Simon elbowed the kitchen door open, arms full with the tray of lasagna. He set it down atop a handmade potholder, then turned to go back into the kitchen. However, at that moment, there came a knock at the front door.

“I’ll get it!”

He pulled open the front door, and their stood Beck, still in his work clothes. He had a bag slung over his shoulder and a frown creased into his face. He was already tense with nerves, standing a little too straight.

“Hey, Beck,” Simon said, pressing two fingers to his lips and then to Beck’s chest. It was subtle, and they were standing close enough that no one would be able to see.

Beck flushed, eyes widening a fraction. Simon just flashed him a grin and went back into the hall, gesturing for his boyfriend to follow.

That was the biggest difference between Beck and Simon. Beck did not take risks ever. Simon always took risks, just well-calculated ones. He’d never do something too dangerous, just push the envelope enough to get his heart racing a little.

“Gotta finish helping Ma set the table, Beck. You have a seat, I’ll be back.”

Simon swept back into the kitchen, and dodged his mother, carrying a basket of bread. She swore at him under her breath, but he just laughed and grabbed the stack of plates off the counter. He backed through the door and placed one at each of the four seats.

Another knock at the door—that must be Uncle Pat. He rushed back down the hall and pulled the door open, greeting his uncle. The two walked back to the dining room, and Uncle Pat settled into his place at the head of the table. Beck and his mother greeted the man, as Simon ducked back into the kitchen to collect the glasses of water.

With a careful grasp, he took all four cups back out, and set them at each setting. On his Uncle’s left was Ma, on his right was Simon’s empty seat, and next to Simon was Beck. A hierarchy of sorts, deftly woven through something as casual as dinner.

He slid into his seat and let Uncle Pat serve him a slice of lasagna. As they ate, his uncle talked about work, about some new guys who were running messages, about a hit against some store downtown, all generic chatter. Simon only half payed attention. Despite what his uncle seemed to think of his work ethic, he stayed very up-to-date on all the happenings in the family, so he knew most of this stuff already. He’d been paying extra-careful attention lately, trying to catch wind of that missing briefcase. Of course, he didn’t catch it fast enough—he could almost feel that letter burning a hole through Beck’s bag.

Ma stood up to clear the table, stacking the empty plates together. Beck complimented her cooking, always polite, and Uncle Pat grunted his assent. When his mother had passed through the door, his uncle turned to Beck.

“Son, I’ve heard good reports from your quarter lately. No slip-ups since that leak. Knew I could trust you to do good work. I’ve got a new kid over in the courthouse who’s got promise, but he needs some grooming. I was thinking you could show him the ropes, how to properly schmooze the legal types, you know?”

He watched Beck nod enthusiastically. Being offered a position like that, training an underling, that was a big deal in the family. That meant something, a certain respect for you and your work—that’s why Uncle Pat had invited him over personally for dinner. Simon couldn’t help the tiniest proud smile creeping onto his lips. Beck was very good at his job—he never made mistakes. Maybe because he was always so cautious, or maybe because he just had the kind of face everybody trusted. Simon wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, it worked.

When he tuned back in to the conversation, Beck was pulling out a manilla folder. He held it out, reaching just slightly across Simon, and Uncle Pat snatched it from his hand. The older man took out the single sheet of paper and held it up to his face to read it. The frown already permanently pressed into his features grew deeper, and his eyebrows dropped into an angry tilt. That was never good.

“Those damn Connells. How stupid are they, thinking they can stir up trouble with us? And with fake evidence? There’s no way they actually have anything on us.” He paused, meaty hand fisted on the table. He glanced back at the paper, then continued. “We’ll show them. I’ll get together some men for a sting on Josie’s Diner, that’s in the heart of Connell territory. It’ll send a message—don’t mess with us, or else.”

Ma came bustling back in, gathered up the empty glasses, and ducked back out again.

“Simon, you’ll lead the hit. I think five or six guys should be enough. Give ‘em hell.”

He couldn’t let that happen—if they attacked the Connells, they’d release the evidence and his uncle would be screwed. The whole family would be fucked, honestly. No, he had to stop it from happening somehow.

“Is that the best idea? I mean, do we know for certain that they don’t have anything on us, anything we could have missed? And even if they don’t, what if they retaliate?” He flicked his chin at this uncle to punctuate his words.

“Are you suggesting that we do nothing?”

“Not…nothing. Just maybe let us stake them out a little, get a sense for what they might have, and if it’s nothing, then we call their bluff, but if they do have something—“

“They don’t. We don’t make mistakes, Simon. Our men don’t leave evidence behind; we clean up after ourselves. Are you implying that someone in our organization can’t be trusted, or are you afraid we can’t handle the Connells? Which is it?”

