To Paris with Love: A Family Business Novel (The Family Business)

by Weber, Carl

  “Without a husband you are too dangerous. You must have a man to ground you. I give you one week to find a suitable mate and then your mother and I will choose one for you. Now go. I cannot bear to look at you.”

  “But . . .” There was so much I wanted to say, but I knew that my words were useless against my father’s anger and disappointment. I stood up and walked to the door, but before I could open it my father’s words stopped me.

  “Nadja, I forbid you from going near this Paris Duncan. If anything should happen to her you are going to have to answer to me.” My father gave me a verbal slap down but instead of being cowered in a corner I was more determined than ever to rid myself of that little bitch.

  Paris

  51

  “What’s the game plan?” I asked as I stared intensely at the package between Niles’s legs.

  “To kill somebody,” Niles dryly replied as he surveyed the care package he’d just picked up from a restaurant in Chinatown of all places. Definitely wasn’t an order of dumplings, but rather one of his “kill boxes” courtesy of Nadja. That bitch was better than FedEx, but I still didn’t like her.

  “I thought you wanted me to learn,” I reminded him.

  “I do want you to learn. But by watching and observing. Not by asking questions,” he retorted.

  “I hope one of those is for me,” I said of the two handguns he was inspecting, one a Smith & Wesson, the other a Glock 19. It brought me some relief seeing those guns. I thought he relied way too much on those stupid blades of his.

  “No,” he said sternly, still checking them and their clips for ammo. “You just observe. No action. Got it?”

  “Look, I don’t want a cut of your money; although you are going to reimburse me for my plane ticket, you stingy bastard. But I do want to be ready if shit gets real again.”

  “I don’t need any backup . . . or help, Paris. For the last time that shit in Spain was a fluke. This one is under control. Totally.”

  “You gonna at least tell me about the target?” I asked.

  “His name is Jonas Mercier Pitre. Some crazy-ass French man.”

  I bristled at the mention of the name. My family had some dealings with the Pitres before I went off to boarding school. They were the only other distribution option in this part of Europe for us besides the Italians. I didn’t push Niles for any more information, knowing how quickly relationships can turn in this game. One day you were allies and comrades . . . almost like family; the next you were going to war over turf or respect or simply greed.

  A few hours later, both decked out in fashionable although slightly tacky wedding attire, we arrived at a Pentecostal church in the Saffron Hill section.

  “What do you mean we’re not going in together?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, there aren’t that many people our shade of brown. This ain’t Brixton,” Niles said as he checked the silencer to make sure it fit smoothly onto the Glock. “And there are some dangerous people in there. Maybe you should hang back on this one and wait for my next job.”

  “I’m not a baby.”

  “I know. I . . . I just. If something happened to you . . .”

  “Awww, You care. Feeling’s mutual, Brooklyn. But you got a job to do and can’t be worrying about whether I can handle myself. Because I damn well can. So relax. I’m not going to be any trouble.”

  “Okay. Just be careful, ma,” he said more like a boyfriend than a peer. It was so sweet. “Go on inside. And take the car keys. We’ll meet up at the location.”

  So we went our separate ways: me entering the front door of the great mansion holding a wedding reception and using the one doorman Niles’s instructions said would let him enter with no fuss. That didn’t mean I wasn’t attracting attention though in my black sequined mini dress, looking like I was ready to party.

  Our rush to get here was due to the location of the reception being given out on the day of the wedding for security purposes. And then for that information to get discretely into Niles’s hands. From listening to the guests’ chatter in line, I was able to learn a bunch of different families from all over—New York, Asia, Mexico—were here to pay their respects to the newly married couple. I figured one of those same families wanted to take advantage of this gathering to send a message to the Pitres at the one place where they’d be vulnerable. And if Niles happened to be captured or killed, no one could trace it back to them.

  I was attracting probably more attention than what Niles expected when he picked my dress out for me from the mall, so I decided to do what I was supposed to and observe. I found a good perch just beyond the railing on the second floor where I could watch the foyer and hope Niles made it inside.

