Sighing, I kicked off my shoes and padded over to the phone. I was one of those strange New Yorkers who still preferred a landline and an ancient answering machine. It seemed like we were all in one camp or the other. Glued to a cell phone and couldn’t live without it or clinging to antiquated tech for the nostalgia that made city life a little less crushing. Depressing the play button, I stripped off my jacket and moved the few feet to crumple onto the sofa. It was the least stylish thing ever, murky plaid cloth and fraying throw pillows. I had the money to replace it, but I refused to. It was one of the only things I’d kept from the old house.
The first message was an insurance cold call. I groaned, lifting my head and slamming it down against the back cushion in annoyance. The second was a message from my dad, wondering where I was because he’d beaten me to the cemetery today. And the third message was a reminder that I didn’t want.
“Hey, Capuleti. Just wanted to make sure you picked up your fundraiser ticket from Jack yesterday. I know this sort of thing isn’t your bag, but we all have to take our turns paying the piper for the fucking Community Outreach shit. Besides, what woman doesn’t want to prance around in a big dress and dance the night away?” Special Agent Anthony Tybalt laughed, his big deep voice booming from the answering machine. “Guess you’re the kind of woman who doesn’t want to, sorry about that. Try to have fun tonight, though. Okay? Greet the right people, say the right things. It’s one night. You can do it. See you Monday.”
Tybalt was a hotheaded son of a bitch, and I could barely stand to be in the same room with him for more than a few minutes. It was ironic that, more often than not, we ended up on the same details. A cruel recurring joke. The asshole was supposed to go to the fundraiser too, and he’d made some shit excuse about dental work. I knew for a fact he was going golfing upstate.
Grumbling, I stood up from the couch and walked over to open the coat closet. I’d stuffed the oversized dress bag inside a few days ago, not given a rat’s ass if the dress inside got wrinkled all to hell. I hadn’t cared over what I wore, but the Assistant Director sure as hell had. He’d frowned when I’d suggested a tux.
I unzipped the bag, wondering if the dress was as overkill as I remembered. It was. And not my style at all. I’d live in pantsuits and flats if I could. This dress was definitely not a pant suit.
Floor length with a plunging neckline. It looked flat black until light caught the material and it shimmered like liquid onyx. The saleswoman’s jaw had dropped when I’d tried it on, so I figured it must be passable for a fucking masked ball. A masked ball. It couldn’t be my turn to represent the agency during a normal law enforcement fundraiser, a sit-down dinner or something inane that took little guess work on my part.
No. I had to dress the hell up and go to a prom for socialites raising money to fight inner city violence. Violence that they knew precious little about. Violence that would make them shiver in their million-dollar jewels.
And that wasn’t the worst of it. Romero Montego, son of deceased founder of Montego Arms Roman Montego, was the guest of honor tonight. I had the worst luck on the goddamn planet. I never wanted to be within a hundred yards of a Montego, and tonight I was going to an event where one of them was up on pedestal like a golden fuckin’ god.
I pulled the dress bag from the cramped space and then reached to the upper closet shelf for the petite black lace-trimmed mask and red stilettos. I was shit in heels, but I didn’t have time to get the dress length altered.
I was going to fall flat on my ass tonight. Maybe that would make everyone think twice next time it was my turn at bat.
2.
Romero
July.
Is sort of an anniversary for me.
The beginning of the end, as Balthasar would say.
When I found my true calling.
In that dirty alley so many years ago.
A decade? Has it been over ten years?
“Fuck you, Benny.” I growled, sound booming around the office. “You swept in and stole that blockchain company for a lark.”
“You hesitated, Cousin.” His voice floated to me from across the world. I could see him, leaned back in his chair and feet propped up on his desk. Elegant indifference. “You might have whispered in my ear the future of NFTs, but words and actions are two different animals. Your father taught us that.”
