Grievous

  That’s how Seven acts. Like a father figure.

  Like he knows what’s best for us.

  He usually does.

  Seven hangs up eventually, sighing, still clutching my phone. “He said his phone was dead, he forgot to charge it because he was preoccupied dealing with that woman.”

  “That sounds a lot like an excuse to me.”

  “That it does,” Seven says. “He apologized.”

  “He’s got two strikes already,” I say. “If it so much as even rains on me, he’s catching the blame and that’s it for him.”

  “Understandable.”

  I go back to inventory, popping open the other crates before dismissing Five, paying him for the manual labor. I’m nearly finished with it all when ringing once again shatters the silence.

  “If that’s Three again...”

  Seven looks at my phone, expression guarded as he holds it up. “Brooklyn number.”

  Son of a bitch.

  “Put it on speaker,” I order, waiting for Seven to press the buttons, knowing right away it’ll be none other than Aristov. “Gambini.”

  “Ah, Mister Scar, I was hoping you would be accepting calls today.”

  “For you, Yogi? Anytime. Now tell me what you want so we can both get on with our days.”

  “I am curious if you are with Morgan right now,” he says, “if she is there, wherever you may be.”

  “You don’t seriously think I’m going to tell you that, do you?”

  “I am hoping so.”

  “Well, tough shit, because you’re not getting anything from me.”

  He lets out a dramatic sigh. “That is a shame. You could have made a little girl very happy, but instead, you choose to break her heart.” The phone shifts, his voice dropping lower as he says, “I am sorry, my kitten, but you cannot talk to your mommy on her birthday.”

  This conniving son of a bitch...

  “Do you think I’m stupid?” I ask. “Do you think I’m going to fall for this bullshit? That I’ll actually believe you have the kid right there with you?”

  The phone shifts again, his voice sharp as he says, “Say hello to the man.”

  I shake my head, snatching a lid up and slamming it back onto the last crate, the bang echoing through the warehouse so loud that I almost miss the sound of the soft voice coming through the line. “Hello.”

  Time feels like it stops.

  I turn, looking in the direction of my phone. Seven still holds it, wide-eyed, staring at me. Guess he didn’t expect to actually hear the kid, either.

  “Hello,” I say, having no idea what else to say, if I should even say anything.

  “Is Mommy there?” she asks, a hopeful edge to her high-pitched voice that I know I’m about to crush.

  “No, she’s not,” I say, “but she misses you.”

  “I miss her, too,” she says, and I can hear her voice as it quivers, hope replaced with devastation. “Do you know where Mommy went?”

  “Put your father back on the phone,” I say, because I can’t answer those questions for her, but she doesn’t listen to me any more than Scarlet ever does.

  “Please!” she says, starting to cry. “I want Mommy! I don’t wanna be here no more! Please don’t—”

  She lets out a shriek that is muffled damn near instantly. I can hear a struggle through the line, frantic sobbing, coughing, like the girl can’t catch her breath. My stomach sinks. Seven looks at me with horror, like he expects me to do something, but what the hell am I supposed to do about this?

  I’m suddenly grateful Scarlet isn’t here, that she isn’t hearing it.

  “Quiet, kitten,” Aristov says, getting back on the phone. “Daddy is talking to Mommy’s new toy.”

  The girl grows quiet.

  I don’t hear a fucking peep from her.

  “Did you just hurt her?” I ask, trying to keep calm, when I want to reach through the line and rip his fucking balls off.

  “I shushed her.”

  “You choked her.”

  “Nonsense,” he says. “They must be taught or else they run wild. It is for her own good.”

  For her own good.

  “What do you want?” I ask. “I’m starting to lose my patience with you, and you’re really not going to like me when that happens.”

  “You know what I want,” he says. “I want my little kitten to have her mommy back.”

  “Well, then, we’re on the same page,” I say. “I’ll gladly come pick up the kid and reunite them so they can go on their merry way.”

