It was hard to track down a man who didn’t want to be found.
Most people had somebody they confided in, someone I could break open to reveal every dusty little secret they held in the dark, drafty corners of their mind.
Conti only had one of those, and he was all but untouchable. His name was Emil Barone, and he kept his shit tighter than a virgin asshole. Conti only had one loose end, and it was Emil.
Wherever Emil was spotted, you could be damn sure Claudio Conti would be found close behind.
There was his wife, but I didn’t know her—nobody knew her—and it seemed she was inaccessible. For all intents and purposes, the woman was a ghost.
We arrived in New York some days ago. I asked Happy to contact a few old associates for me who might know of Conti’s current whereabouts, but nobody gave him the time of day. That was the problem with being out of the game. No one considered you part of their world anymore, and Happy’s contacts were dwindling. I could call Nox, but he told me straight up that he was out, and I didn’t want to bring shit to his doorstep, not after all he’d done for me. There was one person I wished I could call, but couldn’t.
Julius was still part of the underground. He and Ling were their badass selves, going from town to town, making judgment on people who had fucked up enough for grown men to have to call a couple of so-green-they-were-barely-sprouting counselors to take care of business.
I was secretly proud of him. I knew he’d make it through after I’d gone. I’d have told him if I didn’t think it was necessary to keep him in the dark.
He and Happy were both my friends, but Julius was my brother. No competing with that. I would do everything in my power to protect him. It was crucial that he believe me dead. Otherwise, no one would. His reaction to finding out I had passed away needed to be genuine.
It fucking blew that I couldn’t contact him. If one person could find out where Conti was, it would have been Julius. Having Happy call him asking about Conti would raise way too much suspicion.
Part of me thought he would be here in New York. It’s where the majority of his properties are, not to mention his place of business. I don’t doubt he has more I don’t know about.
Conti was one of the old-schoolers. Sure, he was only in his thirties, but his pops taught him the lay of the land. The Contis took money from small businesses, and in return offered protection. That didn’t mean they were going to protect anyone from diddlysquat; it merely meant that the small business would be protected from them, the Contis, for a while.
Extortion was a way of life for these guys, but with the bigger, franchised business taking over, the mafia had little pull anymore. There weren’t many “little guys” to extort, which meant less in the pockets of the mob.
Conti branched out into weapons and assassins for hire. The man abhorred drugs. Didn’t want anything to do with them. Thought they brought dirty money. It didn’t matter in the end, because the two forms of business they took on were both in demand, which meant Conti was sitting pretty.
He was somewhat of a precious man. Got overwhelmed easily. Didn’t even keep his own schedule, needed someone to do it for him. And Emil was that person.
Black asked me whether it would be in our best interest to hack Emil Barone’s smartphone. I told him it couldn’t hurt, but I wasn’t fool enough to believe a man like Conti would allow for his schedule to be available digitally. No, these men dealt with pen and paper, and after a while, those papers got burned.
They weren’t stupid. They were brought up better than that. No trace would be left.
Now, having ran surveillance for four days straight, we set ourselves up across the street from a popular nightspot Conti is said to frequent. Some burlesque joint called Bleeding Hearts. It’s a Friday night, and I’m feeling lucky.
Black wasn’t happy with my lack of knowledge on this guy.
I told him to fuck himself. What, did the asshole think I was holding out? If I had anything more, believe me, I’d be using it to find Claudio.
As we sit at a rickety table under the dim lights of the café, biding our time and sipping on our third coffee of the night, Black and I watch carefully through the window. Even though you can’t see inside very well due to the glare from the neon lights beaming across the way, you can see out just fine. This spot was chosen well and is very much to our advantage. We move to seat ourselves in a secluded corner of the joint. Black pulls out his binoculars and peers over the way.
Hours pass, and the line to this Bleeding Hearts place ends up going for miles. And we have nothing to show for our time.
Black sighs. “We’re literally acting on nothing more than a whim here.”