“Does loyalty mean nothing to you?” I tapped fingers against my desk, index and middle pinching a smoldering black cigarette, knowing the answer even as I said the words.
“Loyalty is subjective, Romero. Another thing your father taught us.”
“Roman Montego was a bastard, Benny. Living your life based solely on his advice will lead you astray one day.” I took a long drag, sucking in the noxious fumes and loving every second of it.
My father’s portrait still hung in his office, now my office. He stared at me disapprovingly. And I wondered, even in this moment, if he would have preferred Benny as his real son, rather than nephew. He always used to say he worried about me, worried that I would make the wrong choices in business, life, and even love.
Well, I’d kept his goddamn company alive and taken his millions and turned them into billions. My life was one of pleasure, in every way. And if I wanted love, I would have it. But I’d rather fuck, with no strings attached. Lust was simpler. Easier. Lust didn’t marry you and then divorce you for a fortune.
“My uncle was many things, Romero. A bastard was not one of them. A shrewd businessman with high standards, yes. But not a bastard.”
“We’ll agree to disagree, Benny. I lived with him and dealt with him longer than you ever did. Perhaps if our roles were reversed, you would understand.” I stood up from my chair, back aching from sitting all day and going over a proposed merger. Benny didn’t know the truth. He didn’t know the monster that was my father.
“Alas, the past cannot be altered. And I can only live my life with what I have learned. Besides, Uncle’s teachings have made me a very rich man.” Benny was smiling, I could tell by the sound of his voice. “And his legacy has not done you ill either, Cousin.”
“I earned my keep.”
“As did I,” Benny pushed.
“Fine, fine. Enjoy that company, Benny. It’ll end up in my coffers soon enough.” Benny used to be a great guy. We’d been close. Any time shit got tough with my parents, he acted like the peacemaker. But something had clicked when he’d hit twenty or so. He’d changed. Fuck, I guess I couldn’t fault him really. God knows I’d changed over the years. For the better in some ways. For the worse in others.
“Dream on, Dear Cousin.”
The line clicked. Neither of us keen on small talk.
“Goddamn ingrate,” I muttered, dropping the cordless onto the cradle. Loosening my tie, I headed towards the office door. Balthasar stood on the other side, waiting patiently. He was a quiet sort, moving soundlessly throughout the mansion-sized townhome and making sure everything ran smoothly. He was my right hand and after all these years together, he tended to anticipate my needs.
“Your cousin?” The small man inquired, watery amber eyes peering up at me.
“Per usual. He has struck my gold, yet again, and he thinks that he can keep it from me. You would think he’d have learned his lesson with that silver mine in Australia. He sold it to my shell company less than a year later at a loss. And it was profitable again in a matter of months.”
“It pays to know local authorities, Master Montego.” Balthasar nodded, a small smile warping his naturally crooked mouth.
“That it does, Balthasar, that it does.” I walked past him, cracking my neck as I moved and regretting skipping my massage yesterday. Carrie was a wonder with her hands, and she always worked out all of my kinks. “Call Euphoria Spa and book for Monday.”
“It is already done. I assumed, when you canceled your massage yesterday, that you would require another appointment soon. With the ball tonight and Sunday being your normal rest day, I thought it would be safe to
secure a Monday opening with Carrie.”
“You always know what I need.”
“I have been with you since you were this high,” the older man held his hand palm down at hip level. “It is no longer crustless ham sandwiches, but I still know you well.”
“Then pray tell, why am I going to a goddamn wretched fundraiser ball instead of dealing with The Apothecary at another location?” Normally, it would be a colossal waste of my time. I could just write and mail a check. There was a reason people called me a reclusive bachelor.
“It’s a happy coincidence that your mark is part of the upper New York echelon. And if you recall, your mother guilted you into it, Master Montego. She is still under strict orders not to travel after her surgery. Two birds with one stone, so to speak.”
Mother. When she laid on the guilt... Christ, it was biblical. “Is any of her real these days? Her entire allowance goes to plastic surgery and designer clothes.”
