by Sophia Gray
When Adamo told Maggie's father that her second date with Gabe had ended before it began, Turo interrogated her mercilessly. She couldn't tell him the real reason was because he'd refused to have sex with her again, so she stubbornly kept her mouth shut and her arms folded as he harangued her.
“I thought you said you liked him better than the others,” Turo yelled.
“Well, I was wrong! He's no different, and I don't like him anymore.”
Turo let out a frustrated roar, slamming his fist down on his desk. “Goddamn it, why couldn't I have had a son? Girls are so fickle. One minute they love some boy, and the next minute they hate him, and they can't even tell you why. It's enough to drive a man insane.”
“I'm not going to see him again.”
“Yes, you are,” Turo seethed. “You're going to have another date with him, and another, and you're going to smile and laugh and behave yourself on all of them. You know why? Because as quickly as your mind changed about Gabe, it could change back just as quickly. And I won't let you ruin this chance for yourself just because you can't make up your mind about what you want.”
And Maggie had stormed out of his office, and he'd slammed the door behind her, and she'd stomped up the stairs to her room and slammed her own door in response. It had become a familiar pattern.
Now Maggie could hear the phone ringing, and her father scrambling to answer it. “Hello?”
Maggie got up from her bed and opened her door, sticking her head out to listen. Was this the call he'd been waiting for?
From the short-tempered, disappointed tone in his voice, she guessed it wasn't.
“What do you mean, 'disappeared'? Did you check that cabin he's got out in the swamp?...Well, what about those fucking cousins of his? Kenny and Louie and that retard, what's-his-name, Cheddar?...Don't tell me that! Nothing 'vanishes without a trace!' Were there any signs they'd been bumped off? Any blood, or...'A couple of drops?' That tells me nothing! You're telling me nothing! Now find out what the hell happened to them, and fast. They were our only source for the shit. Hopefully, with this other deal I've got going, it won't matter—but still, we'd better find out what happened, just to be on the safe side.”
He slammed the phone down, and Maggie heard him let out a frustrated sigh.
Maggie couldn't believe how Turo was coming unraveled by this situation with Gabe, whatever it was. He never used to speak unless it was in an even and rational tone, and he'd almost never used foul language. But now...
Good, Maggie thought with a twinge of cruel satisfaction. Whatever's going on, maybe it'll give him ulcers and he'll die from them.
Still, she was sick to her stomach from all of it. Sick of the gangsters and the shady deals and the killings and the secrecy and the careful double-speak from fear of wiretapping. Sick of the whole wretched thing.
There was a knock at the front door, and Maggie heard her father run to it, flinging it open. “Adamo! What is it?”
“Gabe reached out, Don Ricci. He said he'd like to speak with you. It seemed fairly urgent.”
“Why? What's going on?”
“I don't know, sir. But whatever it is, he sounds quite unhappy about it.”
Chapter 20
Brock
Brock sat in one of the plush chairs in his hotel room as he practiced his most disapproving look. He felt like he had the expression itself down—stony, with a furrowed brow and a judgmental glint in the eyes. But he was having trouble deciding on the rest of his pose.
Both feet planted, both arms down on the armrests? No, it was too open, and it reminded him of the Lincoln Memorial.
Legs crossed wide, fingers steepled together in front of him? That felt better, but it still seemed forced somehow, like something a Bond villain would do.
Legs crossed at the knee, arms half-crossed with his chin in his hand? Pretentious. He was trying to intimidate a mob boss, not pose for an author photo.
Legs together, arms folded tight against his chest? What, was he a toddler refusing to eat or something? No.
“Have you figured out which pose is sexiest yet?” Robby asked from his seat in the corner. “I mean, I knew you were vain, but Jesus Christ, enough with the primping and bullshit.”
“It's important to get it just right,” Brock replied. “Just stay quiet and remember your part.”
“Yeah, yeah, it ain't complicated,” Robby sighed.
Just as Brock was considering standing behind the chair with his hands clamped on its back—bold, adversarial, like a caged tiger who might escape and pounce—there was a knock at the door. Brock quickly decided to go with the Lincoln pose after all, and motioned for Crack to answer the door.
When Brock saw Turo walk in with Adamo behind him, he felt a spasm of sadistic glee. Clearly, the pressure and anticipation were making Turo fall apart. His tie was askew, his suit was unevenly buttoned, his hair resembled a white bird's nest, and he was missing a cuff link. His shoes were scuffed, and it looked like he hadn't shaved in days. He'd allowed his manicure to lapse, and his fingernails had been chewed ragged.
Best of all, the crooked, frantic smile on his face was that of a dog who'd been beaten and still acted happy to see its master.
I own you, cocksucker, Brock thought as he remained in his seat and let Turo walk over to him.
It was why he'd made a point of not arranging another meeting at The Azalea Room. This time, Turo would come to him. This time, it would be extremely obvious to both of them who had the upper hand and who didn't.
