It was finally time for Franky to speak up, and Mikey perked up to hear the man’s voice. Always the voice of reason, which was why he was Consigliere, and he always knew what’s what. “The Marshal already warned us off, but that alone isn’t enough to put us off.” It should’ve been, but Mikey figured Franky was fronting. “Once we started asking around though, our contacts in the church came back with bad news. Said that if we go after the Firstborn, then the Knights Templar will come after us, plain and simple. Or at least one chapter will, because Knight Captain James Rigsby down in Redeemer’s Keep christened the Firstborn and will unleash hell if put a hit on the kid. So will Sam Horne, Storm Caller in the Pathfinders and head of operations up in Nakoda, while Edward Elton, the Protectorate’s current generation Jack the Ripper, has a sweet spot for the Firstborn. No telling what that psycho will do, but a few other big names came up, like the Revenant, the Warden, the Sentinel, and more. Still, scary as they are, they’re all individual players who don’t got the juice those first three have, to say nothing of the Marshal himself, who like you said is the boy’s mentor.”

  The Don didn’t much like hearing it all laid out like that, and he was very vocal about how he wouldn’t be cowed, but if you read between the lines, you could tell it was all posturing. The fat man didn’t want nothing to do with anything outside of Mount Rime, not directly. Why? Because he had everything he needed right here. All the money, booze, food, and women he could ever want, so why risk it all by stepping out? So long as he kept his head down and the ore flowing, then the profits would keep coming and the Rangers would look the other way, so the last thing Iggy wanted was to fuck with the Firstborn and ruin a good thing.

  “Tell me more about the Firstborn,” the Watchman said, rewinding back to the start to watch it all over again. “The boy has a pedigree that reads like Ranger royalty, yet by all indications, he seemed ready to leave sleeping dogs lie. Why? With skills like his, it can’t be lack of confidence. Could have gunned down all five of your men with time to spare, yet he went about it like a vagrant rather than a soldier or lawman. You go your way, and he’ll go his, a child of the Frontier through and through. How did they recognize one another?”

  The Don gave a grunt of pure disgust, and Mikey’s guts churned to hear it, but didn’t no one so much as glance in his direction. The silence hung for a long, torturous second before Franky spoke up to fill it. “According to Sandro, he questioned the Firstborn regarding an incident in which we lost three men and he might have been involved in, and to learn more about his part in Pleasant Dunes. As far as Sandro can tell, the boy is clear on both fronts, but that don’t matter much now, do it?”

  Bullshit is what that was. The kid copped to killing Ron himself, not in so many words, but the message was clear enough. Mikey kept his lip buttoned though, because now wasn’t the time to argue facts.

  “It was my understanding that your man was chosen for his clean background and lack of notoriety in the area.” Looming in his seat, the Admiral faced down against the Don with a steely gaze to ask, “And you’re now telling me your man compromised this critical operation so he could obtain information regarding three missing men?”

  And only because Mikey asked him to, but how was he supposed to know Sandro had such a big job lined up? All Sandro said was that he was going into town, so Mikey asked if he could have a word with the kid. No wonder Franky had to stick his neck out for Mikey, because if this was the Don Ignazio of old, he’d have lit Mikey up like a firework already. Small favours that, especially as the meeting turned into a shouting match with the Admiral demanding the Puglianos make up for all their losses while the representatives from the other families supported him. The Don shouted back of course, with Franky and Gio chiming in whenever they had to, but ultimately, Mikey knew the Don would pay.

  And even though the Don was paying for Mikey’s mistake, he couldn’t help but loathe the man for it. Watching out for your boys, that was a given. Time was though, Iggy Firebrand would’ve told every last one of these punks to shut the fuck up and get the fuck out, then gone to war with each and every one of them. Now? The Don could barely go two minutes in a shouting match, much less a full-on fight, and it hurt to see it happen. As for Antoni? Judging by his dark glares, Little Lord Fuckwad was wondering why his daddy didn’t just hand Mikey over. If the Pugliano Family fell to him, Antoni would be dead within the day, killed either by Franky, Gio, or some other contender to the throne, depending on when this all went down.

  Like Mikey expected, the meeting ended with promise of reparations and empty talk of finding those chemical explosives or an expert on Ron’s payroll. Fat chance of that, as Ron played his cards close to the vest, and as far as Mikey could tell, the man had broken up his process across five different manufacturing depots to make his Composition B, which put the bang in all his grenades and charges. Weren’t many people who knew that sort of chemistry here on the Frontier, and truth is, it was a dying profession back in the old world too. Didn’t no one want the Feds coming down hard on you for using chemical explosives, not after they were banned worldwide. Wasn’t like anyone wanted a repeat of Australia either, what with all the suicide-bombing Abby, so even wise guys stepped lightly around them. Fact was, didn’t no one know anything about Ron’s operation, not until word got out after his death so the Rangers could warn others from making the same mistake.

