by Alan Lee
A young prostitute named Ebony sat on the leather sofa, suede knee-high boots crossed at the ankle on the cushions. Ebony looked up from her iPhone and watched Veronica the way a young and unproven actress might watch Sandra Bullock or Meryl Streep. With deep reverence.
She said, “Why’s this place so clean?”
“I already answered that, Ebony.”
“Why again?”
“Because the men who live here are clean. Fastidious, as one of them would say.”
“But it’s so nice, like a movie, you know?”
“It’s perfect, in my opinion.”
“And you’re with one of them?” asked Ebony.
Veronica still wore a pencil skirt and gossamer white blouse from work. Her heels rested by the door. She ran a hand through blonde hair that reached past her shoulders, shaking out non-existent tangles. “Yes. I think.”
“But you’re screwing around.”
“It’s complicated, Ebony.”
“And he ain’t gay? That’s weird.”
“Somehow it’s not. I love him. And he loves me, I hope. And we’re waiting to be intimate.”
“Why?” inquired Ebony.
“I can’t remember.”
“He let you live here?”
“If I asked.”
“He hot?”
“Mackenzie is very attractive, yes,” said Veronica.
Timothy August, sitting in a reading chair in the corner, placed a bookmark inside the hardback copy of the recent Jeffrey Deaver novel and closed it. He gave a half smile at the questions. “His mother was foxy.”
“Oh,” said Ebony. Her attention wandered to and from her phone. “You his dad?”
“We’ve already been over this, sweetie,” said Veronica. “Maybe stop talking. I’m too stressed to listen.”
This wasn’t an ideal night for Ebony’s pimp to threaten her with physical harm, but it had happened anyway. Veronica was new to the prostitute reclamation business and she didn’t know what to do with the girl yet, especially because Ebony expressed no desire to quit.
Manny Martinez walked in at midnight. As usual, the man earned a second glance from Veronica. So gorgeous he almost looked feminine, but the breadth of shoulders and the muscles were masculine. She didn’t like pretty boys; she liked her men to look fresh from a fight, scarred and fierce. But it was impossible not to admire the man standing in the doorway.
Ebony gasped and said, “Holy shit, you for real?”
For the moment, Manny ignored her.
Behind him came Marcus Morgan and Sheriff Stackhouse. Marcus wore black wool slacks, a grey shirt, and dark overcoat. His belt buckle and watch and wedding ring all glinted—polished white gold. Sheriff Stackhouse’s uniform was jeans and a crisp white button down shirt, collar flicked wide, a tried and true outfit for modestly showing off her eye-popping figure.
Ebony got to her feet and shuffled nervously, unaware this many beautiful adults existed in the entire city.
Manny grabbed Veronica’s hand and squeezed. “He’s alive.”
She released a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Holding for hours, it felt. “Where is he?”
Marcus Morgan took note of Timothy and nodded at him. Timothy got to his feed. Marcus said in a deep voice, “Mr. August. This a good place to talk?”
“Absolutely.”
“Guy named Darren Robbins nabbed August. I wasn’t supposed to find out. Bastard hid it from me.”
Stackhouse said, “I pulled traffic camera footage. Mackenzie was loaded into a car this afternoon, outside his office.”
“Oh fuck,” said Veronica. Her hands slid into her hair and clenched. “This is my fault. Darren put a contract on him?”
“Hundred grand.” Marcus went to the kitchen where he knew the scotch was kept. Set out glasses and held up the bottle. Cocked an eyebrow. Manny and Timothy both nodded, so he poured three glasses. Marcus took a slow drink and said, “But the contract got bought out. Duane Chambers stepped in and asked for Mackenzie alive.”
“Why?” Veronica lowered onto the stool again and her perfect posture surrendered a few degrees.
“He’s being flown to Naples.”
Manny went into the kitchen, and from the freezer he took a spiced ice cube purchased at Lucky’s, a nearby bar. He dropped the flavored cube into the scotch, swirled, and drank. Set the glass down and wiped his mouth. He glanced at Ebony and said, “Señorita, you want something? Soda? Milk? Apple juice?”