  “Tsk, tsk. You know it will not work like that.” He laughs. “Tell me where to find the suka. I, also, grow tired of this game, and I will not play it much longer. If you do not give me what I want, everyone you know will pay the price. Your friends, their families... even your own brother. Yes, I know about him, Mister Scar. I do not want to hurt them, so do not make me. All I want is my pretty girl back home so we can be a family.”

  Before I can respond, the line goes dead.

  He hung up on me.

  “I’m gonna enjoy watching that man die,” I mutter, shaking my head.

  “Boss...”

  “Not now, Seven,” I say, hearing the worry in his voice. “Save it, whatever it is, until I’ve had more sleep and can handle this shit.”

  I walk out of the warehouse, pausing in the alley to pull out a joint and light up as Seven secures everything, locking the doors.

  “Call Jameson,” I say when he joins me. “Tell him to meet me at that bar, the hole in the wall...”

  “Whistle Binkie,” he says.

  “Yeah, that one,” I mutter, heading toward the car. “I need a fucking drink.”

  Seven does as I ask, not questioning me anymore, driving into the city, to the Lower Eastside, where the bar is. He pulls up to the curb right out front, finding that rare street parking.

  Maybe my luck is turning around.

  “Need me to come in?” Seven asks, cutting the car off but leaving the keys dangling in the ignition.

  “You can wait out here,” I say. “Catch a nap for me or something.”

  He laughs. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  The place isn’t that busy so early in the afternoon, a few people sitting along the bar but most of the tables are empty. I slide up onto an empty stool, and the bartender looks at me, doing a double-take. It’s the same guy as every other time I’ve been here. Do they even have other employees?

  “Haven’t seen you in a while,” he says. “Bottle of rum, right?”

  “Right.”

  He hands it over, no argument, tearing out the pouring spout for me. I drink straight from the bottle, just sitting in silence, tinkering around with a coaster until Jameson appears.

  He pulls out the stool beside me to sit down. “Thirsty?”

  I take a swig from the bottle, shrugging, before looking his way. The second I see his face, I laugh. His nose is swollen and bruising, tape covering it.

  I offer him the bottle. “You look like you can use some of this.”

  He waves me off, saying, “I can’t mess with that hard stuff,” before motioning toward the bartender, asking for whatever’s on tap.

  He sips his beer when it’s delivered, sighing, hunched over along the bar.

  “So, how’d you explain your face?” I ask.

  “Told the guys at work my grandson hit me with a ball, but I told my wife the truth,” he says, cutting his eyes at me. “Got head-butted by a perp.”

  “A perp, huh? That about sums her up.”

  “Tell me about it,” he says. “Got the judge to rescind the warrant this morning, got it wiped out of the system. Heard the Russian showed up and made a stink when nobody could tell him where she went.”

  “He called me a bit ago.”

  “Yeah? What did he want?”

  “To use the kid to get me to cooperate,” I say. “He had her ask me for her mommy.”

  Jameson makes a pained face. “He must be getting desperate.”
>
  “He is, which means it’s probably going to get ugly soon. I’ll try to keep it all under the radar, so you’re not pulled in, but I wanted to give you the heads up so you’re not blindsided.”

  He nods, sipping on his beer. “Do what you’ve gotta do for your girl, Gambini.”

  “She’s not my girl.”

  “Could’ve fooled me,” he says. “You’re sure going through a lot of trouble for a girl that’s not yours.”

  “It’s principle,” I tell him. “The sooner this is over, the sooner my life can get back to normal.”

  “Normal.” He laughs at that. “When the hell has your life ever been normal?”

  I cut my eyes at him but ignore that question.

  We drink in silence for a while.

  Jameson shoves his glass aside when it’s empty. “I need your assurance that Aristov is the end of this.”

  I look at him but say nothing.

  “I’ve looked the other way on a lot of shit, Gambini,” he says. “I’ve buried a lot of evidence for you going back years. I let your friend walk for taking out all those bosses, because you came to me, a favor for a favor, when I had more than enough to lock him away for the rest of his life. So I need this particular situation to end with the Russians, okay?”