“It is as your father wished it, Master. He wanted her to live a life of luxury without any responsibilities to the company.”
“And she was more than happy to be free of him when he died.”
“Your parents loved each other.”
“In their own sick, twisted way, Balthasar.” My mother was willfully ignorant to who my father was. She reaped the benefits, and that’s what she cared about.
“Someday, Master Montego, you’ll discover that all love is sick and twisted. It’s only the look of it that changes, not the inside workings.” He clapped me on the shoulder, cutting more of a fatherly figure than my own father ever had, and nodded knowingly. The man was like the damn Mona Lisa, hiding the knowledge of the universe behind his small unassuming smile.
“Yes, yes. So, you always say. Is everything ready for tonight?” I changed the subject quickly, because if I let the poor bastard rattle on about love and how I’d find it one day, then we’d get into one of our epic rows that could only lead to cold coffee and burnt eggs. Always deliberately done. Balthasar was a wiz in the kitchen; he didn’t burn things on accident.
“All is prepared. I’ve secured a limo for tonight versus your normal car and chauffeur. The fundraiser organizers are going to expect you to make an entrance.”
“You mean my mother expects me to make an entrance,” I corrected. The fundraisers wouldn’t give a damn if I showed up in a bust ass sedan wearing a pair of jeans. As long as a Montego showed up and wrote a check...
“Semantics,” Balthasar shrugged. “Your tux is on your bed. Your shoes are polished. And a selection of weapons for the night are waiting on your dresser.”
I nodded, fingers flexing in and out of fists as I strode towards the stairs to the top floor of the house where my personal quarters were.
My modern townhome on East 69th was large enough to be a mansion at fifteen thousand square feet and had four levels not including the basement. I’d bought it a few years ago on a lark, leaving behind the Montego family home in Hudson Yards. Mother wanted to sell the old place. It was too big for her, and she was rarely there anymore, but that wasn’t her reasoning. She wanted more capital on top of the allowance set forth in my father’s will. But the main house was in my name, and I didn’t want to deal with the fallout when I sold it and didn’t give her the proceeds.
Because she didn’t fucking need more money for vacations and plastic surgery.
“Adriana gone?” I nodded towards one of the guest suites on the second floor as I continued to mount the stairs to the next level.
“Bright and early as always,” Balthasar confirmed.
“Lights are on in the Dark Room. Make sure it’s put back in order.” I nodded towards a closed black door.
“Of course.”
I could spend every waking hour in the Dark Room, if only it fulfilled my other urges. It’s where I brought my dates, and where I left them when I was done and ready to sleep. Balthasar handled the rest, taking them to a bedroom and providing them with a car in the morning.
I didn’t like women in my personal bed.
It was my sanctum sanctorum. Full of secrets.
3.
Juliette
The cab bounced uncomfortably, hitting every damn pothole in the road, making it impossible to apply a fresh layer of red lipstick. And I was already regretting the damn stilettos.
“Hey, you look familiar. Don’t I know you?” A Jersey Shore accent rattled sharply from the driver’s seat.
“I don’t think so,” I parroted automatically, hating that I hadn’t already put on the mask.
“No, no. I do.” The cabby snapped his fingers and then I knew the instant he put two and two together. His eyebrows lifted, his gaze going wide with recognition. “You’re a Capuleti! The daughter, right? Damn shame what happened to your mother. Damn shame. She was a good woman. Always treated everyone right.”
I didn’t say anything in response, though the cab driver kept talking, his entire body animated with the knowledge that I was sort of famous... or sort of infamous. Nobody wanted to be well-known because of their mother’s brutal murder. Or the shit that followed.
-
It was still sometimes called the ‘Capuleti war on crime’. So many innocent people, fucking kids and babies, had died at the hands of gangs and the mafia, but it took a socialite getting her body ripped apart to make any real change happen. The District Attorney made it his personal mission to clean up the streets.