“Rodolfo, Robby, Gabe, it's such a pleasure to see you again,” Turo said, grabbing Brock's hand and shaking it. Brock let him do this, but didn't return the handshake, allowing his arm to flop up and down until Turo released it. This clearly upset Turo even more, and his anxious smile widened. “Are you enjoying the car? It's lovely, isn't it?”
“I didn't ask you here to talk about the car, Turo.” Brock kept his tone curt and impatient, as though Turo was supposed to already know why he'd been summoned.
“Hey, Gabe, chill out, okay?” Robby said uneasily. “Don Ricci is a reasonable man. There's no reason we can't all be civil about this...”
Brock shot Robby a venomous look, and Robby immediately shut his mouth.
“Is this about Maggie? I swear, I don't know what gets into that girl's head, truly. But whatever it is, I'm sure she'll get over it. She'll still marry you if I tell her to. Nothing's changed on that score, I assure you.” Turo actually licked his lips and let out a nervous laugh.
“I'm going to ask you one question,” Brock said coolly. “And I need to know if you can give me an honest answer.”
Turo spread his arms helplessly. “Gabe, why would you ask me that? I'm hurt. You know my reputation, you know I'm an honorable man—”
“Can you give me a straight answer?” Brock asked through clenched teeth, punctuating each word with a period. “Yes or no.”
Turo swallowed hard. “Yes, Gabe. You have to know I'd never lie to you.”
“Good. Now: did you tell anyone about my father's situation? Anyone at all?”
“No!” Turo exclaimed immediately. “Of course not.”
“Don't lie to me, Turo. Come clean now, before it's too late.”
Adamo bristled. “Don Ricci already told you he hasn't said anything to anyone. That should be enough for you.”
Turo put up a hand to silence him. “Adamo, please. This doesn't concern you.” He looked at Brock imploringly. “Gabe, I swear on my life—on my daughter's life—I haven't told a soul about your father. You, me, Robby, and Adamo are the only ones who know what's going on. And Rodolfo, I guess, but it's not like he could tell anyone. Please, won't you tell me what's happened? Whatever it is, I promise, I'll do anything I can to help.”
“I wired the ransom money to the kidnappers last week.” Brock tried to sound like he could barely keep his anger in check. “Today, I got a call from them. They found out who my father really is, and they told me the ransom has now tripled. They want
another ten million for his release. So I'm going to ask you one more time, Turo, and I want you to look me in the eyes when you answer. Did you or did you not tell someone about this?”
Turo looked directly into Brock's eyes. “No. I didn't tell anyone. And I can assure you, Adamo didn't either.”
Brock made a show of thinking this over for a moment. Finally, he said, “I believe you.”
Then he pulled a silenced handgun from his shoulder holster and fired three shots into Robby's chest. Turo gasped, and Adamo flinched, his hand going for his own gun.
Robby looked down at the bloody holes the exploding squibs had left in the front of his shirt. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, and he slumped over to one side, pretending to be dead.
“If it weren’t you or Adamo, it had to be Robby,” Brock said, tucking his gun back into its holster. “I always suspected that weasel was in it for himself. This proves it.”
Adamo hesitated, then put his pistol away warily.
Turo took a few deep breaths, trying to get himself under control. “Right. It had to be him. Of course. And now that he's out of the picture, I hope you'll allow me to use my resources to dispose of the body for you.”
Brock shook his head. “No, thank you. I suspected it would come to this, and I've already made arrangements. But as a gesture of good faith, I want you to honor your pledge to me that you'd do anything to see my father released.” He peered at Turo through the wisps of gun smoke drifting through the room. “Do we understand each other?”
“Absolutely.” Turo took a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing his forehead with it. “I'll have to move some things around, but I should be able to get the ten million for you in three days. Okay?”
Brock nodded serenely. “Fine. Now leave, please. I have a lot on my mind.”
“Of course.” Turo started toward the door. Adamo followed, still frowning at Robby's limp body. “And if there's anything else I can do for you, please, let me know. Whatever it is, I'm here to help. Okay, Gabe?”
Brock didn't answer.
He waited until the door had shut behind Turo and Adamo and he heard them get on the elevator down the hall. Then he threw his head back and laughed. “Wow, did you guys see the expression on Turo's face? He looked like he was about to get smacked in the nose with a rolled-up newspaper! Ha!”
Crack nodded, grinning.
“Glad you're having a good fucking time,” Robby groaned, straightening up and gingerly inspecting his chest. “Even with the extra layers on, these things hurt like a son of a bitch when they go off. Christ, I think one of them blew off a damn nipple.”
“When we're done, you can buy yourself two extra nipples and a couple of tits to put them on,” Brock said. “Now buck up. We've just got a few more moves to make, and then comes the big payday.”
