“I’m sure with the technology the FBI has they could use some kind of thermal lenses or something to search the area,” she contends, obviously choosing the route of me telling the authorities what I know.
“Maybe . . . probably . . . I’m not sure what the fuck to do.” I check my phone again. Still nothing. Growling, I drag my tense fingers through my overgrown hair. “Right now, though, my biggest concern revolves around where Easton is and why he hasn’t texted or called back. What in the hell was that note? He knew how important it was for him to stay at my house. You told him you were on your way to pick me up at the airport, right?”
Jae nods as she slumps back on the vinyl-covered bench. “I texted him with the code word we’d discussed, so yeah; as long as he had his phone on him, he should’ve known.”
I blow out a frustrated sigh and tap my fingers on the tabletop, feeling like a caged animal inside. The woman I love more than life itself is being held hostage by one mafia family, while preparing herself to murder the leader of another. My brother is MIA, probably getting himself involved in shit that will lead to problems for all of us. And other than the friend sitting across from me now, and possibly my housekeeper and personal assistant, I trust no one. I have no clue what I should do next, but I have to do something.
“I guess I’m going to get you to take me back home,” I say after the two of us sit in silence for several minutes. “If we get caught, we get caught. I can’t spend the night in this diner, and I know you need to get home too. I’m going to pull up the satellite view of Google maps around Truckee and see if I can narrow down her location. At least it’s something—”
“Don’t use your computer,” she cuts me off, holding her hand up in the air. “Not unless you want them to know what you’re searching. We can stop by my place and you can use mine. Plus, that buys us a little more time to try to locate Easton too.”
I knew I liked this woman. “Good point and good plan.” Digging my wallet out of my back pocket, I toss a twenty on the table, which should be more than enough to cover the two coffees and a tip. “Let’s go.”
We make our way out of the restaurant and across the pavement to her SUV, and just as I open the passenger-side door to climb in, a very familiar bright red sports car zooms wildly into the parking lot with a blacked-out Tahoe right on its tail. Not even bothering to park in an actual spot, Easton jumps out of his car and rushes over to us, frantic and frazzled.
“What? What happened? Where were you?” I demand as Jae and Lance join us. My heart is thudding uncontrollably in my chest, because I know by the wretched look in his eyes whatever he’s about to say is going to bad.
Struggling to find his voice, he attempts to speak a couple of times before the words finally spill out. “I-I swear I wouldn’t have left, but . . . but I got a call from the Listers. It . . . it . . . it’s Emerson. She’s dead.”
THE MOANING AND HISSING OF the hot water heater outside the cabin, just on the other side of the thin bedroom wall, wakes me up just as it’s done every morning since I started sleeping in this room. The poor thing sounds like it’s on its last leg, and if it wasn’t for the fact I really enjoy taking hot showers, I’d probably take Raze’s gun out there and put it out of its misery once and for all. But as I roll over in the bed onto my back and stare at the white popcorn ceiling, I remind myself this nightmare is almost over.
Cabin fever. I suffer from it in the most literal form. And if I wasn’t already planning on killing someone soon, I’d definitely be contemplating it after being cooped up in this cabin for the last two plus weeks. Even though I enjoy Raze’s company for the most part, and I’ve accepted the fact that not all men who live the ruthless mob lifestyle are heartless monsters like Ish and Vincent, I’m ready to return to my life . . . to Madden.
After having him here several nights ago—touching him, holding him, kissing him, loving him—I now know without a shadow of a doubt where my place is in life: By his side. He offers me physical exhilaration, emotional security, and an overall happiness I never knew possible. And after all I’ve been through in the past few years, I deserve it and am willing to do whatever it takes to get it back.
With a loud sigh that’s for no one’s sake but my own, I toss the covers to the side and slip on a fleece hoodie over the tank top I slept in, along with one of my two pairs of sweatpants I alternate in between. Once I’m nice and warm and properly covered, I venture out into the main living area of the cabin only to stop dead in my tracks at the scene awaiting me.
