by Xavier Neal
I will not survive in this fucking condition.
I can’t continue to play Russian roulette with my fucking rage.
“When you said spill blood…,” Miko’s mirth-caked tone startles me out of my apparent daze, “I didn’t know that meant it had to be on the actual gift.”
Rather than acknowledge his intended humor, I mindlessly retort, “She’ll love it even more now.”
“Confortante.”
Comforting.
“It should be. It means it wasn’t spilt in vain.”
Yet, it was.
How much more will be shed in the same way before my temper is not only soothed but satisfied?
“We take them all with us now,” I struggle to steady my speech, “decide what’s best for her later, and pass them on to another fence with a clear warning that if you speak ill of my Mia Bella, it will cost you your life.” My face snaps over my shoulder at the same time I snap, “Capisci?”
There isn’t hesitation out of my second, “Si, Capo.”
He fears the backlash from one lost cog in a fairly basic machine; however, what should really concern him – fuck, concern everyone – is the repercussions that come from the unhinged man operating it. Perhaps seeing glimpses of such today will put to rest his second guessing my decision to contact Shay.
I meant the declaration I made.
I will do whatever it takes to find and bring my Mia Bella home.
Even if that means I have to do it alone.
Chapter 2
Exhale.
Inhale.
Pause.
Exhale.
The simple cigarette cycle – one I never enjoyed – continues to mollify Miko, which simultaneously infuriates me.
Misery truly does enjoy company, and I will be damned if I don’t extend an invitation his direction.
“Put it out,” I instruct, fingers clutching onto the red velvet box.
His blue eyes slowly narrow in question. “Sei serio?”
You serious?
“Sì.”
The unhappiness expands into the rest of his expression. “Why?”
“She doesn’t like the smell.”
“She doesn’t like the smell, or you don’t like the sight of someone else enjoying a moment of fucking peace?”
It seems to have momentarily slipped my mind how well he knows me.
A random gust of ocean air blows between us, carrying the smell away with it.
He smugly smirks, has one last suck, and stomps out the inkling of peace he had managed to find. “Felice adesso?”
Happy, now?
No.
Not until my fiancée is back in my arms.
Not until every motherfucker who had a hand in it has had his chopped off.
Not until the baby-faced butcher has slaughtered every single soul who so much as thought of participating in my unborn child’s mother’s abduction and concealing it.
I refuse to entertain the idea of this seizure costing said unborn child his or her life.
Chantal is a fighter above all else.
If she thinks she’s pregnant – like it’s written in her journals – she will do whatever it takes to protect herself.
Them.
She’ll hold on for however long it takes for me to arrive with reinforcements.
I’m marrying a goddamn warrior.
And, once she is home, once she is safe, I will add that to the long list of compliments she needs to receive.
“You weren’t at breakfast,” Miko casually sighs.
I barely eat more than I physically must to make it from one unsuccessful day to the next.
My downtime is better spent making arrangements for Chantal’s return.
Reading her precious words in an attempt to pretend she isn’t gone.
That her absence hasn’t left me so goddamn marred.
That my soul doesn’t endlessly fucking ache.
“You know I had to have your Eggs Benedict and mine.”
The sarcastic stare he’s sent is swift.
“You left me with no choice.”
Fighting the urge to smile slightly fails.
“We can’t go around wasting breakfast of all meals, Beni! Think of the poor chickens who die for the spinach and goat cheese omelets you’ve been ignoring…Who take one for the feathered team but letting their pooped-out babies get poked and covered in hollandaise sauce.”
“Poached.”
“Same shit.” As soon as he sees the faintest smirk touch my lips, he allows his tone to transpose to a serious one, “It also would’ve been a better time to brief you on the status of our situation.”
My grip on the box harshens.
“Should I start with the good news?”
“There’s good news?”
“Well, it’s not bad news, so that makes it good, sì?”
I immediately present him with a glare.
“Everything regarding Cerise and Sherrod continues to come up clean. No suspicious activity regarding either of them, pre kid-” a low grumble of disapproval from me regarding his word choice causes him to quickly change it, “pre-incident or post. They’re as innocent as we were expecting them to be.”
“Buono.”
“See? Good news.”
“Having our previous assumptions untouched does not qualify as good news, Miko. Good news implies a positive change to the information we already possess or presenting us with additional information that could possibly improve our situation, hence, the differentiation between good news and simply news.”
“This is why I wanted to do this over breakfast.” He doesn’t deny himself the opportunity to sneer. “È più difficile ascoltare le tue discussioni quando hai le uova in bocca.”
It's harder to hear your arguments when there are eggs in your mouth.
“I assume there’s more.”
Miko reluctantly nods. “Phillip’s last correspondence with Chantal was legit.”
Technically, not bad news, although, albeit disappointing.
“According to her records, she texted the morning before we left to say she’d be unavailable for the entire weekend. He joked about getting the memo and teased which foreign country should she be whisked away to. She mentioned the beach. Conversation ended a couple messages later.” He lets a small shrug bounce his shoulders. “No suspicious activity to report there, either.”
