It had been over a week since Rinaldi’s death, and everything had been suspiciously quiet.
Business was booming as usual— everything with the shipyard had gone back to normal operation as if nothing had happened. My father was beyond pleased with my work— so pleased he had sent me a new custom revolver in the mail. I’d barely glanced at it since.
Christian Rinaldi had been with us the past week, as well. Deadleg had been taking up most of his time, since I had been reclusive. He was teaching the boy to box, a basic skill any employee of mine needed to know. He came to dinner most nights with his face bruised and bloodied, but the kid never complained, I’ll give him that. Deadleg certainly wasn’t going easy on him, which I was pleased to see.
But the week passed, and it also meant it
