Chapter Fifteen
I don’t know that I’ve ever encountered a problem that a grenade couldn’t solve. Just pull the pin, toss, BOOM. Problem gone. I’ve gotten rid of a few issues that way, wiped right off the map, bye-bye. It’s easy to forget about something once it no longer exists, when you never have to see it again.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Maybe that makes me an even bigger asshole than you thought, the fact that I’d rather erase something from my life than actually deal with any sort of fallout. Because fallout? It’s messy... messier than the destruction a grenade can cause.
My brother says it’s because I’m allergic to feelings.
I just think most people aren’t worth the trouble.
A V40 minifrag, grenade the size of a golf ball. Weighs maybe five ounces or so. If you’re within sixteen feet of the thing when it goes off, you’re fucked. Up to a couple hundred feet, and it’s probably going to hurt. A lot. Dangerous little fuckers, which is why they’re out of service. Not hard to carry a few of them around in your pocket, if you’re willing to risk blowing your dick off by accident.
I’ve tossed a few in my life, most just for the fun of it. They send one hell of a message. They get people’s attention.
“You’re making me nervous, boss.”
Turning my head, looking away from the high-class whorehouse Aristov runs, I glance at the driver’s seat beside me, where Seven sits. Yeah, he looks nervous. He’s sweating fucking bullets.
“I’m not going to blow us up,” I say, glancing at the little grenade in the palm of my hand. I’ve been running my fingers along the cold steel the entire thirty minutes we’ve been sitting here.
Debating.
Contemplating.
I really want to pull the pin and toss this bitch right inside Limerence. Bye-bye, whorehouse. Bye-bye, Russian assholes. But every time I get the itching to do it, to watch it all go BOOM, something stops me.
That something being more of a someone.
Scarlet.
You see, she might be inside, and that’s a bit of a problem.
The kind of problem, I’m discovering, a grenade just isn’t solving.
“Five more minutes,” I say. “If something doesn’t happen within the next five minutes, I’m shoving this grenade down his fucking throat.”
Tick, tick, tick...
Four minutes and fifty-seven seconds.
I swear to fuck, that’s how much time passes until Three appears. He jogs right over to the car, dressed in all black, blending into the darkness since night long ago fell. An entire day wasted where not a goddamn thing got accomplished.
Aristov is still happily breathing.
Scarlet is still, unfortunately, missing.
Three slides into the backseat, right behind me, slamming the door a bit harder than necessary.
“Three,” I say, “you were three seconds away from getting your bowels blown out today.”
He starts to talk but immediately pauses, brow furrowing as he scoots to the middle of the backseat, looking up at me. “I think Lexie’s done that to me before.”
I look at him. “What?”
“Yeah, isn’t that where they stick their tongue—?”
Seven groans, covering his face as he leans forward against the steering wheel.
“Just tell me what you found out,” I say, cutting him off before he goes into detail about the kinky shit they’ve done. “And it better be something, because if I sat out here waiting while you got your dick sucked...”
“Of course not, boss,” he says. “Kept it in my pants the whole time. We were just talking.”
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense here. Tell me what your little Daisy Chain had to say.”
He starts spilling. I’ll spare you the word-for-word and summarize, since Three seems to like to hear himself talk and he just keeps going on and on and on.
Scarlet’s most definitely inside. Aristov has her locked in the basement, only one set of keys to get down there, which are usually in Aristov’s possession. Security is tightened at the moment, which is what took Three so long. Wasn’t easy navigating past all the armed guards.
“Thursday,” Three says after a moment. “I know it’s a few days away, but Lexie thinks that’s our best chance to get her out safely. Aristov has the party happening at his house, so we know he’ll be gone, and by then he’ll relax security again, figuring he’s in the clear, you know? Lexie can keep an eye out for the kid at the house while we go after Scarlet, maybe hit them back-to-back.”
“Maybe,” I agree, although it sounds a lot like bullshit. Who’s to say Aristov won’t kill them both before then? Hell, maybe they’re already dead because I took too long coming up with a plan.
Patience has never been my strong suit.
I’m not exactly keen on waiting for anything.
Nor am I good at planning, for that matter.
I’m the shoot first, ask questions never type... you know, the kind to toss a grenade in a packed room to solve a personal problem?
“Or,” I say, stressing the word, “I can just walk in right now and make it all go BOOM.”
Three laughs as he settles into the backseat, while Seven starts the car, like he thinks we’re about to leave. I don’t like it, though. I just can’t walk away. It feels wrong, her being right there and me not doing a goddamn thing about it.
That’s not me.
“Wait here,” I order, opening my door and climbing out of the car.