“Yeah,” I respond sourly, because it sucks balls.
Black nudges my shoulder lightly, moves to stand, and states, “This is a waste of time. C’mon. We’re out of here.”
We walk out of the café, and I reach up to adjust my hoodie. Having done another laser session to remove the tattoo on my cheek, I make a subtle effort to cover my scab with a Band-Aid. I run a hand over the stubble on my chin that I’m dying to shave.
Something in my gut makes me turn. Lazily looking up at the club from under my hood, I pause midstep.
Emil fucking Barone.
He walks out of Bleeding Hearts close to a familiar face, speaking animatedly to a man I used to know.
Sasha Leokov.
A good man, Sasha is. He’s Russian, built like a brick shithouse. Stylish. Not much of a talker. He used to be a runner for a firm that called themselves Chaos. I only dealt with him a few times on business, but from the looks of Sasha, he’s irate. And my curiosity spikes.
Black notices my stillness and turns to look at the man himself. Under his breath, he hisses, “Gotcha.”
Sasha was always so cool, calm and collected that my head tells me it would take a lot to make a man with his emotional composure angry.
What is Emil saying to him to make him so mad?
So when Sasha quits his tirade and sees Emil out of the club with nothing more than a turn of his back, prying minds inquire, “Black, who owns that club?”
He blows out a long breath, his features bunching in thought. “Some kid called Leokov. Keeps to himself. Lays low. Pays his taxes.”
Of course he does.
I chuckle to myself, keeping a close eye on Emil. “Do you know who Leokov’s closest friend is?”
Black shrugs and throws me a look that says he really couldn’t give a shit.
I will make him give a shit. This is fucking important.
Emil curses, shaking his head, then shoves his hands into his pants pockets before heading down the street.
Black’s on it, watching Emil with a hawk’s eye. “Follow the white rabbit.”
When Emil is approached by another man, I let out a low, “Well, fuck me dead.” I grin and mutter to the man beside me, “You sure you don’t want to know who Leokov’s right-hand man is?”
Black, knowing when he’s fucked up, shakes his head. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt after all.”
As Emil looks around, I lower my face, and reveal, “Viktor Nikulin. You know who that is, right?”
Black’s response comes in the form of a silent nod.
Emil Barone keeps walking as Maxim Nikulin seeps out from the shadows to join him. They walk in time without speaking a word. When they both get into a fancy-looking sports car and move to drive away, I panic. “Fuck. Black, follow ‘em.” I rush toward the white-guy sedan, throwing the passenger door open, and shouting, “We’re gonna lose ‘em!”
Black gets in, starts the car and we’re off, following far behind enough that neither man would notice.
This could be my lucky night.
If number four and five on my list are in business together, I won’t just kill both birds with a single stone.
I’ll collapse a fucking mountain on their heads.
“You’re losing them,” I grunt, and Black flips me the bird. I let out a low growl. “Ge
t closer. You’re losing them.”
“I’m not losing them,” Black states confidently, but I see otherwise.
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
My temper rises. “Yes, you fucking are.”
Black glances at me before returning his eyes to the road. “Trust me, Falco. I’m not.” He pauses a moment, before confessing quietly, “I know where they’re going.”
Huh?
“So,” I begin carefully, not sure what to make of Black’s tone. “Where are they going?”
From way back, we watch the expensive sports car turn into a closed off property, rich-looking. The whole place yells wealth. Big and daunting, it’s somewhere I would choose to reside.
“Who lives there?”
Ethan Black jerks his chin toward the property. “That’s the home of Evander MacDiarmid. Originally from Glasgow, he immigrated as a teenager with his father. They started the street gang, Highland Steel. Gained a somewhat cult following around these parts. Their crimes were the stuff of legends. They got serious, became one of the biggest firms in New York.” Black looks to me with a dark expression. “We need to back off. We know where this place is now, but MacDiarmid is not on the list. I can’t very well call in my men because one of your guys and another’s lap dog are in there.”
