I rip open my door to find Uncle Afon in the hallway in his black wool overcoat, hands in his pockets, hat pulled low. His grey beard is freshly trimmed. His eyes are the same flat grey they’ve been my whole life, the color of a river that’s about to ice over.
“Get dressed,” he says. “We’re going for a drive.”
He doesn’t tell me where. He never does, when he gets in moods like this one. I’ve learned not to ask.
I dress fast. I clip the Glock to my hip out of habit, then think better of it and lock it back in the drawer in the hall console.
In the elevator, he doesn’t speak. The Mercedes is idling at the curb with one of his men behind the wheel, a kid I half-recognize from a wedding two summers ago. Afon takes the back; I slide in next to him. The kid pulls into traffic without a word.