I carry the grenade with me.
I know the guys notice, because they sure as fuck shout loud enough, yelling for me not to do anything stupid. But stupid is sort of a relative term, isn’t it? Stupid, to me, would be coming the whole way here and not even dropping in to say hello to the Russian bastard. After all, when I called, I told him to expect to see a lot of me until this was settled.
What better time than right now to get the ball rolling?
I stroll right on up to the front door. The bouncers see me, recognizing me, suddenly all on edge, but they don’t do a damn thing as I waltz past them and head inside. Music echoes through the place, masking other noises, although none of it is detectable outside of the building.
Soundproofing is quite genius, given his business.
If I didn’t hate the guy so much, out of principle, I’d probably like him. He’s crafty. I might have to start borrowing a bit from his bag of tricks.
As soon as I’m inside, right through the doors, hulking bodies surround me—five guys, guns drawn, aimed at my head like they’d get a kick out of being splattered with my brains tonight.
I raise my hands, still clutching the grenade. They could try to take it from me, try to disarm me... hell, they could even go ahead and shoot me in the face... but they’d have four seconds to save themselves before we all got blown to pieces.
They take a few steps back, but nobody lowers their weapons, like guns are going to help them in this situation. Rock, paper, scissors, motherfuckers... you better take your pick and hope like hell you win.
“I just want to say hello to your boss,” I say, “and then me and Betty-Boom here will be on our way.”
For some reason, they don’t look like they believe me. It kind of hurts my feelings.
Just kidding.
I wouldn’t trust me, either.
A bark of angry Russian echoes nearby before Aristov rounds a nearby corner. He’s fuming, so irate that he almost doesn’t notice me, but when he does, he stops dead in his tracks. His eyes flicker around, assessing, before he simply nods his head toward his office, telling his guys, “Let him in.”
I step past them. They don’t look happy about it, but nobody tries to stop me as I walk over to Aristov’s office, following him inside. He spews out more Russian to two guys lurking in there, who immediately vacate the room, closing the door behind them, so it’s just me and him.
He heads for the vodka. “So it is true, then, that you deal in heavy weapons?”
“As true as the rumors of you kidnapping and raping women.”
Instead of being offended, he laughs at that, strolling over to sit down on one of his couches, eyeing me as he sips his liquor. Doesn’t escape my notice that he hasn’t offered me a drink today.
I think he might be feeling some type of way about our friendship.
“Well, that is a shame, Mister Scar, because those rumors are not true at all.”
“That’s funny,” I say, even though it’s not fucking funny at all, “because I stumbled upon a little home movie you made that contradicts that, Aristotle.”
He stares at me, all amusement gone. “And where, may I ask, did you acquire such a film?”
“A certain police detective had it in his possession.”
There’s that flash of rage I was hoping for.
He drinks in silence, guzzling the liquor as he gets his thoughts in order. In the wrong hands, or maybe the right ones, that video could be a serious problem for him. Even Jameson would give his left nut to get his hands on it, to use it to take down the Russians, but I’m not really big on letting the justice system do my dirty work.
I happen to like getting my hands dirty.
That’s why Detective Fuckface had it, why he kept it hidden. He might’ve been working for the Russians, but in the event Aristov turned on him, he needed his own little grenade to make his problems go away.
“What is it you want from me?” Aristov asks. “If you are looking for the million dollars I promised, I am afraid I do not have it here. But being as I am a man of my word, I am happy to arrange a time for you to pick it up.”
“You think I want your money?”
“Why else would you have given me the address of where I could find her?”
I stare at him when he asks that. I want to think he’s toying with me, that he’s just trying to fuck with my mind, but his expression is dead serious, almost curious, like he’s genuinely wondering why I would’ve done such a thing. Problem number seven hundred and seventy-six in my life right now: I didn’t do it. I didn’t give him a goddamn thing, but for some reason he thinks I did, which means whoever did it made it look like I’d given her up. Son of a bitch.
“Of course, it is possible you just grew sick of the suka,” Aristov continues with a shrug. “Since it seems you saw the video of her sweet sixteen, maybe you just did not want to touch her anymore, but all the same, I am grateful.”
I’m not sure how to respond to that.
I kind of want to break his fucking jaw for half of the words he’s spoken these past few minutes.
“Does she know how you found her?” I ask. “Did you tell her it was me?”
He nods. “She did not believe me, of course. The stupid girl never believes what I tell her. I showed her the message so maybe she would believe her own eyes. It upset her, but she is fine now. I have ways of making her get over things.”
