Chapter Twelve
Remember back at the beginning of this all when I told you to listen to your intuition? Your thoughts can’t be trusted and your heart will fucking betray you, but your gut is one tough son of a bitch. It always senses when something is happening.
You just have to pay attention.
“The gate’s open.”
Seven puts my car in park and cuts the engine, pulling the keys from the ignition before turning to me, his brow furrowed. “What did you say, boss?”
I motion out the passenger side window, toward the unlatched gate on the picket fence, before repeating myself. “The gate’s open.”
“I see that,” he says, his voice hesitant. “Does that mean something?”
“It means someone came or went in a hurry.”
Getting out of the car, I head toward the house, walking right through the open gate on my way to the small porch. All seems quiet and still. The front door is unlocked, but fuck, isn’t it always?
I certainly never lock it.
Seven follows me, latching the gate as he comes, right on my heels as I step into the house. I glance around, that bad feeling stirring inside of me, rising up like my gut is pulling a fucking mutiny. There, on the floor in the hallway, is a pair of familiar red high heels, toppled over, like someone kicked them off while running.
Deja vu.
“Scarlet?” I call out, my voice so loud it echoes through the house. “You here?”
No answer.
I know she gave those shoes to my brother’s girlfriend, but last time I saw them hastily discarded, Scarlet was in trouble. Yeah, whatever, the trouble back then was me, but that little fact does nothing to pacify my bad feeling.
“Check upstairs,” I tell Seven as I reach beneath my shirt, grabbing my gun. “See if anyone’s here.”
He hits the stairs, no question, no argument, heading off to search the house.
I walk down the hall, stepping over the shoes along the way. The living room and my library are both empty, nothing out of place. Reaching the kitchen, I pause, seeing the back door standing wide open.
Someone ran out of here in a hurry.
I hear Seven approach after a moment, stalling beside me, his eyes fixed on the open back door as he says, “The house is clear, nobody home.”
Shit.
Is it too much to ask for her to have just been asleep?
Shoving my gun away, I search through my pockets for my phone.
“Here,” Seven says, retrieving it, handing it over, knowing exactly what I’m looking for.
I hit a few buttons, calling my brother’s number, listening as it rings and rings and rings. No answer. I call his work next, being greeted warmly by the hostess.
“Can you tell me if Leo Accardi is there?”
“Uh, yes, sir,” she says. “He’s actually just leaving. Would you like to speak to him?”
“No, but can you pass a message to him for me?”
“Sure.”
“Tell him his brother said to hurry home.”
I hang up, glancing at Seven, who looks anxious. Not good. I scan through my phone for Melody’s number. I’ve never called it... never cared to call it... but I saved it for a rainy day.
Guess it’s raining on me, huh?
I hit the button, dialing it, instantly hearing the faintest ringtone of some old rap song coming from upstairs.
I hang up. The music stops.
“You sure she’s not up there?” I ask, knowing the answer before Seven even confirms it.
“Positive.”
My gaze scans the backyard briefly before I close the door, not sure what to do about this. Some bullshit equations are spinning around my head, putting two and two together again.
I don’t like what it’s adding up to.
Errrnnnttt, wrong fucking answer.
I go to walk out when my phone rings. Leo.
“Yeah?” I answer. “You on your way home?”
“Jesus, yes, what the hell is going on?” he asks. “I’ve got like forty missed calls from one of the neighbors, saying Mel showed up there freaking out about some man being at the house? Do you know anything about this? Lady tried to call the cops, but Mel made her call me.”
I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Which neighbor?”
“The blue house, like three doors down,” he says. “Mrs. McKinnon. You know, the elderly lady whose groceries I sometimes get?”
No, I don’t know. I’ve never heard of the woman. He’s practically Mother Theresa, isn’t he? The patron saint of fucking friendliness. Next thing you know, he’ll be organizing neighborhood watches, painting people’s fences like we’re all Tom Sawyer and he’s the little twit getting tricked, like doing someone else’s dirty work is an honor.