  Would’ve been better off keeping quiet about it all though, because now that Don Ignazio knew there was a way to mine more ore with less workers for bigger profits, it looked like he was all for getting into the explosives business. Terrible idea seeing how the Rangers would come down hard on them for it, but so long as it was kept inside the mountain, there was a pretty good chance the Family could keep things on the down low. As for Mikey, he stayed alongside the rest of the Puglianos while the outsiders filed out, at which point he followed Franky’s signal and gave thanks to the Don for sparing his life. “I remember you,” the Don said, patting Mikey on the cheek as he did. “You save my cousin’s life, and for this, I spare yours.” Gripping his chin with surprising strength and focused intensity, the Don growled, “Do not expect me to do so again.”

  “Understood, Don Ignazio. Sorry Don. Thank you Don.” Cold sweat dripped down Mikey’s back as he kissed the man’s ring and stepped away, but the Don didn’t have much else to say. A few cursory business matters were dealt with, like how the cultists were clamouring for more bodies, or their gun connection running into trouble with shipping shut down, and how the Mindspire was driving everyone nuts, but it was all half-hearted at best. Soon enough, the Don called for the meeting to end and sent everyone away, with Franky walking Mikey out to show the others he was still in the Family’s good graces. “Thanks Franky,” Mikey said, but the other man just nodded and motioned for quiet as they stepped out of the chapel and into the courtyard. He kept his hand on Mikey’s shoulder though, walked him right up to his carriage and gestured for him to get in. Been awhile since he’d warranted a ride back home, but Mikey didn’t say nothing about nothing, just moved up the steps and sat down on the cushioned seats while waiting for Franky to get in. Took him a few seconds, as he was turned away to look at something else, but Mikey felt something brush against his knees in the meantime. Kept his mouth shut though, since he figured it out right quick, then spent the next few seconds doing his damnedest to keep his eyes steady in preparation for what came next.

  Because as soon as Franky was inside the carriage and the door closed behind him, the air shimmered to reveal not-so-little Mia Pugliano sitting right next to her father Franky. The girl took after her mother in two very big ways, and inherited her father’s dark hair and piercing eyes, but Franky had a thing about guys ogling his little girl, and Mikey wasn’t about to be the next example. He kept his gaze locked onto the back of the carriage no matter how tempting it was to glance down at Mia’s ample curves, ones belonging to a full-blooded and full-bodied Sicilian woman who’d just turned seventeen. A little young for Mikey’s tastes, or so he would’ve thought, but then he’d spent the last eighteen years on the Frontier seeing only women his age or older. Now with all these flowers in bloom, he was quickly reconsidering his stance, especially with that mezza Innate of Carter’s.

  Or Mia, in a world where Franky wouldn’t castrate Mikey for even thinking about it. Girl also had her mama’s long legs and plump lips, and worst of all, she was in that phase girls get where they’re starving for male attention. Mia knew the guys liked what they saw, and she liked showing it too, but liked it even more when her daddy laid down the law. Even the Don had to step in and say something to stop the bloodshed, telling Franky that maybe he ought to buy her some shirts that had a neckline in any other letter than V or send her off to a nunnery. Girl was dressed to impress today, despite spending most of it Invisible, with a black trench coat same as Mikey’s, and a vest too, one that kept her barely decent since she couldn’t be bothered to button up the red silk blouse underneath. Wore a pencil skirt instead of pants, one that rode well above her knees, and God help him, Mikey regretted letting his eyes stray that far because he almost couldn’t look away.

  Where in the Frontier had she gotten pantyhose from? Didn’t know you could make those by hand out here…

  Mia saw Mikey’s glance, liked it even, smiling as she snapped her wrist to open up a hand-held paper fan, which was all the rage with the kids these days. “Was a close call there, Uncle Mikey,” she said, batting her big brown eyes from over her fan and his heart lurched to hear the double-entendre. “In the meeting I mean,” she added, brushing her dark bangs aside to hide her sneaky little smile from her father. “I thought Uncle Iggy was gonna throw you to the wolves when the Watchman started doing the math.”

  “You and me both, kiddo.” Mia hated being called kiddo, but Mikey needed the reminder, and it didn’t hurt to have Franky think Mikey only saw the girl as a kid. “Thanks again, Franky. I mean it. I saw the gears turning in the Don’s head, same as Mia, and I know I got you to thank for the scales coming out the way they did.”

  “Bah.” Waving the thanks aside, Franky made a face. “It should be a given. Family above all else. You a made man, same as Sandro, Dom, Matty, and the others. The Pugliano name wouldn’t be worth shit if we gave you up over nothing. Bad luck is all. Kid was at the wrong place at the wrong time. You saw it too. If Sandro showed up a minute or two later, the Firstborn would’ve been long gone with that girlie of his, and we’d all be poppin’ bottles of bubbly to celebrate.” Heaving a sigh, Franky slumped in his seat and shook his head, giving Mikey the chance to glance at Mia just as her fan turned to revealed what was underneath, all pale skin, smooth curves, and a devilish smile that might well get him killed. “Fact that I had to even argue for your life at all shows how far gone Iggy is,” Franky said, just as Mikey found the clarity of thought to tear his eyes away again. “Shouldn’t matter if you made a mistake. If your name is on the books, then the Family stands behind you. Simple as that.”