“I bet you do,” I say, my gaze flickering around the room, settling on a door along the side—one I’m assuming leads to the basement. “Any chance I can see her, give her a proper goodbye?”
He laughs, sipping his vodka. “I think you have given her quite enough, Mister Scar, but I will send her your regards.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Man, I want to kill him...
“Now, if we are done here, I have other business to take care of,” he says, standing up. “Seems I have a friend I need to talk to about a video in his possession.”
“Seems you do,” I say, not bothering to point out that he doesn’t have the video anymore. I do. I turn to leave, still clutching the grenade, and pause long enough to say, “By the way, I think I will be claiming my reward. A million, cash, for her.”
He doesn’t look happy, because that’s a lot of damn money, but he nods. “I will be in touch to make arrangements.”
“Good,” I say. “I look forward to it.”
“Wait, Mister Scar,” he says before I can walk out. “The grenade...”
I look at it in my hand before glancing at him. “What about it?”
“Do you think you could get me some of those?”
I laugh, because he’s serious with that question. “Maybe once I’m sure it’s not me you’re going to be using them on.”
“Fair enough.”
I leave.
Nobody stops me.
I don’t want to go, but at the same time, tonight isn’t the night to rock the boat any further. I need to wrap my head around things before I do something I might regret.
I don’t regret things often, but blowing us all up might be an exception.
The guys are still waiting in the car right down from the club, the engine running, both just staring at me like I’ve lost my mind. Like they didn’t expect to see me alive. I get in the passenger seat, securing the grenade before waving. “Now we can go.”
Seven starts driving. The atmosphere in the car is tense, wrought with unspoken words, but it doesn’t last long with Three in the backseat.
“So... nothing went BOOM,” Three says. “Didn’t hear any BANG-BANG, either.”
“It was mostly just a bunch of blah blah blah,” I say. “Nobody’s dying tonight.”
I think.
“Pity,” Three says. “I know Lexie will be happy to be free of that asshole.”
“You seem awfully concerned about a woman whose name you couldn’t even remember not long ago,” I point out.
“Yeah, well, you know how it goes,” he says. “I drew a blank. But I can’t help that I’ve got a soft spot and Lexie just happens to touch it.”
“They make a pill for that now,” I say. “Makes you harden the fuck up.”
He laughs. “I’ll be sure to bring that up to my doctor.”
Thankfully, Three stops chattering, the conversation dwindling back to silence. The drive to Queens feels like it takes forever, traffic light but my thoughts heavy, Aristov’s words bouncing around in the torture chamber I call my mind.
By the time I see my house again, I’m wound tight.
The last thing I want to do is deal with people right now, but my brother is home, in the living room with his girlfriend, cuddling on my couch. At least she’s not singing this time, I think, as I pause in the foyer, glancing in at them. Three leaves, while Seven follows me, like he might be afraid to leave me alone.
My brother’s eyes study me, looking all around me, like he’s hoping to see Scarlet. Disappointment flickers across his face when he realizes she’s not here, but he doesn’t express the sentiment out loud. Melody just lays there, her face pale and splotchy. She looks like she’s been crying. Not sure I’ve ever seen her without her face painted before.
Something tells me she’s not handling this well.
“If you need me, I’ll be in my library,” I say, not awaiting any response before walking away.
Seven follows but lingers in the doorway as I stroll over to the bookshelf along the wall, carefully setting the grenade down. I reach into my waistband next, pulling out my gun, setting it down on top of the metal case.
“You got my phone, Seven?” I ask, patting my empty pockets before I turn to him, holding out my hand. I know he’s got it. He usually does.
If it’s not in my possession, it’s in his.
Pulling the small black burner from his pocket, he approaches me, handing it right over. I lean back against the bookshelf, scrolling through the phone, finding no texts at all. As much as I’m not a talker, I’m even less of a texter, not a fan of leaving evidence of my words around. No paper trails. But being as we’re living in the age of technology, sometimes texts come in or go out, credit card balances and other bullshit. Unavoidable. Which means those messages got erased somewhere along the way—and not by accident, I’m guessing.
Look, I’m not exactly Nancy Drew here, but I can do basic math. Two plus two equals four, three is the square root of nine, and only one person has access to this phone as much as I do.
So while there might be room for reasonable doubt, this isn’t the court of law. If not me, then who? If it’s true, must be the person I entrust it to.
Slipping the phone in my pocket, I reach over, snatching up my gun. Before Seven can react, I’ve got it pressed against his chest, right around his heart. He tenses, eyes as wide as they’ll go. He looks horrified but not exactly surprised.
“Boss,” he says quietly, leaving it at that, not bothering to ask what this might be about. He fucking knows.