“I’ll see you when you get home, Pretty Boy.”
“But wait, what’s hap—?”
I hang up, not letting him finish that question, because I don’t have an answer for it. I shove the phone into my pocket, motioning toward Seven. “Firecracker’s hiding out down the street. Blue house, old woman, Leo feeds her... I don’t know.”
“Mrs. McKinnon?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll handle it.”
He walks out, his steps determined, and I shake my head, running my hands down my face. “Fuck.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I head to my library. My nerves are fucking shot. Rolling a sloppy joint, I light it up, smoking in silence as I stand there, in front of the table, waiting for them to return.
Melody bursts in a few minutes later, shrieking like a banshee, talking so damn fast I can’t keep up, yammering about a guy with some hands and something, something, something...
Just as it seems she’s about to finish, Leo rushes into the house, and the girl starts all over again from the beginning, somehow even more frantic now. Leo manages to calm her down, and I get the gist of it, hearing all I need to know—the Russian bastard showed up at my house and now Scarlet is gone.
I’m trying to get my thoughts in order, but my head is starting to throb. These people are in my library. There’s crying and panic and blah, blah, blah... and maybe it makes me an asshole, but I really wish they’d all shut the fuck up. I just need a moment of silence so I can figure things out.
Absently, I reach over onto the table, picking up a puzzle piece and trying it in a few spots.
“Is he seriously working on a puzzle right now?” Melody asks. “Seriously?”
“It helps him think,” Seven says.
Usually, we should add, because it’s not much helping at the moment. Sure, Aristov might’ve had enough time to do his research. He might’ve just happened upon this address. But chances are someone told him where to find the house, spilling their guts faster than the Tauntaun on Hoth when Han Solo sliced it open with the lightsaber.
If that reference didn’t make sense to you, go watch Empire Strikes Back.
Point here being, someone tattled like a little bitch.
“Call Three,” I say, giving up on that puzzle piece and instead trying another. “Tell him to come pay me a visit.”
“You think he has something to do with this?” Seven asks.
“Not him, but maybe the girl,” I say. “Besides, I’m not sure it even matters. Somebody needs to answer for this, so unless you want to claim credit, Seven, get his ass over here.”
“Yes, boss.”
Seven leaves the room.
“We should... go somewhere,” Leo says. “Anywhere but here tonight. Go stay in the city, get away, try to forget this happened.”
“But Morgan,” Melody says. “We have to do something!”
I can feel my brother’s eyes. I don’t turn around. I don’t acknowledge whatever look he’s giving me.
“I’m sure Lorenzo will figure something out,” Leo says finally. “And whatever it is, we probably don’t want to be around for it.”
* * *
“Wait... wait... wait!”
BANG. BANG. BANG.
I pull the trigger back to back, no hesitation, no calculation, no fucking deliberation. As soon as I see Three’s face, I shoot. The bullets fly through the living room from the suppressed gun in my hand, from where I sit on the stolen couch in the darkness to where he popped up in the doorway just now. Three throws his hands up in an attempt to stop me, but otherwise, he just stands there, frozen. A bullet rips through the wall beside him, another zooming past him, slamming into the banister for the stairs, while the last one lands God-knows-where.
Seeing as how he’s not currently bleeding to death, I’m going to go out on a limb and say I might’ve missed my mark this time.
The fourth time I pull the trigger, the gun jams, completely locking up on me. I sigh, sitting up straight, forcing the slide to the rear, locking it so I can eject the magazine and try to clear the chamber.
Can’t even fucking rely on guns these days.
“You’ve got maybe a minute until I reload,” I say. “Now would be the time to do something.”
A normal person would run right now, get the hell away while they had the chance. A smart person would find a gun and shoot me, quite frankly, since this certainly qualifies as self-defense. But a crazy person would just fucking stand there, awaiting their fate. One guess on what Three does.
Fucking insanity.