And Montego Arms had capitalized on that, using my mother’s death to win a five-year contract to arm the NYPD. Roman Montego, owner and acting CEO at that time, had given fucking speeches outside Drug Alley, acting like he actually knew her and cared, and fawning over my father. He preached that no good woman should ever have to die again, and it should be a native New Yorker who cleaned up the mess.
The bastard used her death to make money. Plain and simple.
He was a capitalistic worm. I was glad the day I’d read in the Times online that the son of a bitch had died of a heart attack. It was only four years after Mom’s death, close to the anniversary. Though Roman Montego had deserved much worse than clutching his chest as he keeled over.
Of course, despite the DA rolling up pawns of the Bloods and the Latin Kings and even members of the Five Families, the fetid roots of organized crime never really left. After a few years, bloodshed intensified again. Drive by shootings skyrocketed. Gang on gang crime intensified. The mafia became hellbent on cleaning up their territory. It was a damn Castellammarese War of the thirties all over again. Hell, it was worse. It was like the bad guys had more weapons than the good guys and all bets were off. Cops were getting gunned down left and right.
And when I lost that ‘good comes from bad’ justification, it felt like my mother died for nothing. I was just glad, so fucking glad, that I was on the other side of the country during that dark period in New York history.
I used to think my mother’s death had to be a part of the power struggle between smaller gangs and the mafia. Her body was dumped in a hot bed for small time dealers and users after all, mutilated and tortured. A fixer could have done it, staging the crime in Drug Alley to pin on the smaller gangs. Get them the fuck off the street and out of the way. And it had worked in a way, though the DA had targeted mafia members too.
The one time I’d mentioned that theory while still a rookie with the LAPD, the ‘boys club’ had laughed in my face. I was young, stupid, there were far easier ways to skin a cat than killing some fancy New Yorker.
That was the first time I’d realized that a lot of cops don’t think outside the scope of their training. They don’t rip open the box and see what’s outside of it. They follow protocol, tracking from point A to point B. Sure, sometimes they played dirty and dropped a dime bag in someone’s car or planted crime scene evidence in a suspect’s house, but if they couldn’t close a case in the ‘usual’ ways, they often walked away.
It killed some cops—the good ones—to leave a victim behind. Others didn’t care so much. I was the
former. All I wanted was justice. Real justice. Not the artifice of it.
But there wasn’t any glory in cold cases.
I found that out quickly in my career. Shit, I found that out before I went to the academy. The more I asked around about my mother’s murder, the more I realized that no one cared anymore. It had been a few years at that point; the evidence trails were not only cold, but glacier frozen. It was just another case without closure. My mom was just another victim failed by a broken system. So many murdered souls shunted to the wayside, simply because the path forward seemed to disappear into the woods.
But there are always clues if you look hard enough, studying the smallest inconsistencies.
No one knew what the roses meant, not at first. They just started appearing a year after her death. Always two, always black and white. A mystery.
Until the bodies started piling up five years later after I’d made Detective. And a calling card came into play.
Sometimes a white rose.
Sometimes a black.
And suddenly my mother’s murder was no longer a random mugging. It probably had nothing to do with street crime, and everything to do with Mom being in the wrong place and the wrong time, winding up on the wrong end of a serial killer’s appetite.
There are always clues if you look hard enough.
Like with a forest, the minutia of crime is vastly particular. The leaves look a certain way. The ground feels a certain way. The moss most often grows on the northern side of trunks. The truth can be found in the roots, reaching down into the dark.
But sinking your time and energy into impossible investigations was a career killer. A pile of old files slapped atop your workload meant you’d fucked up royally. Banished to desk duty, pouring over ancient lab work and phone records, was most agents’ worst nightmares. It was a tedium, saved for punishment.
Her Villain: A Dark Bully Romance (Aqua Vitae Duet Book 1) Page 2