“I was reminded of something tonight,” I say. “Something that I damn near forgot.”
“What?”
“Even your shadow leaves you in the dark.”
My finger is on the trigger. It would be so easy to pull. Part of me wants to do it. Blow a hole in his fucking chest and watch him bleed out on my floor.
But I hear my brother’s voice in the living room, just down the hall, talking to his girlfriend, who already seems to be traumatized by this all.
Not that her mental state is a priority of mine, but having her play witness to a murder will probably break her beyond repair, and being as my brother seems to be fond of the girl, I’m trying to avoid that.
“Did you seriously think I wouldn’t find out?” I ask. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
He slowly shakes his head. “I knew you’d figure it out eventually.”
No denial.
No bullshit.
Just a straight up confession.
“So why would you do this?”
“Because,” he says, “Aristov was coming for my family, he’d been to my house, he’d talked to my wife, but you... I knew you’d just come for me. I had to protect them.”
I almost laugh when he says that. Almost. Would I kill his wife? Probably not. His kids? Doubtful. There’s no point to it. I’d get nothing out of it. But the simple fact that he’d go behind my back like this makes me want to slit all of their fucking throats just to spite him.
“Get out of my house,” I say. “You don’t get to be a martyr. Not on my watch. So go home to your wife, to your precious family, and go to sleep tonight knowing there’s a little girl out there somewhere, missing her mother... a mother who is chained up in a basement... because you’re a fucking coward.”
He takes a step back but hesitates, mouth opening and closing, like he wants to say something.
Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.
“Get out!” I yell. “Now!”
He turns, his steps brisk, knowing I won’t tell him again. I can hear him leave, slamming the front door, and I just stand there, clutching the gun, staring at the space he occupied.
If he’s smart, I’ll never see him again.
* * *
Silence.
That’s what I’m met with, standing in the old warehouse in Brooklyn, surrounded by my guys.
Well, the guys I’ve got left, anyway.
Silence.
“So, wait, hold up,” Three says after a moment, the first to open his mouth. Of course. “Bruno was Judas? Seriously? Our Bruno?”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but... Bruno?”
I turn away from him, glancing into the crate in front of me at the shipment of assault rifles. I know how he’s feeling. I’ve been feeling it since last night. Blindsided.
I let the guy get too close to me.
I depended on him for far too much.
“I just... wow,” Three says, still the only one with anything to say. “This sucks.”
The others finally chime in, mumbling in agreement.
“No, for real, it really sucks,” Three says. “I mean, with Bruno gone, who’s going to be bringing the snacks?”
A bit of laughter echoes through the warehouse.
“You’re a dumbass, Declan,” Five says. “That’s what’s bothering you? Who you’re going to turn to when you get the munchies in the afternoon?”
“Fuck off,” Three says. “It’s a valid concern.”
“It’s carrot sticks and granola bars,” Five points out. “If it makes your bitch ass feel better, I’ve got a knob you can slob on. Treat it like a lollipop.”
I shake my head, reaching into the crate and pulling out the sleek new AR-15 as they bicker back and forth. I’ve stopped listening. Same ol’ bullshit. I’m grateful for it, the background noise. They fight like brothers but they’d kill for each other, and that’s all that really matters.
“So, wait, hold up,” Three says again, raising his voice. “Boss, what did you do about Bruno? I mean, should I be sending his wife flowers or something?”
“Maybe you can shack up with her next,” Five suggests. “She can pack you your own snacks.”
“Huh, that idea’s not half-bad,” Three says. “She’s kind of hot, you know, for an old chick.”
“She’s barely forty, Deac.”
“I’m only twenty-one, dipshit, which means she’s older than my mother.”
“You’d still fuck her...”
“Yeah, well, probably.”
“If you fellas are done,” I say, holding the weapon out for someone to take it, “we can get on with business.”
Five grabs the gun.
“For real, boss.” Three steps over, pausing beside me. “Bruno?”
I pick up another gun, shoving it at Three. “Hate to break it to you, but his wife already raised two sons... she doesn’t need another little boy to take care of.”
The guys make noises, poking fun, as Three rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”
“Besides,” I say, passing guns out to the others, “you ought to save the flowers for another day, like for when her husband is actually dead.”
They all look at me with surprise.
Again, Three’s the only one to chime in. “Whoa, you kept him breathing?”
“For now.”
“But not forever?”
“That’s really up to him, isn’t it?” I ask before motioning around the warehouse. “Clear the rest of this shit out, move it somewhere... I don’t care... just get it out of here. When you’re done, burn the place, leave no trace of any of us, just in case.”