Ebony, standing outside the unhappy huddle around the counter, managed to say, “Um…naw.”
Veronica said, “Naples? Why Naples? Manny, what’s going on?”
“Yo no se, reinita. I’m hearing this part for the first time.”
“I did some digging,” Marcus said. “Mackenzie’s being entered into the Gabbia Cremisi.”
Outside on the front porch, standing in the cold air, someone cursed.
Marcus raised his voice. “You two idiots eavesdropping, come do it inside.”
Fat Susie and Carlos walked in, a pair of behemoths. Fat Susie was black, dressed in clothes too big to fathom. Carlos was Hispanic, wore a tight red t-shirt with tattoos peeking out from beneath. Bodyguards.
Marcus asked them, “You heard of the Gabbia Cremisi?”
Carlos said, “No place for señor August.”
“I’ve heard of it, too,” said Veronica, her voice small. “Darren wanted to go, but he never explained it.”
“Someone tell me what it is, damn it,” said Timothy August. “He’s my son.”
Marcus said, “It’s a gladiatorial tournament, kinda. Never been. A Camorra fight to the death. Big deal.”
“What’s the Camorra?”
“Organized crime in Italy, Señor August. But not so organized,” said Manny.
Timothy looked at the faces and judged their severity and asked, “Is the Camorra the boss of the District Kings?”
Marcus said, “Nah. The Kings be a power unto themselves. Though newer, they belong in the same sentence as the Sicilian Mafia or Cosa Nostra, the Brothers Circle in Russia, the Yakuza, Triads, the major players. Anyway, they all gather for the Gabbia Cremisi. A fight to the death. Each send a champion to win, or a prisoner to be executed. Kings never gone before. Duane, he a minor King. On the Board of Directors. Be my guess, he wanted to go so he bought Mack’s contract.”
“What if Mackenzie doesn’t agree to fight?” asked Timothy.
Carlos answered, “Don’t got a choice.”
“Carlos, you been?” asked Marcus.
“Ten years ago, working for hombre in Mejico.”
“That’s absurd,” said Veronica. “Darren never mentioned it’s a blood sport. Gabbia Cremisi translates as Crimson Cage. How is there no outcry about this atrocity? It’s essentially a human version of a dog fighting?”
“Essentially.” Marcus nodded.
Carlos said, “Tournament lasts a week. He wins, he fight the next guy.”
“Certainly the tournament is not a televised event,” said Veronica. “It can’t be public knowledge.”
“Nah, but it ain’t a secret. Naples is a different type of city,” said Marcus. “Gotta know that to understand. It’s like an annual party for the criminally wealthy. Naples be a place where anything goes, you got enough scratch.”
Veronica said, “Marcus, you’ve never been?”
“Not a big fan of violence. Avoid it when possible.”
“But you’re invited.”
“More or less.”
Manny and Veronica shared a look. A glance that asked the question—are you in? Searched the other’s eyes. Of course I am.
Veronica pulled her purse close and took out her iPhone. “I’ll book a flight.”
“And I’m feeling feverish” said Manny. “Might call in sick couple days.”
Marcus placed a large hand on Veronica’s phone. “Book a flight to Naples?”
“Obviously.”
“To watch the Gabbia Cremisi?”
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“To bring Mackenzie home,” she said, a trace of anger and hurt between the syllables.
“And I am going to kill all the Camorra,” said Manny.
“I get it,” said Marcus. “I ain’t happy either. But you two be Bonnie and Clyde against the entire mafia. That’s a machine can’t be beat.”
“Pack your bags, Marcus,” said Veronica. “You’re going too. I need a way in. You’re my date.”
Even though nothing about him seemed to move, Marcus expressed displeasure. A muscle in his jaw bunched.
She said, “Marcus, you remember the poker game.”
“I do.”
“Mackenzie went there. For me. Knowing full well he could be killed. He’s on his way to Naples because of me. I won’t sit here and hope. This world isn’t enough for me without him in it. He’s the best of us. And I just got him and I can’t lose him.”