Adding “can we create some so I can kill him and make myself feel better” lingers in my throat.
“No weird shit with his family. No girlfriend that we’re aware of. No bad habits other than enjoying shitty electronic music at raves on his off days.”
It’s my turn to sneer.
“Security sometimes has trouble keeping tabs on him given that those places are typically dark as fuck, and they have trouble blending in, but we’re working on it. He doesn’t seem to have contact with many people outside of Chantal for work, his brother – who is fucking Boy Scout clean – and his neighbor, Emily Garrett. Quick search done by the team said she works in pharmaceuticals. Travels a lot. He checks her mail, brings in her packages, just normal random bitch boy neighbor shit. Nothing worth giving a fuck about.”
I swallow the letdown and ask, “Anything else?”
“Rose is dead.”
The announcement has me folding my arms across my chest. “Us?”
Yet, again, there’s hesitation in his head movements. His slow shaking is proceeded by the details, “Her tail followed her to the airport last night to, supposedly, pick up her parents. She went in. Went to the restroom. Never came out. Our security says no one looked suspicious. Nothing looked suspicious in the situation or even in the footage. And, it’s hard to damn near impossible to pinpoint who went in there with that intention due to the time of day. Evening arrivals are a rush hour of people no matter the fucking day of the week.”
“Hot dose?”
“Sì. It’s quick. Easy. And, who’s really gonna ask questions about some barely legal Lati
na, who is ‘grieving’ her ‘boyfriend’s’ death, overdosing in a bathroom stall?”
Ugly, but true.
“I had the flights checked. Her parents were detained at customs and missed their flight yet kept there so long they didn’t get the chance to tell her.”
“Someone’s tying up loose ends.”
“Exactly.” Miko’s hands migrate to their pockets. “Her actions were obnoxious but not abnormal for someone her age. Her followers, their comments, all checked as regular shit. Nothing seemed coded, though I’m sure it fucking was. The fact there wasn’t an unusual amount of money coming in or out of her account placed the possibility of her being a plausible suspect towards the bottom of the list; however, I had the team do a little more digging last night. Her parents wanted US citizenship, information that somehow wasn’t on record until the morning after this game of hide and go fuck yourself started, which leads us to believe whoever arranged for her to be the inside woman, used that as their bargaining chip.”
Rose’s desperation to have her family here cost Chantal hers – her father.
If she weren’t already dead, I would bestow upon my love the opportunity to slice and dice her as many ways as she saw fit.
“So,” Miko lets go of another sigh, desire to grab a new cigarette apparent by his jittering, “for those keeping score, that’s no footage of the restaurant that night due to the feed being cut. No footage of the surrounding docks due to their security cameras being mysteriously down for an odd window of time. Three dock workers who can’t confirm nor deny seeing anything since they’re dead. Two stolen, torched vehicles on opposite ends of the city so that we have no clue which was used. No traffic or airport cameras – including those at the private strips – that caught her face. One dead, highly trained member of our team, whose baby brother recently joined the ranks and now wants vengeance delivered in blood. And, one deceased father that we buried but have yet to give a gravestone to, like you ordered.”
Chantal deserves that right.
It’s awful enough she wasn’t around to place him properly in the ground.
I won’t take away the privilege of choosing his commemoration.
“The valet is the only thread that hasn’t been…confirmed of being dealt with yet.”
My brow pulls tightly together in obvious question.
“He’s fucking vanished.” Miko’s shoulder bounces in cluelessness. “We’re talking completely off the grid shit. He could be fucking dead like everyone else or…he could’ve known what was coming and hid before they got to him.”
“Find me a corpse or a body to make into a corpse, Miko.”
“The team’s working on it, Beni.”
“Work faster.”
He sucks his teeth in clear irritation of my retort. “You know, I miss Chantal for a lot of reasons, but right now, I probably miss her most for the fact she didn’t let you talk shit to me.” There’s truth and mirth alike mixed in his blue gaze. “When she gets home, I’m gonna tattle.”
Humor completely takes hold, and I’m silently grateful.
The weight of the surmounting number of disappointments is beginning to crack the foundation I’m doing my damnedest to stay steady on. Miko’s dedication to maintaining a death grip on his playfulness is starting to become that beacon of hope that will keep me from falling into the cracks of total darkness.
“Gentlemen,” one of Shay’s house servants calls to us from the front doorway of the main building of her beach side estate, “Madam is ready for your presence.”
Miko prepares for us to bolt that direction yet is stopped by my hand on his chest. “Aspetti.”
Wait.
Curiosity instantly covers his face.
“Non parlare - in inglese o in italiano - a meno che non ci si rivolga specificatamente mentre siamo lì.”
Do not speak – in English or Italian – unless specifically spoken to while we are in there.
“Parla correntemente molte lingue, quindi saprebbe tutto ciò che dici.”
She's fluent in many languages as well so she would know everything you say.