Raze—who has been dressed in head-to-toe black since the day I first saw him—is wearing fitted Wranglers, a plaid flannel on top of a white thermal, and tattered brown work boots as he waits for the coffee maker to finish brewing the morning pot of joe. I’m not sure whether to gawk at him, never having realized how handsome he is when he doesn’t look like a trained assassin, or to crack up laughing at the Russian lumberjack.
Sensing my presence, he twists his neck to look over at where I’m frozen mid-step and pinches his eyebrows together. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s with the outfit? Are you going to chop down trees today?” I tease, resuming my stride to join him in the kitchen.
He glances down at his clothes, as if he doesn’t know they’re nothing like what he usually has on, then looks back up at me, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “I won’t be chopping down any trees, kotyonok, but I’m happy you like the outfit. I have to go in town for some things this morning to prepare for our big day, which is rapidly approaching.” His tone grows more serious as the amusement rapidly disappears from his face, and my stomach tightens in a hard knot as I grab my own mug.
“I got the call last night after you were already asleep,” he continues after a short pause, holding my gaze with fierce intensity. “Three days. I’ve got a lot to do between now and then, but in three days, this will all be over . . . one way or another.”
It’s the news I’ve been waiting for. Finally. There’s an end date. Light at the end of the tunnel. But something feels off. Very off.
“This is a good thing, right?” I ask, hoping the unsettled churning in my gut is just a reaction to the realization that in just a few days, I will point a gun at a man and pull the trigger. And honestly, I doubt I’ll feel much remorse at all. “We can go back to our old lives and put this all behind us.”
He hesitates for only a split-second, but it’s a split-second I don’t miss. Forcing a tight-lipped smile, he nods and fills his thermos then steps to the side to allow me to do the same. “Yes, put this all behind us,” he repeats my words, but when he says them, the feel of dark foreboding hangs on each syllable.
I don’t respond as my mind goes into overdrive, suddenly fretting about every possible outcome that can occur at the end of three days. As much as I hate to admit it, I’ve become way too comfortable in this fake sense of normalcy Raze and I have created here, and perhaps I’ve put too much trust in this man who I only think I know.
When he showed up late Saturday night after taking Madden back to wherever, it was obvious something was bothering him then, and then instead of answering my demands to tell me what had happened, he distracted me with a story about his late wife. He knew I’d take the bait, wanting to know more about her and forgetting about whatever had really gotten him riled up, yanking files out of the safe and punching the keyboard of his laptop. If something would’ve happened to remind him of her, it wouldn’t have warranted that kind of reaction. No papers or computers are going to bring her back, so he was obviously doing something else.
“Are you actually going to pour the coffee in your cup, or just drink straight from the pot?” Breaking through the onslaught of apprehensive thoughts flooding my mind, his deep voice startles me and I jump in response, sloshing the scalding hot liquid over the sides of the pot. My first reaction to the searing pain on my wrist and forearm is to release the handle, and as the glass shatters into a million tiny pieces on the floor, I fall to my knees and cl
utch my throat. I can’t breathe and the darkness is back.
“Father is coming for dinner tonight. I hope you made something he’ll like,” Ish announced as he walked in the door, home from a day of work. “He should be here in ten to fifteen minutes.”
I plastered a smile on my face as I swallowed back the acid that built in the back of my throat at every mention of my father-in-law then turned away from the sink to greet my husband. “Yes, of course. The pork loin will be ready in half an hour, and I’ve got garlic risotto and steamed zucchini to go with it. Do you want me to join you while you two eat, or do you prefer if I eat after he eats?”
Please say later. Please say later. “He’s asked that you join us tonight,” he said proudly as he walked over to me, kissing me with putrid cigarette breath. “I told you he’d come around and see what I see.” His hand slid inside my shirt and pinched my nipple so hard it brought tears to my eyes. “Now go fix your face and put on something decent. If he’s pleased with you tonight, I’ll be sure to reward you later.”
