Sleeping with the Devil

Dante

I slide into the booth in the tiny, barely-Brooklyn diner across from Henry Alcott and a man I don’t know, and I think about killing them here and now.

We agreed to be subtle about this. I picked a place outside of any territory worth talking about. I changed in the car, into one of the patterned button-downs I only keep for the barbecue and a pair of shorts. And here these two assholes sit with their high-and-tights, cop shoes squeaking on the stained linoleum, badges and guns bulging their crap impersonation of what normal people wear to lunch. They need to know who the fuck they’re dealing with, and that I’m not fucking around anymore.

“Who the fuck are you?” I ask the stranger with no preamble.

He prickles. “All right, dickhead, you—”

Henry holds his hand out between us. “This is Jace Covett. He’s…a friend.”

“Covett.” I roll the name around in my mouth. The shape of it is familiar to me. “There was a Covett in the remains of Thano Coppola’s books.”

“Don’t fucking say that n