“Look, boss, I don’t know what happened, but I swear to you, on my mother’s life, that I had nothing to do with it,” Three says, not moving an inch, his hands still raised in front of him as I clear the chamber. “I promised you years ago that I had your back, no matter what, and I meant that. I know I’ve made mistakes, so if you wanna kill me for being a meathead, go ahead, but I refuse to go out like I’m goddamn Judas.”
I reload the magazine and chamber a round, eyeing the gun as I say, “You sound like you believe that.”
“Because it’s true,” he says. “I would never betray you, nor would I stand back and let anyone else fuck you over that way. If I thought for even a second that Lexie would spill, I would’ve blown her brains out myself.”
“You’re thinking with your dick.”
“No, I’m following my gut,” he says. “She wants that rat bastard to pay just as much as we do, and she’s our way in. She wouldn’t have done this.”
I point the gun at him, aiming center mass, finger on the trigger, and he still doesn’t run. “Is that what your gut tells you?”
“Yes,” he says. “So if you’re gonna shoot me, fine, but use the girl. She wants to help, and she can.”
I stare at him, far past the point where a normal person would grow uncomfortable... which, with my face, is a few seconds, at most. Three doesn’t waver, though. He just stands there, like a man on death row who has come to terms with his impending execution and just wants to tell the world, one last time, that he doesn’t deserve to die. Whether or not he’s innocent is irrelevant. We’re all guilty of a lot of shit.
Scarlet’s a thief who sometimes used her pussy to survive.
Seven’s a former crooked cop who took bribes from the mob.
Me? I’ve probably killed more people than Ted Bundy but with only a fraction of the charm.
“Is it raining outside?” I ask.
Three shakes his head. “Not a cloud in sight.”
Huh.
Slowly, I lower the gun, setting it on the cushion beside me as I relax back on the couch.
“Boss, if I may?” Seven chimes in from where he stands near the window. I wave toward him, motioning for him to continue. “Look, I want to preface this by saying don’t shoot me.”
That’s never a good way to start a conversation.
“I just think maybe we ought to take a minute to really think about what we’re doing here,” Seven continues. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
“Which part?”
“All of it,” he says. “We went up against the Italians for territory, for reputation, to take over a lot of the business, and it worked. They’re terrified of you, and we’ve made a lot of money off of them. But with the Russians, it’s different... you’re starting a war over a woman, and history tells us that never works out good for any man.”
I turn my head, looking at Seven, seeing a flicker of fear in his eyes, like he thinks I might actually shoot him for his opinion.
I mean, yeah, I might, but I probably won’t.
He’s always been the one to play devil’s advocate with motives and consequences.
Must be the cop side of the man.
“It’s not about the woman,” I say, and I know I’m fucking lying the moment I say it, because it damn sure feels like it’s about her. I can’t shake the sickness in my stomach, the tightness in my chest, knowing wherever she is, he’s probably there. Brave, beautiful Scarlet, she fucking buckles because of that man, and I saw enough of his little home movie to riddle out why that happens.
“It’s principle,” Three chimes in. “We’re not exactly The Avengers here, but sometimes shit has to be done. Sometimes you’ve gotta go after a guy, to make a point, to say ‘this shit isn’t happening on my watch’ because it shouldn’t be happening.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Besides, the guy came into my house today and helped himself to something that doesn’t belong to him. We’re a little past live and let live at this point. I ought to cut his balls off for stepping onto my property.”
Seven says nothing else. I don’t know if he’s convinced, but he knows better than to press too hard after I’ve made up my mind on something.
“You can go,” I tell Three, waving him away. “Tomorrow, I need you and all the guys back here, so we can handle this. Try to get a hold of the girl tonight and see if she can tell you anything.”
“Yes, sir,” he says, nodding before leaving.
“You can go home, too,” I tell Seven. “I’m sure your wife is waiting for you.”
He hesitates. “Are you going to be okay here by yourself tonight?”
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
Seven leaves, finally, a minute later, saying nothing else. I sit in silence as darkness creeps in, nighttime coming. Picking my gun back up, I run my fingers along the cool metal. The gun feels heavy in my hand, heavier than usual, like the weight of this situation is pressing upon it.