I know that, and it eats me up. Leaning back in the chair, I look up at the inside of the car roof and clench my fists in annoyance. “What do you suggest we do?”
“We wait,” he returns. “We know they’re both in the state. I’ll put a passport alert on Conti, but we both know he won’t need it, being that he flies privately. We’ll follow Emil to wherever he goes and put men on him. We’ll catch up with them another time. It’s not happening tonight, Twitch.” I feel his eyes on me. “I’m sorry. I know you wanted this to be over.”
My voice gruff, I tell him, “No, we do this right. Another week ain’t gonna kill me.”
Black breathes a sigh of relief. “That’s good. Besides, I wouldn’t like to upset MacDiarmid’s wife.”
My brow furrows at that rather baffling comment, but I take the bait he set. “Why? Who is she?”
In the moonlight, a small smile tugs at Black’s lips. “Your sister, Manda.”
Surprise has me sitting up all the way.
Well, smack my ass and call me a bitch.
At what point do you give up in life?
I’ve survived so much already. Losing my mom at eleven. Given to an abusive husband at eighteen. Married to and rejected by another at twenty-four.
The hardest part of losing someone isn’t the good-bye, but rather learning to live without what they provided, and constantly trying to fill the void they leave behind when they go.
I’m not even mad at Julius.
Not really. Just hurt.
But I’ll try to push aside the gaping wound he caused. As the thought passes, my chest tightens unbearably, and another bout of tears takes hold of me, immobilizing me.
As soon as I walked into the reception area of The Sunflower Inn, a young man sitting behind the counter shot up out of his seat and rushed over toward me, wrapping his arms around me at the very moment I lost the use of my legs.
“PawPaw,” the man in his late teens called out as he held me, lowering me to the ground to sit on my bottom then stepping back.
I must’ve looked a sight, because when I raised my hand to tell him that I didn’t need any help, his eyes widened and he let out a low curse. That was when Duane appeared from out the back. He took one look at me and his shoulders drooped, a look of sadness crossing his weathered face. He came to kneel by my side, taking my cold, dirty hand in his, patting it in a fatherly action that had a sudden rush of emotion wash over me. Lips trembling, I lifted my free hand to cover my eyes then turned my head to the side as another torrent of tears escaped me. And when I cried, this time, the part of me that was rational and held me together broke free and was swept away as the flood of salt water streaked my face, dripping off of my chin.
Duane squeezed my hand. “Been worried about you, Miss Ana. The state of your room… and you weren’t there… well, Jimmy and I thought the worst.” I chanced a glance up at him through my fingers and Duane’s eyes widened, as he whispered dramatically, “We thought you were dead.”
I couldn’t help it.
Duane thought he was being quiet.
He wasn’t.
A short bark of laughter escaped me as I explained, “I’m sorry about the room. Whatever damage, I’ll pay for it.” A thought crossed me, and I grudgingly removed my shaking hand from his, reaching for my duffle. Unzipping it, I reached in, took out a wad of cash I had originally taken from my home with Dino and handed it to him.
He looked down at the bundle in his hand and blinked in shock. “I can’t take this, Miss Ana.”
With a light sniff, I took hold of his wrist, and told him, “I have no need for that money, Duane. Fix the room and…” I went quiet. “And maybe you’ll lend me another for the night?”
His stunned disbelief turned to anger. “Dang it, girl. Of course you can have yourself a room.” He stood, held onto the money and my stomach went lax in relief. He pulled the young man to his side and told me, “This is Wyatt, Jimmy’s boy. Wyatt, this is Ana.” He pinned his grandson with a light glare. “She needs our help.”
Wyatt’s eyes roamed my form, but not at all sexually. His jaw rigid, he looked angry for the state of me. With a single nod, Duane reached up to ruffle his hair. “Good man.”
The young man stepped forward and held out his hand. I stared at it a moment before I took it, and he helped me up, wrapping an arm around me in support. Duane went behind the counter and took a set of keys off the wall, throwing them to Wyatt, and he caught them without even looking. Next thing I knew, I was being escorted to the room closest to the reception.