He presents me with a nod of comprehension, adjusts the collar of his white shirt, and waits to follow protectively from behind.
We’re quickly led through the posh manor to a room on the opposite end. The male servant opens the white wooden French doors to reveal our waiting hostess and an older woman lingering at her side. From behind her long white desk, the most powerful person I know gives me a small three finger wave that’s attached to a smile so dangerous most people don’t realize there’s something to fear until it’s far too late.
“Benicio,” Shay coos my name as we enter the Parisian-inspired decorated room.
I plaster on a wide, polite grin. “Buongiorno, Shay.”
She slightly angles her head to the side to greet my cousin in a similar fashion. “Miko.”
“Buongiorno, Shay.”
Her eyes linger a little too long for comfort on his, prompting me to interrupt, “I came with a gift.”
The statement snaps her gaze to mine, yet she doesn’t verbally inquire more information.
While her servant shuts the door behind us, I cautiously approach where she’s stationed and place the box on the edge of desk that’s closest to her.
She glances at the closed box, me, and then the closed box, again, silently indicating for me to open it. Unsure if it’s because she believes it to be a trap or simply because she wants me to be aware of who in this room is more powerful than whom, doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference. I promptly fulfil the unspoken request; however, when the expression on her light latte face remains the same, there’s no denying the nervousness it creates.
Folding my hands behind my back, I gingerly ask, “Is something wrong, signora?”
There’s no excuse for her wordless nature.
No long winded instruction.
Just a simple stroke across her neck.
The action indicates exactly what my next move is to be, and I don’t hesitate to take it. I carefully remove the piece of jewelry at the same time I provide a tale of its journey, “This once belonged to a foreign heiress.” Once it’s in my possession, I take a step closer. “Her husband actually won it in a poker game.”
I wait for her to lean forward to assist in the process of placing it around her, yet, to no actual surprise, she doesn’t. Her continuous command to be waited on, to be served, is one I admire her taking. This is absolutely a fucking power play, and I’m not in a position, nor will I ever be in a position, to truly challenge it. The burlesque attire of a black and pink corset covered in frills and bows paired to a tiny tulle skirt, physically emphasizes her hierarchy of the Synful Syndicate title she represents. Much like my own less notability, it is something that is to be known at all times.
Never to be overlooked.
“It was intended to be a gift for his mistress,” my explanation resumes during my slow process of closing the gap between us to put the necklace in its rightful place. “Shortly after the heiress found out about the gift and the affair, she reported the necklace as stolen. Told the authorities a twisted tale of robbery.” The thick choker band is pressed against its new home. “She had her house staff confirm the details and describe the woman so clearly there would be no doubt of wrongful identity when caught.” I lean forward, invading her personal space in spite of the fact I wish I wasn’t, to fasten it together. “The woman was arrested yet never processed due to the fact she mysteriously died while in custody.” There’s the faintest click sound to indicate the two pieces are now joined. “And, the heiress’s husband, less than a month later, passed away peacefully in his sleep.” My body returns to its upright position to meet her amused stare. “It was hard for the coroner to decipher if it was the result of one too many sleeping pills taken, one too many glasses of champagne guzzled, or perhaps a combination of both.” I casually fold my hands behind my back. “No one dared question the fact he had never taken a sleepi
ng aid prior to that point.”
Shay’s grin begins to grow.
“There was also no mention that he had an aversion to champagne.”
It starts to show teeth.
“The heiress was never questioned, suspected, or bothered about the subject of her husband’s death.”
An undeniable sparkle showcases itself.
“She took interest in one of her much, much younger valets and relocated to Canada for her foreseeable future.”
Shay snickers, continues to smile, and lets her stare fall to the black onyx choker she’s now wearing. Several beats pass prior to her purring, “There’s even blood on it…” Her brown eyes cut back up to my hazel. “It’s fresh.”
“It is.”
Glee noticeably spreads throughout her facial features at the same time she leans back in her golden leather rolling chair. “Sit.” Her hand motions to the matching one on the other side of the desk. “Tell me another story…” The twinkle in her stare becomes wicked. “Perhaps, one about a Duke who successfully earned himself an audience with The Queen to ask for her help, which he desperately needs.”
My distaste for the word gets caught in my throat.
“You are desperate, Benicio,” she devilishly coos. “I can smell it.”
I don’t confirm her observation.
I, however, choose not to deny it, either.
The silent response seems to please her as well as prompt her to repeat, “Sit.”
This time I do so.
“Proceed.”
My mouth twitches open to begin but is interrupted by her before I truly can.
“And, remember, Benicio, I am easily bored with stories that don’t contain lust, sex, or blood.”
Hence, why the one involving her new piece of jewelry made her fucking giddy.
“This Duke had his future Duchess stolen from him.”
Neither shock nor amusement touches her expression.
“Physically stolen from him.”
“Kidnapped.”
“He doesn’t like that word,” Miko quietly proclaims from behind my chair.