  But my being out of sight wasn’t out of mind.

  “Paris? Paris Duncan?” came from the man ascending the wrought–iron staircase with a tiny plate holding crackers and caviar in his hand. His deep charcoal suit with matching red tie and pocket square fit him like it had been tailored a size or two ago, but he didn’t seem to mind. “I didn’t know the Duncans were in attendance. Good to see someone from our side of the pond . . . even if from the Big Apple,” the man joked as we came face to face. “Tony Lucco . . . from Buffalo,” he added, obviously proud of his city. Don’t know why though. The Bills ain’t done shit in forever and Niagara Falls wasn’t all that.

  “How are you, Tony?” I responded to the portly man whom I couldn’t remember with an awkward kiss to his chubby cheek.

  “I’m doing excellent, sweetheart. Where is LC?” he asked, reverence present in his voice as he craned his neck around in all directions to look for my daddy. Love him or hate him, Daddy checked fools.

  “Nah. It’s just me. Came to pay respects to an old friend,” I said, trying to maintain my cool. By conversing with this dude, I didn’t know if I was fucking things up more for my family or for Niles. And if Niles overheard any of this, my cover with him would be blown too.

  “Uh-huh. I see,” he said, feeling safe enough to disrespect me with his eyes now that he thought I was here alone. “You’re friends of the bride? Or the groom?” Tony asked. “Must be the groom dressed like that. Trying to show him what he’ll be missing out on?”

  I grinned, pretending to blush. “This isn’t the place to get into that. I’m just here to congratulate the bride and groom and that is all.” Hell, I didn’t even know the name of the bride or the groom. Just that Jonas Pitre was somewhere among the guests and wouldn’t be leaving alive. And if Tony Lucca didn’t shut up, he’d be joining him.

  “You met the groom when he was down in Manhattan all those years?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I softly answered as I kept scanning the crowd below for any sign of Niles. I began to doubt that he’d made it inside like he’d promised.

  Then started worrying about something worse happening to him. Despite the civilized nature of the blessed event, none of these people were ones to fuck with. Even if they had put on their Sunday best.

  “I knew it! That boy always had a thing for chocolate!” Tony belched inappropriately as he wiped some caviar from the corner of his mouth. “Just like me. Y’know . . . this is too good to be true running into you here. I used to think about you so much when I first saw you. Of course, you were too young for me back then,” he added, getting close enough for me to smell his garlic breath. Niles was wrong for putting me in this dress because not many a straight man could resist and this slob was letting his freak flag fly at full mast.

  “Used to think about me? Awww, I’m hurt,” I teased while hiding the fact that he and his monopolizing my time creeped me out. Someone was gonna remember me being here in the aftermath. Then my family might get incriminated in this mess unnecessarily. So I decided that wasn’t gonna happen.

  “Well, if you got a minute, you can help make the past tense present tense. I’m a big man in my part of New York,” he bragged.

  “Just a minute?” I squealed. “Ain’t never had a so-called big man give me just a minute.”r />
  “Sassy. I like that.”

  “I got more than that for you to like, daddy,” I said in a low, determined voice. It worked, too. Tony took me by the hand just as toasts to the bride and groom began just outside the doors below. Finding an empty bathroom, I took the lead and pulled him along, checking the stalls to ensure we’d have no interruptions. Tony couldn’t keep his hands off me any longer and reached for my barely covered ass as I bent forward.

  “Uh, uh, uh. Get them pants down and you can touch me with something else,” I seductively prodded as I reached below my tiny dress as if to get to my thong.

  But my hands went somewhere else.

  Before coming inside, Niles gave me his blades to hold. Some superstition of his about having them near. And despite the tight security at the reception, he knew they wouldn’t check me in such a skimpy dress. Those very blades I quietly slid from my garters where they were stowed.

  “What’s the groom’s name again, sweetie?” Tony asked as I heard him unbuckling his belt and sliding it off. I grinned to myself over the effect I was having on him.