  Whatever game Mia was playing at, she wasn’t ready to see Mikey dead yet. Instead, she turned to her father and said, “And that Antonio. Ugh. Always leering with his greasy face every time we meet. Glad I didn’t have to deal with that today. The last time we talked, he said we’re only second cousins, which means there’s nothing wrong with the two of us getting married. Ew.”

  Mikey didn’t say nothing, because it wasn’t his place to speak, but it’d probably be the only way Antonio could ever make it as Don of the Family, if he had Franky behind him 100%. Mia herself was sharp as a tack, and no slouch at the Spells neither it seemed, but the Family would never stand for a woman in charge, not in a million years. Thing is, Mia could probably run the family with Antonio as a figurehead, though to be fair, with her father’s backing, she could probably have her pick of the litter and still come out a winner. If she was sneaking into meetings where she wasn’t supposed to be, then there was a good chance that’s what she meant to do, and she wouldn’t have ever gotten in without Franky the Phantom letting her pass by.

  Which meant Franky was making a play for the title. Or considering it at least, because the future of the family in Antonio’s fat, sausage finger hands was a nightmare to be sure.

  “Don’t you worry kiddo,” Mikey said, after a short moment to think. “Anyone tries to marry you without your or your dad’s say so has gotta go through me first.” Giving Franky a look, Mikey nodded in unspoken allegiance, because there were some things you couldn’t come out and say. Franky caught the meaning though, and just smiled and nodded back, because he knew the Americans had to stick together. The world might call them the Sicilian Mafia, but this here was American Territory, so why should the Sicilians be calling the shots?

  Change was coming. Change for the better, because a few more years of Iggy at the helm would be the death of the Puglianos. Money could only buy so much goodwill, and if the other families knew how weak they were, they’d pounce on them in a heartbeat.

  “For now though,” Franky said, bringing them back on track, “You should tamp down on your collections. The cultists are kicking up a fuss, saying the time is rife for a sacrifice and all, but them bloodthirsty kooks are the least of our problems. Your three boys?”

  “Joey, Ricky, and Tommy,” Mikey supplied.

  “Yea them. Chances are, Abby got ‘em. Firstborn stayed the night at that compound, and they were attacked by a huge swarm. Brought home a big haul the next morning, with eyes filled with blood even. Got tax forms, medical records, and everything.”

  “A shame,” Mia purred, fanning herself oh so slowly in an effort to tempt Mikey into stealing a glance, but he kept his eyes firmly on her father’s side of the carriage. “If we had reason enough to go after the Firstborn, it might’ve forced Uncle Iggy out of his comfort zone, and we could’ve had some fun out here.”

  “From everything I’ve heard, we should be thanking the Firstborn, not antagonizing him.” Shaking his head, Franky said, “Kid’s connected in ways you wouldn’t believe, and far as I can tell, he’s a big reason why Vanguard National is out of the picture. Brought the mission to the Rangers and everything.”

  “Tell me about him, Uncle Mikey,” Mia said, leaning forward to tug on Mikey’s sleeve, and it took all of his willpower not to stare at her bared flesh. “He seems like such a character.”

  “Kid’s got mouth,” Mikey said. “Balls the size of my head too. Pretty sure he killed Ron, and I’d bet good money on him killing Joey and the others too.” He told the father-daughter pair what he knew, with little bit of embellishment on top of it, but truth was, the kid didn’t need no gassing up. That video spoke for itself, four men shot dead where they stood, killed only after they drew, but before they fired off a single shot. If Mikey, Joey, or Fingers had tried anything during their meet, that’d be them dead in the dirt too, because the Firstborn certainly didn’t fuck around.

  “Hmm.” Snapping her fan closed, Mia turned to her father while placing her hands on her knees, holding Franky’s attention and giving Mikey an opening for a peek, but he didn’t dare ogle her openly. Not when he knew there could be bugs anywhere in the carriage, maybe even a camera installed by Franky himself to make sure his passengers weren’t getting an eyeful while he was distracted. “Perhaps we can use the Firstborn to our advantage then. He’s connected, but he acts of his own volition, a wildcard who cannot be touched yet is not afraid to touch others. Guided properly, he can be a weapon in hand, a shield to guard us, or perhaps even the spark we need to ignite a fire from which we might all profit. Tell me about your missing men again, Uncle Mikey. Did any of them have children?”

  “Yea, the little Hulk. Joey’s kid.” Whose real name Mikey couldn’t remember. The others might have kids too, but fuck if he knew. “I been looking after him a bit. Why?”

  Mia smiled, one so cold and calculating Mikey vowed never to steal another glance again. Forget Franky’s ire. It was Mia’s wrath he wasn’t willing to risk, because she was the future of the Family, and even though she thought it was all fun and games for now, who knew when she might get sick and tired of her Uncle Mikey’s leers?

  For the first time ever, Mikey said a little prayer for Antonio, because if Little Lord Fuckwad ever got what he wanted and married Mia, there was every chance he wouldn’t live long enough to enjoy the wedding night.