Marcus poured another glass of scotch and immediately drank it. Set the glass down and picked up the bottle again. He didn’t pour, though. Just held it.
Manny said, “Señor, you saved Mack’s life in that train yard. Said you liked this world better with him in it.”
“I remember.”
“Nothing’s changed. We need him back.”
“We can’t bust him out, Manny.”
“Mack, he is not like other men. He might escape without our help.”
Marcus rumbled, “You two kids be young and carefree. Still babies. Me? I got a wife. Got a kid. I know I’m in the underworld, but I stay on the safe side."
“Marcus, I need you. Just get me in,” said Veronica. She grasped Marcus’s hand with both of hers. “Nothing dangerous about that. Please.”
Manny grinned to himself. No man, not even happily married Marcus Morgan, was impervious to the powers of Veronica Summers.
Marcus said, “And then what.”
“I’m not sure. This is happening quickly. I need more information.”
He asked, “What about Kix?”
Sheriff Stackhouse elbowed Timothy August and she said, “My gorgeous boyfriend and I will watch him, naturally. You go get Mackenzie.”
“Damn it,” said Marcus. “Wednesday was gonna be nice. Got a tee time at the lake, one more round before it get too cold. Mackenzie still being a pain in my ass. Sure you want to do this?”
“Of course. He’s my husband.”
Manny made a gasping sound. “Tu marido?”
Timothy stood a little straighter. “Husband? Beg your pardon?”
“Hold up,” said Ebony watching this from beyond the huddle. “This guy, he’s you husband, but you ain’t screwing?”
Veronica winced. “Oh right, I forgot about Ebony. Her pimp threatened to kill her. Can she stay here for a day? Maybe two?”
“Um, well…” said Timothy.
Stackhouse grinned. “Absolutely. That’s what the sheriff is for.”
“You the sheriff? Hold up,” said Ebony again.
23
Veronica raised hell and fury, and found several jets but no pilots at the Roanoke airport. Instead she and Manny and Carlos and Marcus raced to Dulles in Marcus’s black Lexus LS, making the trip in three hours because Manny drove. He played Sinatra and podcasts about economics the whole way.
“Sinatra, he’s the king,” said Manny. “Me and him, fine Americans.”
En route, between calls to the airport, Veronica moved money around bank accounts using her phone in the backseat.
She said, “Private flights are absurd. A year ago this would’ve bankrupted me. Good thing I shot my father.”
Manny laughed as he rocketed past an eighteen-wheeler. “Inheritance, a beautiful thing.”
“I’ll pay half,” said Marcus, working on his laptop from the passenger seat. “This trip gonna cost more than you think.”
An associate of Marcus’s met them at the international airport’s parking lot at four in the morning. He wordlessly set a black backpack on the trunk of the Lexus. Marcus zipped it open while Veronica and Manny shivered and stamped. Inside, he found four burner passports, four international phones, stacks of euros, and two new credit cards registered to each passport.
Marcus nodded to himself. Set a small diamond into the man’s hand. The diamond’s culet glinted red. The man turned and walked away without a word, shoes echoing off the concrete ceiling.
Veronica asked, “Who was that?”
“One of the nameless dudes keep this whole show running smooth.”
“You gave him aurum? The red diamond?”
“Yep. A currency only us lowlifes use.”
“One of Darren’s buddies offered me a fistful of the red diamonds to marry him,” she said.
Marcus paused, mid-zip. “A fistful?”
“Should I have been flattered?”
“Make you one of the most powerful women in the American underworld.”
Manny made an appreciative grunt. “Maybe I marry him.”
Thirty minutes later they bypassed security and boarded an HA-420 HondaJet. The private jet was not ideal—smaller and slower than what they’d prefer, but last-minute options were limited this early.
At 5:15 a.m., almost exactly twelve hours after Mackenzie had taken off from Reagan National airport, they were wheels-up and pursuing him across the Atlantic.