  “Ohhh, you know his name,” I purred as I prepared to slit his throat then shove him into a stall. Fuck the groom’s name.

  But plans rarely go perfectly.

  Something grazed the back of my head, but rocked me to where I saw stars. I swiftly met the bathroom’s fine marble floor with a jarring thud and almost stabbing myself in the process with Niles’s blades.

  Tony Lucca had swung on me with his lumbering ass. Didn’t know why, but maybe he was just one of those abusive types. Well, he had no idea how rough I could be even when trying to get my sexy on. As I rolled aside, in case another blow was coming, I saw him standing menacingly over me with his belt wrapped around his fist.

  “Yeah. I know the groom’s name. But you don’t because you never met him. His name is Joseph. And he’s never been to America because of his record,” he revealed to me, snarling like a rabid dog. “Why you really here, bitch? I’ll get it outta you one way or the other. Maybe after I get in that sweet black pussy, you’ll be more cooperative.”

  His dick came in the way of finishing me off when he had the chance. I took advantage of that, too, opening my legs slightly to keep his focus off what I held in both hands now. As he smiled, fixated on that sweet black pussy he thought he was about to take, I rolled forward and popped up onto my feet, crouching in front of him before he could blink.

  With great joy, I straight drove those karambit blades between the fat fuck’s legs, finding their mark. Then as his sheer shock overtook him, I withdrew them from his crotch and swung upward across his throat before the howl of terror could completely escape. The color left his face, but was in abundance around the wounds I’d made.

  With nothing but gurgling and hissing escaping his throat, Tony Lucca was good as dead, even if his mind hadn’t realized it yet. I used that to guide his hemorrhaging, spasming body into a bathroom stall where he plopped onto the toilet.

  Just so glad I was wearing black.

  But those familiar crimson streaks all across the floor weren’t going away.

  I hurriedly grabbed a gob of napkins from the dispenser, wetting them before hastily running them over the floor. But the puddle of blood from the stall was only growing; there was nothing I could do to stop it. I immediately changed my focus.

  With a quick glance in the mirror, I was lucky to catch the spot of blood on my shoulder, which I dabbed away with a wet finger. Then I rinsed off Niles’s blades before hiding them again in my garter belts.

  I emerged from the bathroom into a commotion, stunned voices and yelling throughout filling the air as people below rushed in the direction of the reception.

  Niles

  52

  I assumed my job would be in an open, public place where Paris being with me wouldn’t matter. But inside a wedding reception, she would’ve drawn too much attention to me with her stunning looks. I was sure she was pissed at me again, but I’d make it up to her.

  “Get the salads together! We have to get them out to the guests now!” the head caterer yelled as he returned to the kitchen after inspecting the reception setup.

  “Sir, what do you need me to do?” I said as I approached the man, figuring it best to face any challenges to my presence here head-on.

  “Who the hell are you?” the tall man with the pencil moustache and slicked hair snapped. From my travels, his accent sounded more Scottish than British.

  “Vince had an emergency. Baby on the way. He called me to back him up,” I replied. When I snuck around back, this Vince dude was the only caterer whose clothes looked like they’d fit me. Could’ve killed him, but instead I gave him three times what he would’ve made in exchange for his uniform and his silence.

  “His wife’s not pregnant,” a server pushing past me with a tray full of salads blurted out.

  “Hey. I didn’t say it was his wife,” I stated with a snarky shrug. “Now do you need me or not?”

  “Are you experienced with high-profile affairs such as this?” the man questioned me.

  “I’ve got years of experience around these kinds of people,” I said more truthfully than he’d ever know. “Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

  “But tuck your shirt in, button up your jacket, and draw back on the cockiness. The ladies probably love it, but that bit of rubbish won’t fly with me,” he conceded.

  As I carried my tray of salads out, I spied Paris upstairs above the foyer. She was unmistakable in that dress I’d picked out for her, conversing with some Italian fella. At least she had my blades under that dress in case he tried something.

