Sitting back on the cool concrete floor, Jim glared at the piece-of-shit motorcycle that he’d been carting around since he’d landed back in the States. It hadn’t worked then and it didn’t now, and going by his half-assed rehabbing job this morning, its future didn’t require shades. Christ, he had no idea why he’d bought the thing. Dreams of freedom, maybe. Either that or, like any guy with a set of balls, he was into Harleys.

Dog looked up from the patch of sunlight he’d been snoozing in, his shaggy ears pricking.

Jim sucked on the knuckle he’d skinned. “Sorry I cursed.”

Dog didn’t seem to care as he put his head on his paws, his bushy eyebrows up like he was prepared to keep listening, whether it was curses or something folks could say in mixed company.

“Crossroads, Dog. Do you know what that means? You got to choose.” Jim picked up the wrench again and had another go at a bolt that was so encased in old oil, you couldn’t tell it was hexagonal. “You got to choose.”

He thought of Devina looking up at him from the driver’s seat of that fancy-ass BMW. I’ve been waiting for him to warm up and trust me and love me, but it hasn’t happened, and I’m losing the strength to hang on, Jim, I really am.

Then he thought of the way diPietro had stared at that dark-haired prostitute.

Yeah, there was a crossroads, all right. The problem was, diPietro, the fidiot, had come up to the signpost and instead of going to the right, where the arrows pointed to Happyville, he was gunning for Work-yourself-into-an-early-grave-and-be-mourned-by-no-one-but-your-accountant-opolis.

Jim hoped that telling Devina about the ring would buy some time, but how long would that last?

Man, on some levels, his last job had been easier, because he’d had much more control: Get the target in his sights, drop the bastard, take off.

Making Vin see what was so obvious, though…much harder. Plus, before Jim had had training and support. Now? Nada.

The growling sound of two Harleys brought his head around. Dog’s too.

The pair of bikes rolled up the gravel to the garage, and Jim envied the SOBs who were gripping those handlebars. Adrian’s and Eddie’s rides gleamed, the chrome fenders and pipes catching the sunlight and winking like the Harleys knew they had the goods and would be damned if they’d hide the pride.

“Need some help with your hog?” Adrian said as he kicked out his stand and dismounted.

“Where’s your helmet?” Jim balanced his arms on his knees. “New York has a law.”

“New York has a lot of laws.” Adrian’s boots crunched over the driveway, then stomped on the concrete as he came up to give Jim’s DIY project a look-see. “Man, where did you find that thing? A landfill?”