24
Veronica woke as they refueled in Bermuda, an extra and necessary stop for their smaller private jet, a stop Duane’s Gulfstream didn’t have to make. It was noon, local time. Marcus quietly typed on his MacBook Air. Carlos and his biceps took up two seats across from them. Manny was asleep next to her, beautiful in repose. She took his hand and squeezed. It wasn’t sexual or romantic, or even friendly. It was familial and she needed it.
She woke again in Portugal, this time for good.
The stewardess, unable to stand fully upright, brought them fruit and champagne. She tried and failed to not ogle Manny, whose pale blue shirt was only half buttoned.
Veronica noted it was Burberry and probably cost three hundred dollars. There was more to Manny than carefree Hispanic marshal, she knew, and some time in the future, on a calm day, she would pry.
She held a crystal bowl in one hand, a dainty fork in the other. She speared a pineapple bit. “Tell me about the tournament.”
“I been doing research,” Marcus said. “Kings never been, so I don’t know everything. The fights are an excuse for the mafia bosses to drink and gamble and fuck and buy product, I know that.”
“Product?”
“Girls, ice, guns, security, luxury cars, yachts. You want it, Naples can provide it.”
Manny yawned and stretched. Finished his champagne in one swallow and the stewardess immediately refilled it. “The Kings, they do not attend. Porque?”
“Got something to do with old and new money. The Kings are fairly new. Started taking over power from the Sicilians in the eighties, everywhere but New York City. Some of the more powerful Kings, they ain’t secure in they manhood yet. New money. Worried about hobnobbing with the world’s biggest swinging dicks. The Russians or the Colombian or the Yakuza, that’s old money. Generational billionaires. The Kings don’t wanna swim with bigger fishes.”
“Tell me about the tournament,” she said again.
Carlos responded. “Eight contestants paired off. Four fights, first night. Winners fight again two nights later.”
“A fight to the death?”
“Sí.”
Veronica said, “I cannot imagine Mackenzie being forced into the ring and killing a man.”
“Simon,” said Manny. “But imagine him losing? No way, Jose.”
“What if we don’t release him in time? What will Mackenzie do?”
“Better question,” said Marcus. “Is how you plan to release him.”
“I have no idea.”
25
Their trip took four hours longer than Duane’s. They landed at the Naples international airport instead of the small private strip. An associate of Marcus’s welcomed t
hem, took them around customs, and delivered a rental Fiat. The four of them, stiff and tired and grouchy, squeezed in, closed their car doors, and cranked the air conditioning.
“Look at this,” said Manny, slapping the steering wheel. “Ay dios mio, what junk. See, this is what’s great about America. We have real cars.”
“Have you secured tickets into the Gabbia Cremisi?” Veronica asked Marcus.
“No. Ain’t so easy. Teatro di Montagna is booked solid and you gotta be a resident of the hotel to attend the fights.”
“Translates as Theater of the Mountain?” she asked.
“Something like that. Big damn place, apparently. We on standby.”
“Standby is unacceptable.”
“I got us rooms at the hotel next door. These stupid motherfuckers kill each other with some regularity, so I hear. My source expects a room to come open soon,” said Marcus. He entered the name of the hotel on his phone and directions appeared. Manny glanced at them, nodded, and eased the car out of the parking lot, muttering about driving a toy car.
“Your source? Can’t you tell them that you’re with the Kings?”
“Could, but then Duane find out. Be an issue. Need to stay hidden from him. For a while.”
“So we aren’t here as Americans,” she said.
“Nope. We here because of Manny. He a rich-ass investor from the Caribbean and I be his best friend from South Africa. We’re rooting for the Zeta champion. Carlos be Manny’s walk-around guy. We just hoping nobody recognize Carlos.”
Manny nodded approval.
Veronica said, “And me?”
“Arm candy from Switzerland. To put it politely,” said Marcus.
“My alias is that I’m a girlfriend.”
“Keep in mind, these people ain’t as sensitive and woke as us. This still a man’s world.”
“Not for much longer,” she said. “I might kill them all.”
26
Rioters swarmed their car at an intersection, slapping their hands against the windshield and windows. At the next, they dumped soda bottles on the roof. Furious Neapolitans shouted through their tinted windows.