I’ve never really liked guns.
Sure, I use them often. They do the trick, in a pinch, but it’s almost too easy, if you know what I’m saying. You don’t even have to get close to someone to pick them off, if you’ve got a gun. That makes it impersonal, which also makes it boring.
This thing with the Russians... it’s as personal as it gets, which means Aristov won’t get the easiness of a bullet.
Getting up, I stroll out of the living room, clutching the gun like a security blanket. I take the stairs up to the second floor, heading for my bedroom. The bed is unmade, unkempt, comforter bunched up along the end, sheets rumpled, the beat up old bear lying in the center of it. Left behind.
Turning, my gaze catches my reflection above the dresser, blurry in the darkness, before my attention shifts to the remnants of red lipstick on the mirror, not yet wiped off. Didn’t see the point, so I never bothered. I’m sorry. I can make out part of the words, smeared but still there.
It grates my already frazzled nerves.
As anger rushes through me, my blood turning cold, I raise the gun, finger on the trigger.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
The mirror fractures, shattering, pieces of the glass flying back at me as bullets rip through it, destroying my reflection and the apology I never asked for, the one I don’t want. I don’t stop until the last bullet pierces the mirror, tearing through the wall behind it, but it doesn’t matter, because there’s nobody else here. The clicking of the gun echoes through the room before I toss the damn thing down on top of the dresser.
Empty.
* * *
“Seven years bad luck.”
My brother’s voice filters through the haze of exhaustion that keeps pulling me in and out of consciousness. I’m too tired to sleep, if you can believe that shit. My body aches and my head just keeps throbbing. Every time I doze off, I’m jarred right back to reality. Figures.
“I didn’t raise you to be a superstitious little bitch,” I mutter, my forearm covering my eyes as I lay in the bed, on my back, still fully dressed from yesterday. “There’s no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, Pretty Boy. Life isn’t magically delicious. The consequences of breaking a mirror is that your goddamn mirror is now broken.”
“Yeah, well, you didn’t just break it,” he says, his voice growing louder, closer, as he comes further into my bedroom. “Looks like you murdered the thing. What did it do, tell you Snow White was prettier than you?”
Moving my arm, I open my eyes and glance over at him. I’m not sure when he got here. I’m not even sure what time it is, but being as the room is bright and I can tell there are people downstairs, moving around my house, I’m going with it being afternoon.
“Why are you even here?” I ask, sitting up, scrubbing my hands over my face before running them through my hair, trying to wake up.
“I live here,” he says, turning to look at me, “in case you’ve forgotten.”
“For now.”
“For now,” he agrees, quiet for a moment before saying, “I’m worried about you, Lorenzo.”
I laugh at that, getting to my feet, swaying. I grasp his shoulder, squeezing, on my way out of the room. “It’s my job to worry about you, not the other way around.”
I walk out before he can argue with me on that, not in the mood for the sentimental bullshit. I appreciate it, the fact that my brother cares, but I don’t have it in me to deal with any of that right now. There’s too much else on my mind.
The guys are all here, but I don’t greet them right away, instead making my way to the kitchen. I grab an orange from a bowl on the counter and start peeling it as I stroll to the living room. The guys are chatting—strategizing, as it is. Where to go, who to hit, what to do, how to do it... why the hell we’re all just sitting here instead of being out there, doing something.
It’s a damn good question.
Leaning against the doorframe, I finish peeling the orange, tossing the scraps at Seven for him to discard. I eat it, still not saying a word, as they continue to bicker back and forth.
Three wants to hit the strip club.
Five wants to blow the guy’s house up.
Seven looks like he wants to mediate, opening his mouth to chime in every few seconds before just closing it again, shaking his head. He knows it’s not his place. The others don’t seem to know what they want to do, but they sure seem ecstatic about the prospect of raising some hell out there, somewhere.