I scurried away from him to the sanctuary of the bathroom—the only place in our home that I felt some sort of solace. Though it wasn’t as if I was stupid enough to believe the flimsy wooden door would keep him out if he wanted to get to me in there, but usually he left me alone for at least a few minutes. Quickly, I brushed my teeth and hair then freshened up my makeup before venturing into my closet to find something appropriate.
Just as I secured the last button on my blouse, I heard the front door open and close, followed by the sound of my father-in-law’s voice. “It smells like something is burning. I thought you said the bitch could cook?”
Ish mumbled something in response that I couldn’t quite make out, but there was no misunderstanding his father’s next words. “I told you she was a worthless little American cunt, but you couldn’t see past that bloody virgin pussy. I should’ve had her snuffed out the first time you mentioned her to me, and insisted you marry someone I chose. Then maybe people would’ve forgotten you’re a bastard.”
And the fun began.
Pretending I didn’t hear him, I emerged from our bedroom and welcomed him as I was expected to. “Good evening, Vincent,” I forced out politely, kissing him on both cheeks. “I’m so happy you’re joining us for dinner.”
He didn’t bother acknowledging my greeting, other than staring at my breasts long enough to make me uncomfortable then barking out his drink request, which I hurried to fulfill.
The rest of dinner followed along the same lines. Vincent and Ish talked about ‘business’, while I waited on them hand and foot. I was basically ignored, which I honestly preferred to the alternative—being degraded and humiliated. And when they both cleaned their plates of all of the food I’d served them, I took it as a good sign that they enjoyed the meal, ‘cause Lord knew they sure wouldn’t give me a compliment.
Once I’d cleared the table of the dishes, I brought them dessert and coffee, but stupidly, I forgot that Vincent didn’t take his coffee the same way Ish did—no milk, two sugars. After taking the first sip of the sweetened drink, he spit it out all over the table and then threw the cup at me, burning my arms, chest, and neck with the scorching liquid.
“You stupid fucking whore! Are you trying to poison me with that shit?” he screamed, jumping up from his chair as he glared at me like I was the scum of the earth.
No, but I wished I would’ve thought of that.
Ish followed suit, leaping to his feet and throwing his napkin on the table. “Bryleigh, what the fuck did you do? Are you so stupid you can’t remember Father drinks his coffee black?” he scolded as he helped Vincent wipe up the dark brown spots speckled across his own shirt. “And look what else you caused! His shirt is now ruined.”
Neither cared to ask me if I was all right as red blisters appeared on my pale white skin, and after Ish ushered his dad to the front door, apologizing profusely the entire time, he returned to the kitchen to punish me properly. When I woke up the next morning, the small burns from the coffee looked like child’s play compared to the insides of my thighs and my backside.
It would later take multiple plastic surgeries to remove the skin where my husband branded me with his initials, using only a lighter and personalized cufflinks, over and over again across my most intimate areas.
Cold water beating down on my face jolts me from the memory, and as I turn my head to escape the icy spray, my eyes flutter open and frantically scan my surroundings. Raze’s worried gaze is the first thing I lock onto, and a huge wave of relief rolls through me.
“Are you okay kotyonok . . . what happened . . . where did you go . . . I thought I lost you there for a minute.” The words and questions come out so rushed, border-lining on hysteria, it all sounded like one long sentence.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I reply through chattering teeth. “Cold.”
As he turns the water to warm, I smile to myself, thinking how glad I am I didn’t shoot the water heater this morning.
“Is that better?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at me. I give him a quick nod. “I apologize for doing that, but I couldn’t get you to wake up and I thought you were going to hurt yourself. You kept trying to rip your sweater off, clawing wildly at yourself and crying that you were sorry.”
I glance down at my fully clothed, soaking-wet body and chuckle to myself at the ridiculousness that is my life. “Just a flashback,” I say with a weak smile. “Give me a few minutes to reset and I’ll be fine.”