  He’s not spelling it out, but I know what he’s getting at. “You want me to leave Detective Fuckface alone.”

  “We had a deal, you and I... no cops. You remember that, don’t you?”

  I don’t make promises, but I did tell him years ago that I wouldn’t target any boys in blue. It was his hard limit. I could raise as much hell as I wanted, but if I ever killed a cop, it would be all over, our arrangement off.

  “You really want to cash in your favor for that scumbag?”

  “No,” he says, laughing dryly. “I felt safer, knowing you owed me, so I hoped to keep that card for a long time, but I haven’t got much of a choice unless I want a fellow cop’s blood on my hands.”

  “I can make him disappear, no blood at all.”

  He cuts his eyes at me.

  Apparently, he doesn’t like that idea.

  “Okay, then. If the guy stops breathing, it won’t be my doing. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. Deal.” I take a swig of rum before shoving the bottle aside, tossing some money onto the bar to pay as I stand up. I take a few steps away, pausing to glance back at him. “Just so we’re clear... do ventilators count? Because I can do a lot of damage if we let a respirator do his breathing for now on.”

  Jameson’s eyes narrow. “Don’t lay a finger on him, Gambini. I mean it.”

  I hold my hands up. “Just checking. Have a great day, detective.”

  He mutters something before motioning for the bartender to bring him another beer.

  I walk out, seeing my car still parked along the curb, Seven behind the wheel, tinkering with my phone. I climb in beside him and he cuts his eyes my way, carefully setting the phone down.

  “Someone call?” I ask, picking it up.

  “Yeah.” He starts the car. “A rental agency. Your brother put you down as a reference on his application for an apartment.”

  “Did you handle it for me?”

  “Of course,” he says. “Told them he was a great kid, a hard worker, responsible and respectable.”

  “Good,” I say with a nod, settling in. “Thanks.”

  Chapter Seven

  Buster was still sitting on the mantle.

  A layer of dust covered him, some soot from the fireplace streaking his patchy tan fur. He looked so sad, covered in darkness, the fireplace not lit and the lights not on.

  The little girl crept closer, walking through the empty room, and stared up at him, frowning. She wondered if he still smelled like her mother, or if he’d just smell all dusty. Standing on her tiptoes, she reached up, her fingertips grazing the bear’s scorched foot.

  “What are you doing?”

  The sharp voice pierced the room, instantly knocking her back flat on her feet. She swung around, facing the doorway. “Nothing.”

  The Tin Man stood right inside the room, arms crossed over his chest as he stared at her.

  “Nothing,” he repeated, starting toward her, his steps measured. Uh-oh. He stopped right in front of her, crouching down, eye-level. “Nothing sounds like a lie, kitten. Do you want to change your answer?”

  “I didn’t touch him,” she said. “I swear!”

  “Another lie,” he pointed out. “I watched you.”

  Her voice was quiet as she said, “But I just miss him.”

  “Tell me, why is he so special to you? He is old, and ugly, and he stinks. Why does he matter?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Yet another lie,” he said. “One more time and you will live to regret ever opening your mouth to me, so be very careful. I will ask you again, and I want an answer... what makes your Buster so special?”

  She hesitated before whispering, “Mommy gave him to me.”

  “She gave you your life, too, but you do not seem to care about that,” he said, cupping her chin, squishing her cheeks with his fingers like he sometimes did. “Do you not take me serious? Is that the problem? Do you think I am just joking with you? Because what did I say would happen if you touched that bear?”

  She trembled, her knees all wobbly. “That you’d burn him.”

  “And?”

  “And...”

  And... she didn’t know.

  She couldn’t really remember.

  Remembering was getting so hard.

  “And I would burn you, too,” he said, raising his eyebrows, his face so close their noses almost touched. “What makes you think I will not shove you in that fireplace and light you up?”