“I’m telling you, we’ve gotta hit the club,” Three says. “The club is where she’ll be.”
“Oh bullshit,” Five says, waving him off. “Now isn’t the time to go get your dick sucked, Declan. He isn’t just going to take her back to his goddamn whorehouse to work for him.”
“No, but he would’ve taken her there to lock her up,” Three says. “Are you forgetting he locked me in his fucking basement and tried to get information?”
“Tried, huh?” Five glares at him. “Who’s to say it didn’t work? Who’s to say you’re not working with him now?”
Three springs to his feet, furious. “How dare you! I’d never!”
Five jumps up, coming at him, bumping right into him, pointer finger jabbing against his chest. “How are we supposed to know that, huh? Somebody spilled their guts to him. So if it wasn’t you, who was it? Huh?”
Three shoves him. “Maybe it was you, asshole!”
Five stumbles but recovers quickly, coming back at him, this time swinging. Three punches back, the two of them trading blows, sending Seven over the edge. He can’t stay out of it anymore.
“Guys, guys, relax!” Seven says, shoving his way between them, separating the two men. “There’s no need for this! The last thing anyone needs right now is us turning against each other.”
“Tell that to that traitorous bitch,” Five says.
Three tries to come back at him, shoving, but he can’t get past Seven. “Fuck you!”
“Jesus Christ,” a voice mutters behind me, and I glance over my shoulder, back at my brother as he steps down off of the stairs, pausing. “What’s even going on around here anymore?”
Another damn good question.
The guys are still trying to fight, the others jumping in, choosing sides. Seven’s doing a shit job playing peacekeeper on this one, unable to keep the hotheads from exploding at each other, taking a few blows himself as fists start flying again.
If I had my gun on me, if I hadn’t unloaded it in the mirror upstairs, I’d probably shoot half of these assholes right now just to rid my life of all this bickering.
“You should probably get out of here,” I tell my brother. “Might get ugly.”
He laughs dryly, saying something about how it’s pretty damn ugly at the moment, before heading out the front door. I push away from the doorframe after he’s gone.
“If you’re measuring, fellas, to see which of you has the biggest cock,” I say, “I can end this easily by telling you it’s neither one of you jackasses, because nobody has a bigger cock than I do, so sit the fuck down before I’m forced to whip it out.”
I shove right through the middle of them, doing what Seven couldn’t accomplish, sending the two of them to opposite corners and stopping this shit-show of a showdown.
Three wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing blood from a busted lip onto his cheek. “Boss, I just think—”
“Shut up,” I say. “I haven’t told you to speak.”
Three says nothing else, nostrils flaring as he breathes heavily, balling his hands into fists. He doesn’t take well to being called a traitor.
Can’t say I blame him.
I turn to Five just as he goes to step back, to turn away, thinking that’s the end of it, like this is over. He, on the other hand, doesn’t take well to being betrayed, but I can’t say I blame him, either. Still, I grab him roughly by the back of the neck, forcing him to stay where he is, yanking him in the direction of Three. “Apologize.”
Five looks at me with shock.
“Three and I have already hashed that out,” I say. “If I thought he was to blame, do you really think he’d be standing in my living room?”
“No.”
“Then apologize,” I say again. “Kiss and make up, whatever, because I don’t have time to deal with the two of you whacking off when there’s shit to take care of.”
Five glares across the room at Three. “I apologize.”
There’s not a stitch of genuine meaning to his words, but that doesn’t matter. I didn’t tell him to be sorry. I told him to apologize.
“Fuck you,” Three grumbles in response.
“Fuck you back,” Five says, stepping over to sit down on the couch.
“Well, then,” I say, “if you’re all done being stupid and want to offer real suggestions, I’m listening... otherwise, get the fuck out of my house.”
They throw out ideas, the same bullshit ones they spewed before, as I take a seat beside Five on the couch and pull out my phone, ignoring the guys as they start bickering once more. Stubborn assholes.
I guess if I want shit done, I’m going to have to figure it out myself... like usual.