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The eejit looks confused, so I thumb over my shoulder to the front door. He hesitates but doesn’t argue. On his way out, he and Rabbit exchange a glance. I can’t see Connor’s face, but Rabbit gives him a firm nod, a reminder of his duty. Excellent.

I slam the front door behind us. Connor flinches like a little bitch, and I shove him toward the Nav parked on the curb. He gets in without protest, which is somewhat surprising. But as soon as I get in the driver’s side, he asks where we’re going. Predictable insubordination.

“You’ll see,” I tell him.

It’s past the morning rush hour, but it still takes for-fucking-ever to get up Lake Shore. By the time we’re in Seven’s territory, Connor’s jumpy.

“Should I be armed for this?” He taps his fingers against his knee.

“Don’t ask questions.”

Frowning, he flicks his dark hair off his forehead every two seconds. I should have Finn shave it off. The kid doesn’t look like a soldier, he looks girly. Together with his pale blue eyes and pointy chin, his resemblance to his sister Cora is uncanny.

Brady hates that this kid looks so much like his wife. Understandable.

I drive us into the center of Northwestern’s campus and double-park. I turn to look at Connor.

“Rabbit’s girl,” I say. “Tell me where she lives.”

Connor’s eyes go wide, and he shakes his head.

“Even if I did know,” he says, his voice several octaves too high, “which I don’t, I’m not about to betray my friend to you.”

“Wrong answer.”

I get out of the car. Slam the door. Stride around and yank Connor out of his seat. Gripping him by the collar, I drag him to the sidewalk and throw him to the ground.

“Tell me,” I demand.

The kid pushes himself to his feet. He dusts himself off, still shaking his head.

“I don’t know.”

I take my first swing. Coward that he is, Connor manages a decent dodge. I figured he wouldn’t know where Rabbit’s girl lives. I also figured that she’s probably a dead end. But I’ve been so amped up lately that I’ve needed an outlet.

It’s happy violence, if there is such a thing. I know that indulging my darker impulses is dangerous. That it drags me further away from being the man Brioni deserves. But my capacity for darkness is the core of what makes me mafia. The man I have to be.

In front of me, Connor raises his fists like it’s old-school boxing. I lift my eyebrows at him, unimpressed.

We’re next to one of the campus greens. It must be the middle of class time, because there’s only a handful of students around. But the ones near us stop to watch.

“You raising your fists at me, lad?” I ask. Sheepishly, Connor drops his fists to his sides. But he keeps them clenched.

“No.”

“So you’ve proved yourself a liar.” I take a menacing step toward him.

He’s lanky, so he’s got reach, but he’s still a bit shorter than me. I look imperiously down on him.

“You get one last chance,” I warn. “Tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know anything,” he shouts.

Before he can back away, I grab him by the front of his shirt. With him firmly in place, I take another swing. Glorious pain bursts in my knuckles. There’s a rush of savagery in my veins as I swing again. Connor turns his head to the side and spits blood.

It is a magnificent violence. Somehow I’ve given Brioni the impression that I don’t enjoy brutality. That it’s merely part of my duty. If it helps her to think that about me, so be it.

But she’s wrong.