He tips his chin with approval, but reaches out to grab my hand, silently letting me know he’s not leaving my side. Slumping back until my head rests against the side of the tub, I close my eyes and remind myself of what’s important. I’m safe. It was just a flashback. Ish is dead. And in three days, Vincent will be too.
AS I SIT IN THE hard, uncomfortable pew of the chapel, dressed in my best suit, blending in with the sea of other dark fabrics and shaken faces, I tune out the funeral officiant’s droning voice and mentally run through the incredulous events that have taken place over the last few weeks, yet again. Blake’s abduction. Emerson’s confession. The secret trip set up by the Russian mobster. And now, Emerson’s death.
It feels as if I was living a halfway normal life, and then one day, I woke up trapped in an alternate universe, where crazy shit I never could’ve even dreamed of happens. But unfortunately, as I steal a confirming glance to my left to where my parents and brother are seated, and then across the row to where the Listers are huddled together, I’m forced to accept this has become my reality. And I don’t know how to make it stop.
If things weren’t fucked up enough with everything involving Blake’s situation concerning two rival mafia families, the FBI, and the US Marshals, they only became more convoluted Saturday night when Emerson’s parents found a suicide note at her townhome, stating that she couldn’t go on living after she had messed everyone’s life up the way she had—namely mine. At first, when Easton told me what had happened, I didn’t believe it. As bad as it sounds, I thought Emerson was much too self-absorbed to take her own life, and I assumed it was only a ploy to get attention and make me feel sorry for her.
However, after a homeless man reported seeing a red-headed woman throw herself from a fishing jetty at one of the pocket beaches not far from where she lived, and the police subsequently found Blake’s empty car parked nearby, it appeared I was wrong. Even though they’ve been unable to find her body—which most likely became shark bait not long after she flung herself into the Pacific Ocean—and the case is still under investigation, for all intents and purposes, it seems that Emerson Lister is indeed dead. And I’ve had to answer to a thousand questions, not only from her family and my parents, but also the authorities.
After showing them the footage from the night in my bedroom, neither Marshal Doherty nor Agent Lance were too thrilled to discover the method I’d used to coax Emerson’s declaration of guilt out of her, both implying I probably was the reason she ended her life. But even mo
re than that, because Easton blew our cover when he left my house while I was on my way home from seeing Blake, they were downright furious with me for flying to Reno on another renegade mission. Of course, I haven’t admitted to them any of the details of my trip, and thankfully, neither have Easton or Jae. All of us have stuck to the story we’d agreed upon prior to the mission that I’d seen a piece of mail at Blake’s apartment with a Lake Tahoe address, so I’d gone to investigate. And even though they can’t prove any of us are lying, they’re all extremely suspicious, and I’d bet money they’ve got people up there combing the area now.
“Madden, honey, it’s over,” my mom whispers as she nudges my shoulder, pulling me back to reality with her touch. “Please tell me you’ve changed your mind about coming this evening. I need you there.”
I turn to face her and wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “Mom, I know these last couple of days have been hard on you and Dad, seeing as though you knew Emerson since the time she was a kid, but I’m serious about not coming to the dinner. I agreed on the funeral, for your benefit only, but I refuse to sit around and listen while everyone talks about how wonderful of a person she was. I’m sorry she’s dead, but I can’t forgive her for what she did to Blake. And to me.”
More tears spill from her eyes, causing additional black streaks to stain her pale cheeks, and even though it kills me to upset her, I’m not giving in on this. She’s brought it up no less than five times since yesterday, and my answer remains the same. I’m not going.
“Keep your voice down, son. And can’t you stop by, even if it’s only for a few minutes? Your brother has agreed to come for a little while.” My dad leans over Mom’s shoulder and pins me with the look that reminds me no matter how old I am, they are still my parents. But even that isn’t going to work this time.