“Neither, I just think—”

“You and your thinking, you’re a disgrace. This is the family business, Simon, and we’re supposed to trust our family. Unless you know someone let evidence get out, then we trust that it didn’t, and we hit the diner.” He paused for a reply. “Well?”

Simon didn’t have a snappy answer. He knew damn well that evidence had been leaked, because of him, but he couldn’t say that, and he wasn’t about to throw someone under the bus for his mistake. He settled for a hard-jawed stare, hoping his uncle would back down. A long shot, but the best he could come up with.

“Nothing to say? Don’t be a coward, Simon. The Connells are trying to weaken us, passing messages filled with lies about us. If this fake crap got circulated around, what will our friends think, our allies? We need to show them not to mess with us, so we hit fast and hard. Tomorrow night. I’ll send you the names of the men you’re taking and the meeting point. Don’t disappoint me, Simon. I can’t have the heir to the business showing weakness in an important time.”

Simon’s hands were fisted beneath the table, tight enough that his fingernails were digging into his palms. The muscle in his jaw was twitching, teeth pressed so hard together it almost hurt. He glanced down at the table, then pushed his seat back.

“Dinner was great. I have some things I need to take care of.”

He promptly turned, and strode out of the room. Taking the stairs two at a time, he entered his room and locked the door behind him. There was a narrow space between his bed and the wall, and it was in there that he slotted himself, knees drawn up toward his chest. The wall was hard against his back, but he didn’t care.

The last time Simon had walked away from his uncle at the table, he was seven. Dinner had just been him, his mother, and Uncle Pat, and he felt uncomfortable in his older brother’s seat. Nick hadn’t been there for the past few nights, but this was the first time Ma had made him sit in Nick’s chair.

Uncle Pat stared him down after dessert, as if studying him. The man leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table in front of him. Then he nodded, slowly.

“Your brother’s dead.”

Simon frowned, confused. That couldn’t be right—Nick was just on a trip for Uncle Pat. He looked to his mother, and found her eyes glistening with tears. Ma wouldn’t cry for no reason.

“How—”

“He died while doing some work. But that means something important for you, Simon. You’re the heir to the family business now. One day, you’ll have my job, instead of your brother.”

“But I—”

“I’ll be coming by every day, starting tomorrow, to teach you the ropes. I expect you ready to start at 10AM.”

“But Nick—”

“Is dead. End of story.”

Simon couldn’t hold back the tears that rose up in his eyes. They spilled, hot and steady, down his cheeks. He needed to know more—why wouldn’t Uncle Pat explain? Why did he have to have Nick’s job? What happened to Nick? His lower lip wobbled, barely keeping a sob buried in his throat.

“Stop crying. You’re going to run this whole organization, you can’t be a crybaby. It’s ridiculous.”

Simon couldn’t take the way his uncle was glaring at him, like he was a bird that had just defecated on his car or an older brother that died inconveniently. He shoved the chair back and took off. He ran, feet pounding against the stairs on his way up to his room.

He had slid behind the bed in the same exact position then as he was in now. That whole night he had stayed back here, sobbing until his voice broke, then just shaking.

Tonight he wasn’t crying. Many things had changed since then—for one, Simon didn’t cry anymore. Ever. He hadn’t cried even once since that night, didn’t think he could anymore. For another, he’d become used to sitting back here—it felt marginally safer than anywhere else, and it was the one place he let his composure slip.

He stared hard at his knees as his legs slowly went numb. The room faded into darkness around him, tunneling until all he could see were the knees of his pants.. His eyes burned from staring; his chest ached from trying to suck in the tiniest breaths possible.

If the Connells used that briefcase, his uncle would know he failed. But that wouldn’t be enough—he’d ask why. And he wasn’t stupid enough to fall for a lie, no matter how clever, so he’d eventually figure out the truth about him and Beck. And then Uncle Pat would probably kill Beck first, so he’d have to watch, before offing him too. He knew his uncle wouldn’t hesitate.

Uncle Pat liked Simon, he never put him in danger without cause. That was the perk of being his heir, and a capable one at that. But Simon knew, had known for years, that the family business always came first, and his situation jeopardized that business. Uncle Pat would rectify the situation, like he always did. 

“Clara, it had to happen. He tried to elope with Carlo’s daughter. If I let that slide, what would that do for our reputation?”

A slap rang through the house.

“He was my son.”

“He was the family heir, and he failed.”

He had only faintly heard them over his own sobs, but he could never forget those words, not as long as he lived. Nick messed up, so Uncle Pat took care of it.