Matthew moved like his life depended on it—because it did. He weaved through the rain-slicked streets, past the blinding neon and the stench of garbage, keeping his head down. His old instincts kicked in. Avoid open spaces. Don't run in a straight line. Change direction unpredictably.
He needed cover.
There was only one place left where he could still think without a bullet in his skull.
O'Malley's Bar
It was a hole-in-the-wall dive on the Lower East Side, the kind of place where ex-cops and criminals drank at separate tables, pretending not to recognize each other. Matthew had spent plenty of nights drowning his regrets there, but now, he needed something stronger than whiskey—he needed answers.
The bell above the door jingled as he stepped inside. The place smelled like stale beer and regret, same as always. The low hum of conversation barely registered as he scanned the room. Then he spotted him.
Frank Devlin
Former NYPD, same as Matthew. Unlike Matthew, Frank had gotten out before the department chewed him up and spat him out. He ran O'Malley's now, keeping his ear to the ground, hearing things no one else was supposed to. If anyone knew why someone was sending him dead men's photographs, it was Frank.
Matthew made his way to the bar, shaking off the rain.
"Rough night?" Frank asked, pouring without being asked.
Matthew downed the whiskey in one go. "Getting rougher by the second."
Frank leaned on the bar, eyeing him. "You look like you saw a ghost."
Matthew pulled the photo from his pocket and slid it across the counter. "Maybe I did."
Frank picked it up, his expression unreadable. He studied it for a long moment, then let out a slow breath. "Jesus."
"So it's not just me," Matthew muttered. "That's Charlie."
Frank didn't answer right away. He just poured himself a drink. That was all the confirmation Matthew needed.
"You wanna tell me what's going on?" Matthew pressed.
Frank exhaled sharply. "You don't wanna go down this road, kid."
Matthew felt his pulse quicken. "I'm already on it."
Frank ran a hand through his graying hair, then leaned in. "Listen to me. This city buries its mistakes, you understand? And Charlie… Charlie was a mistake someone thought was dead and gone. Now you're kicking up dust, and that's gonna make some very bad people nervous."
Matthew's grip tightened around his glass. "Who?"
Frank hesitated, then sighed. "Word on the street? It all leads back to Vincent Moretti.
The name hit like a gut punch.
Moretti was untouchable. A kingpin with half the city in his pocket—cops, judges, politicians. If he wanted you dead, you were dead.
Matthew swallowed the bitterness rising in his throat. "Why would Moretti care about Charlie?"
Frank hesitated, then said, "Because Charlie wasn't clean."
Silence stretched between them.
Matthew's stomach twisted. He wanted to deny it, to call it bullshit. But deep down, some part of him had always wondered.
Frank leaned in lower. "Charlie was running something on the side. Whatever it was, it pissed off the wrong people. They made sure he took the fall, made sure you went down with him. And now…" He tapped the photo. "Now someone's digging up the past."
Matthew clenched his jaw. "Someone working for Moretti?"
Frank shook his head. "Or someone looking to take him down."
The weight of it all settled on Matthew's shoulders. He had spent a year blaming himself for Charlie's death. But now? Now it looked like his partner had been playing a dangerous game—one that hadn't ended when he died.
And if Moretti thought Matthew was sniffing around for answers…
Then he was already a dead man.
Frank must've seen it on his face. "Walk away, kid."
Matthew met his gaze. "You know I can't do that."
Frank sighed. "Yeah. I figured." He slid a matchbook across the counter.
Matthew picked it up. The logo was for a club in Hell's Kitchen. One of Moretti's places.
"You wanna find out what Charlie was into?" Frank said. "Start there."
Matthew pocketed the matchbook, threw some bills on the bar, and stood.
Outside, the rain had let up, but the city still felt suffocating.
Moretti had the answers.
And Matthew was about to start knocking on the devil's door.