Grievous

  “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 li
pstick 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 listenin
g... 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.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The little girl sat in a blue plastic chair in the lobby of the police precinct. The lights were bright, blasting her like summer sunshine, the heat cranked up high in the building, but she was still so cold. Even with the thick blanket they’d covered her with, she couldn’t stop shaking, her teeth chattering.

  She just wanted to go home.

  How many times did she have to tell them?

  She said it every time they started asking their questions, but they kept ignoring her, wanting to know other things she couldn’t say, things she didn’t want to talk about with those people.

  “What should we do?” an officer in a uniform asked, standing beside the chair. “We’ve been trying for an hour and nothing.”

  “I’ll put a call into DCFS,” another man said, this one wearing a suit. “Family services should be able to help, maybe send up someone who can coax something out of her.”

  “You don’t think something happened to her parents, do you?” the uniformed man asked, frowning. “We checked all over the city, no missing reports matching her, but somebody ought to be missing her, you know?”

  No missing reports.

  Somebody ought to be missing her.

  The little girl didn’t like how they talked about her, like she wasn’t there and couldn’t hear, and she especially didn’t like some of the things they said, like how nobody told them she was missing. Was she missing? Her mother would be missing her, the little girl was sure of it, but maybe she thought she was just still hiding.

  “What’s with all the commotion in here this morning?” another man grumbled as he wandered into the lobby, his suit all rumbled, the skin under his eyes dark, his hair sticking out, like he’d just woken up. He carried a huge cup of coffee, sipping on it. “Someone said Ramirez got assaulted out in Brighton Beach? Who the hell did that?”