  The band performed a poor rendition “Brown Eyed Girl” as I served the tables, looking for Jonas Pitre among the guests so I could wrap this up. My methodical search brought me near the wedding party’s table, where the bridesmaids were swaying to the live music while downing way too much champagne.

  “Excuse me, what’s your name?” one of the bridesmaids asked, while the rest giggled over her brashness. She was bold, easy on the eyes, and looking for a night of recklessness, but I was doing my job and she didn’t fit anywhere in my plans. That and knowing what Paris would do to me was enough to keep my mind on the task. I was already thinking like a man in a relationship.

  “Sean,” I replied as I placed my final salad onto a table.

  “What are you doing later, Sean?” she asked with a smile I was sure she was used to getting her whatever she wanted. And if she came from one of these families in attendance, she probably did get whatever she wanted, whether legal or illegal.

  “Going to my second job then home to my husband,” I replied.

  “Uh . . . husband?” she queried as her eyes grew larger.

  “Yes. My husband,” I confirmed.

  “You sure about that?” she pushed, refusing to buy my lie as she looked me up and down.

  “Totally,” I replied. “Love those shoes by the way,” I commented as I moved on beyond the howls and snickers of her girlfriends. The bridesmaid’s distraction turned out to be a good thing as it slowed me down enough to recognize Jonas Pitre from his photo. He was slouched over to where I’d almost walked right by his table. The three men at the table with him were presumably some of his people by the way they ignored their food and constantly scanned the room for trouble. Even though nobody was supposed to be packing in here, those hulking men surrounding him could obviously snap a neck if it came to it. They were the ones I was going to have to distract.

  Back in the kitchen, I matched Pitre’s table number on the dry-erase board, looking for something to use without this turning into a bloodbath.

  They wanted the job done here and I wanted to leave here alive.

  And on the dry-erase board, among all the different table numbers, I thought I found the way to do it.

  “Who has tables thirteen and fourteen?” the boss called out as he checked the board as well.

  “I’m on it, sir!” one of the other servers sh
outed as he stormed ahead with the final tray of salads.

  “Those are the last salads to go out. And remember . . . allergies at table thirteen. No shellfish!”

  “I know, sir. I know,” the server dryly acknowledged on his way out the door. I took another look at where tables thirteen and fourteen were situated in relation to Jonas Pitre’s and hurriedly grabbed another tray of salads.

  Except with a quick addition to them before I flew out the door.

  I entered the room during toasts by the wedding party and moved to discretely overtake the other tray of salads.

  “Hey. I got thirteen,” I said under my breath as I nudged the other server.

  “Why?” he asked, irritated with me.

  “I don’t ask. Just do as I’m told. Think he wants to make sure thirteen’s food was kept separate from everyone else’s.”

  “Oh. Okay,” he said with a shrug as he moved on to table number fourteen.

  Five people were seated at thirteen and I gave them each a salad. I wasn’t sure if all five were allergic to shellfish, but I had only enough time to mix shrimp and crab into the salads of three of them.

  Entrees were coming up next in the kitchen, but I returned to the reception instead to wait on the results for which I hoped. I hovered along the wall, waiting and pretending to keep myself busy. But I hadn’t seen Paris anywhere around here, not even with the people milling about the foyer. She’s a big girl, she can take care of herself, I thought. Right as one of the people at table thirteen began coughing uncontrollably.

  At first, the best man ignored it and continued with his toast to the couple, both who looked to be Russian maybe. But when the choking started, he became concerned and his voice trailed off. Jonas Pitre and his boys were at the adjacent table, but did nothing to render assistance.

  I milled about, pretending not to see it until someone summoned me over. It was a woman at table thirteen who succumbed to the shrimp.

  “Somebody call an ambulance! This woman needs help!” I yelled out as, ironically, I did my best to clear her airway and save her life. The band and some of the banquet hall staff were the first ones to respond and gathered around while various conversations broke out at the other tables. With Jonas’s view of me obstructed, I reached under my jacket and retrieved the silencer-tipped Glock from my waistband, keeping it close to me.