  “You love me,” she whispered, her voice shaky.

  “I do,” he said. “You are special to me, kitten, for the same reason... your mother gave you to me. You are my Buster. And oh, how I wish I could set you on the mantle, keep you from trouble, but there is a fire in you. You are the suka’s daughter. She had a fire, also, and you want to know the best way to put out fire?”

  “How?”

  “You smother it.”

  Before the little girl could say another word, he pounced. His left hand grasped the back of her neck, pinning her in place, as the hand on her chin shifted, fingers pinching her nose closed as his palm covered her mouth.

  She tried to inhale, but she couldn’t.

  Eyes wide, she struggled, clawing at his arms, trying to rip his hand away so she could get some air, shoving him as hard as she could, nearly knocking him back.

  Groaning, he stood up, his hold loosening long enough for her to take a breath, letting out a piercing shriek that he silenced by snatching her up. Yanking her over to a black leather chair, he threw her down on it, his knee bracing him, pressed into the cushion, as his hand went over her mouth again.

  “Vor!”

  The Cowardly Lion’s voice shouted from the doorway. The little girl recognized it. His sudden presence didn’t stop the Tin Man, though. He kept smothering her.

  “Kassian! Stop before you kill her!”

  The Tin Man let go at those words, and the little girl inhaled sharply, her vision blurry. She blinked, trembling, as he leaned down, his nose close to her nose again. “You will never have your Buster back, kitten, and you have no one to blame but yourself.”

  The Tin Man stood up and walked away, stalling near the door, where the Cowardly Lion lurked.

  “You are forgetting your place again, Markel,” he said, glaring at him. “I make the orders. If you do not like it, go somewhere else.”

  The little girl curled up in the chair, crying, as the Tin Man walked out, disappearing. After a moment, the Cowardly Lion turned her way, carefully approaching. Stopping by the chair, he reached down, brushing the hair from her face, wiping the tears from her cheek.

  “I always hated when he made your mother cry,” he said.
“So many nights, she would cry, but she found courage with you. And I know you want that bear, sweet girl, but it is not the bear you love. It is your mother.”

  “I miss her,” the little girl whispered.

  “I know,” he said, sighing. “And in his own twisted way, he misses her, too.”

  Chapter Eight

  The front door opens just as I step off of the stairs and into the quiet foyer of the house. My gaze flickers that way when Lorenzo walks inside. He’s alone, and nobody else is home, which means it’s just me and him at the moment.

  I pause there, cautiously watching him.

  He was gone when I woke up, even though I beat the sunrise. The air in the house was stifling last night, and it doesn’t feel any more comfortable this morning. I’m not sure if it’s leftover tension or if maybe I’m just projecting.

  Either way, I don’t like it.

  I don’t want to wear out my welcome.

  Lorenzo glances my way, hesitating a moment before he shuts the door. “You look nice.”

  I glance down at myself, at the casual little black and white striped dress with long sleeves. It goes almost to my knees. I bought it because it has pockets, which is damn near a miracle for women’s clothing. Pockets are kind of like men who eat pussy for fun—unicorns.

  “Yeah, I’ve been setting the bar crazy low lately, with all the sweats and junk, so I just thought, you know, why not give looking like myself another go?”

  His gaze slowly scans me. “You’re beautiful no matter what you wear.”

  “Thanks,” I say, the compliment surprising me. There was not a stitch of sarcasm to it. Weird. He’s wearing faded jeans and loosely laced combat boots with an unbuttoned black Henley shirt and a black coat. It’s strange, how the man can look so well put-together with whatever just thrown on, no thought given to it at all. “You look nice, too.”

  Lorenzo glances at himself, making a face, before cutting his eyes my way. “Don’t make this shit weird, Scarlet.”

  I laugh as he shrugs off his coat, draping it over his arm. He takes a few steps away, toward his library, before pausing in the hall.

  He lingers there, his back to me, like something has him torn, before he slowly turns around again. “You going somewhere?”