Chapter 21
Brock
Three days later, Brock sat on the bed in the hotel room, drinking the tiny bottles of liquor from the mini-bar. He looked down at the stacks of bills that had been fanned out across the blanket. In the corner, Crack was slumped over in a chair, snoring heavily. It was almost midnight.
Oh, the hand-off had gone smoothly, all right. Turo showed up with Adamo, still apologizing and insisting on his own innocence as he gave Brock the valise with the ten million dollars in it. He'd invited Brock to count it to make sure everything was there, but Brock imperiously stated he was sure it was—with the vaguest hint of a threat in his voice—and dismissed Turo, saying he'd be in touch within the week about his father's release.
And now here it all was. Ten million dollars—and if the five million had been more money than Brock had ever seen before, then ten looked like someone else's dream coming true before his eyes. He had to reach out and touch it just to confirm that it was real.
Combined with the previous payoff, it was fifteen million. Split seven ways, that was over two million dollars per involved party. The biggest score of Brock's life and it was his, free and clear.
They'd pushed their luck, and it had paid off. Turo would have had to liquidate most of his personal cash reserve to pay this off, as well as about a third of his mob businesses. Between that and the sudden loss of his only heroin connection, he wouldn't be in much of a position to retaliate once he realized he'd been conned.
Now it was time for the loot to be divided and for Brock to split, laughing all the way.
So why didn't he feel happy about any of it?
He wished the answer were elusive, but unfortunately, he knew exactly what it was and he loathed himself for it.
It was Maggie.
He couldn't get her out of his mind. He hated the fact that the last time he'd seen her, he'd made her cry. He couldn't bear the thought that every mile he put between himself and New Orleans was also a mile he put between himself and her.
So what? his brain sneered at him. You've left behind a hundred crying girls in a hundred other towns, and you were always mighty sure they'd get over it. Why not? You always did, right? You can break some other girl's heart in the next town, and the next. Isn't that part of the adventure?
It always had been before, but this time, it felt different. Part of it was the way Maggie had smiled at him during the end of their first date—the happiness and trust and wanting he'd seen sparkling in her eyes, and all of it just for him. Based on his previous sexual encounters, Brock had come to believe less-experienced partners generally weren't much fun. Too much fumbling and hesitation and uncertainty.
But with Maggie, it had been different. She'd welcomed him into her and embraced him completely with a fierceness he'd never known before, as though she'd been waiting for him her whole life.
Or maybe he'd been waiting for her?
Deep down, though, he knew there was another reason he was having trouble with the concept of leaving her. The way her parents tried to control her and dictate every aspect of her life, right down to who she'd marry—it had reminded him of something before, but he hadn't been able to put his finger on it until tonight. And now that he had, he wished he hadn't.
He reached into the mini-bar for another bottle and twisted the cap off, drinking it without bothering to look at the label first.
Once upon a time, there'd been a little boy named Brock Summer whose parents lived in Grosse Tete. Their family wasn't nearly as wealthy as the Riccis—Brock's father was a surgeon, and his mother was a software designer—but they were still firmly ensconced in the upper middle class, with an emphasis on the “upper.”
And they'd had such plans for their beloved little boy, hadn't they? That was how they'd always said it, in hushed, eager tones: Such plans, as though they could wrap up their son's entire future in a shiny gift box and present it to him with a big bow, pre-assembled, batteries included, nothing required of him except to take it and say “Thank you.”
Such plans meant sending him to a private school, far from the playmates he'd had when he was younger. Such plans meant no meat, no soda, nothing sweet, nothing fried. Such plans meant piano lessons three days a week, baseball practice all weekend, and church every Sunday. Such plans meant he'd go to whichever college they chose for him, and such plans meant forced dates with Serena, the glum, pimply girl who came from the only other family in town that was even close to the Summers in wealth and status.
And then came Hammer, and heavy metal music, and motorcycles, and teenage rebellion. Then came the fledgling Twisted Saints, and blowing town at age 17 without ever looking back.
And if Hammer hadn't come into Brock's life at just the right moment to save him from his parents' tyranny, what then? Would he be working in an office, doing a job he hated for people he couldn't stand? Would he be married to Serena? Would he visit his mother and father for bland brunches every weekend so they could nag him about when he'd give them grandchildren? Would his parents have such plans for them, too?
Hammer had saved Brock from that life. And if Brock didn't do the same for Maggie, who would?
Crack le
t out a particularly loud snort, farted, shifted his position, and started snoring again.
He was staying in Brock's room to keep up the appearance of being his bodyguard, but Brock knew there was another reason, too: he'd been tasked with keeping an eye on Brock, to make sure he didn't do anything else the others wouldn't approve of.
So all this speculating about Maggie's future without him—or with him, for that matter—was moot, wasn't it? His co-conspirators had almost drawn and quartered him when they found out he'd had sex with Maggie. Even if he could somehow see her again, the rest of them would be furious when they heard about it.
Unless...
Brock stood up slowly, setting the small bottle down on the nightstand and thinking hard.