Wyatt opened the door and helped me inside to sit on the bed. “Ma’am, is there anyone we can call for you?”
I shook my head slowly and whispered, “I don’t have anyone.”
And I didn’t.
Not anymore.
He stood looking down at me, his eyes hard. “Ain’t no man got the right to put his hands on a woman.”
I agreed with him. “Yeah.”
When Wyatt squatted down in front of me, I saw so much of his father and grandfather in him that I felt like I knew this family better than I knew my own. “You need something? I’ll be happy to get it for you,” he asked.
A reluctant smile spread my lips, and I dipped my chin. My eyes no longer tearing, I finally saw the state of me. My ripped pants and dirt-streaked blouse mocked me. “I need clothes.” My slight smile intensified. “But I wouldn’t torture you by sending you to get them for me.”
He stood, his words firm. “What size are you?”
And I silently knew he needed to do this for me. I peeked up at him. “A petite zero.”
On his way out, just as I was about to tell him to take some money from the duffle, he turned and walked backward, reaching into his pocket and bringing out a wad of cash I was sure Duane had slipped him.
He stood at the doorframe and ordered, “Don’t open the door for anyone.”
This late teen showing the strength of a man made me smile again. “Okay.”
Wyatt looked down at the ground, a frown on his face as he battled internally with himself. “I think we should have a password, ma’am. For when I come back.”
“Sure,” I uttered in a placating tone.
He stood straight and looked me in the eye. “I’ll knock twice and say I have a delivery for Miss Zero.”
“That will be fine, Wyatt,” I conceded. After all, he was only trying to help me.
Reaching out to pull the door shut behind him, he poked his head in. “PawPaw— I mean, Duane wants a word.”
He was waiting for my approval. The sweetheart.
I inclined my head in silent permission, and Duane pushed open the door, striding in, holding a fo
lded bundle of clothing. He looked mildly uncomfortable about his offering, slapping it down on the bed and declaring, “Figured you’d need something to sleep in, darlin’. These are Wyatt’s. His thinner than both Jimmy and me—who, by the way, is proper chuffed to know you’re breathing.”
My smile was genuine, more so when I caught his light flush. “Thank you so much, Duane. You’ve been too kind.”
He was already off, clearly bothered by the praise. With a wave of his arm, he turned away to exit. “Don’t think on it. Now, lock up after me. We don’t want them bad guys coming to get you again.”
I made my way over to the door, standing with my hand resting on the handle. “Thanks again, Duane.” I closed the door halfway, looking him in the eye. “But the people who got me the last time were the good guys.”
The look on his face as I shut the door on him said it all.
I was sure I left Duane wondering about what the bad guys would do once they got a hold of me, if the good guys were the ones who had caused so much damage.
An hour passes and Wyatt is yet to return from the store.
It doesn’t matter though. The clothes Duane brought me will suffice for the night. I lie in the stiff but clean bed, wearing one of Wyatt’s soft cotton plaid shirts and nothing else.
The yoga pants I wore just hours ago were now littered with holes. My shirt had buttons ripped off it. The only thing I could reuse was the bra and panties, which I washed in the sink with shampoo and hung to dry over the shower curtain rod.
Before I showered, I turned on the bathroom light, and my feet took me to stand in front of the mirror hanging over the vanity.
I was shocked by my reflection.
Not only was my face covered in dirt, mud-streaked from my tears, but the corner of my lip had split, bleeding right down to my chin. I definitely looked worse than I first imagined, and the shower was calling my name.
I felt grimy with the fine dust from the gravelly road coating my hair and small pebbles hiding in and between my clothing.
The water was scorching when I stepped under the spray, but I needed it to be. I needed to feel cleansed in the way that only hot water could provide. The scrapes and cuts on my legs throbbed, as did the split in my lip, but after I was done, the shower had proved to be a form of therapy. I felt better about this whole situation.