by Renee Rose
Again, my heart-rate accelerates. Is it so obvious someone damaged me?
“Breathe,” he commands, pinching my nipple, and I realize I was holding my breath. “Tell me.”
He’s so confident, so sure of himself. Six months of therapy and I could never bring myself to even hint that something happened. What if my therapist had just demanded the truth, like my dommy boyfriend? Would I have gotten over it?
I force my lips to move. “Wh-why?” I think I already know the answer.
“I’m going to avenge you.”
My stomach somersaults. His solution is so simple. So obvious and overt. Someone wrongs you, there’s retribution. I stole from him so I deserved to be kidnapped and have my brother threatened. It’s like an equation or truth in his world.
How would I feel about my foster dad swimming with the fishes?
Actually, I’d be fine. I guess I have no moral compass, either. But I don’t want him to commit murder for me.
“What will you do?”
“What do you want me to do?”
I suck in a long, shaky breath. I’m blanking out. Leaving my body.
When I don’t answer, he says, “I’m trying to figure out if killing him will just traumatize you more.”
“Maybe.” I force the word across my lips. “Can you just beat him up?”
“Oh, I’ll make him sorry he was born, doll. Give me his name.”
My body starts to shake.
He holds me tighter. “I don’t want make this worse, bella. I just want you to be free.”
“Do it. Do it for me. I want you to.” The shaking comes on harder. But I’m in my body, experiencing it.
It’s a release of some kind. Like I’m shaking off every unwanted touch. Every cruelty I endured. It’s some kind of rebirth as the fissured part of me I’ve been trying to keep together finally cracks apart.
“His name,” he repeats in my ear.
“Andy Watson. My foster father.” The room itself opens up and I drop into an abyss, free-falling through shame and awareness. Falling and falling and falling.
Until I land, squarely in Paolo’s arms. Safe in bed. Protected. Defended.
Soon to be avenged.
“I love you, Paolo Tacone,” I say into the darkness.
He kisses my neck and squeezes me even tighter. “You’re my wildfire. I’m not gonna let anyone put out your light. Not ever.”
Paolo
Ravil Baranov, the boss of the bratva, lives near Gio in a high-rise apartment downtown on Lake Michigan. Actually, from what I gather, his entire cell inhabits the building, making it a Russian fortress.
Even the front door guy is covered in tattoos and greets us with a thick accent. Vlad speaks to him in Russian and we’re both patted down.
I didn’t wear a piece or even the brass knuckles I used to put Andy Watson in the hospital Monday. I made sure Caitlin’s former foster dad will never touch another child. Not if he wants to live.
I haven’t seen Caitlin since our flight home Sunday where she officially joined the Mile High club. She needed time to catch up on her work after being away all weekend, and I’ve been following up on the promises I made to her.
We take the elevator up to the top floor where we’re patted down again by two surly tattooed men.
Ravil takes his security seriously. I respect that.
When we’re finally led in, the head of the Russian bratva greets us in a sweater and a pair of jeans. His tattoos show on his knuckles and up his neck. The Russians use ink to mark every crime they commit. Every murder, every theft. Every act documented for their cell to see. Those with the most ink are the most dangerous.
He says something curt to Vlad and doesn’t greet me at all. He just eyes me speculatively and says, “You asked for meeting. Why?”
“I’m looking for information about the death of a low-life thief by the name of Lake West. Used to do a little business with both of us, I believe. I have no beef with his killer, I’m just making sure he’s really dead.”
Ravil’s brows shoot up. I surprised him with the last part. “Killed by Tacone Family. That’s what I heard.” He shrugs. “You know something different?”
“I don’t think we did it. But that’s the word on the street. Thing is—there was no body discovered, so I’m wondering if it was faked. He owe you money?”
Ravil considers me for a minute before he nods slowly. “He was moving electronics for us. Your outfit was buyer. There was a double-cross and you killed him. We never got our money. We were new in town. We didn’t want war with Tacones, so we didn’t register complaint. West was dead, what could we do?”
I nod. The pieces are starting to come together. I have to say, I’d hoped Ravil would tell me they’d killed Lake West, but to me it all points to a faked death.
Except who would abandon his children for a lousy truck of stolen goods?
That man had better be dead or I’ll make him wish he were when I find him.
Caitlin
I roll out of bed and run for the bathroom, but when I get there, I just dry heave.
Ugh. Three days I’ve been nauseous. This is getting so old.
I haven’t had a drop to drink since Friday night at the Bellissimo, I really don’t understand…
Oh fuck.
I yank open the drawer under the sink and stare at my packet of pills.
Sugar pills. Five gone. I should be bleeding now.
Dizzy, I throw the toilet seat down and sit on it.
Holy, holy crap.
I’m pregnant.
And it must be the hormones that make me feel like bursting into tears rather than dropping out of my body.
I gulp in my breath and release it slowly. Remember I have a pregnancy test under the sink from the last time I had a scare. It was a two-pack. I pull it out and pee on the stick.
Try to ignore the way the room spins when the pink plus sign appears.
Okay.
I’m pregnant. With Paolo’s baby.
And he’s not interested in having kids. There are suddenly too many disturbing possibilities crowding me. Would he ask me to get an abortion? Or would he support me keeping it?
I have a feeling if he did support me keeping it, we’d be locked in together. There’d be no getting out of our arrangement. He would own me for the rest of my life or at least until the kid was eighteen. Keeping this baby means keeping Paolo.
Forever.
A hitman for the mob.
I stuff my knuckles in my mouth as the tears hit hard. I don’t know what to do. I can’t tell Paolo. Not until I’ve had time to think through things.
Somehow, I get myself showered and ready for the day and out the front door.
And that’s when my craptastic day gets even worse.
The two FBI agents who arrested me before are standing at my door.
“Ms. West? We need you to come in and answer some questions.”
I don’t feel a shred of remorse for puking on his shoes.
Chapter 12
Caitlin
“I’m not saying a word without my lawyer present.”
Yeah, I’ve watched a lot of crime television. Plus, I now have the experience of having had an actual, powerful lawyer in my court. And I want her here, right away.
“You aren’t being charged with anything. We just have some questions for you, that’s all,” a female agent dressed in a silk button-down and starched slacks says from where she stands in the corner observing. Agent Docker, I think she said her name was. Her partner, a pompous weasel with bad teeth, sits across from me at the table. I missed his name.
I fold my arms across my chest. “Lawyer. Present.”
Bad Teeth responds by sliding a blown-up photo in front of me. My mouth suddenly goes dry.
The photo is of my dad.
And Paolo.
And a few other guys I don’t recognize—maybe his other brothers or soldiers.
They are standing in front of a coffee shop with awnin
gs in the colors of the Italian flag and the sign Caffe Milano in script across the top.
I want to heave again.
“I need something to eat. Crackers or something. Unless you want me to puke on your photo.”
Since Bad Teeth is the same guy who got puke on his shoes earlier, he sort of leaps back from the table and curses. “I’ll find you something.” He nods at Agent Docker and she nods back and takes the seat across from me.
“What we want to know is why you’re screwing the guy who killed your father.”
The words hit me like a cannonball, somewhere between my heart and my gut. My solar plexus, I guess.
I can’t even breathe for a moment. All I can do is wheeze with the pain of it.
“H-how do you know he killed my father?”
“Everybody knew. It’s common knowledge on the street, with the local police, and the FBI. The locals searched for the body so they could pin it on him, but he hid it too well. Probably buried in concrete like a lot of their vics.
I’m still wheezing. Barely able to get air in. “How do you know it was Paolo, specifically?”
The look she gives me is one part scorn, one part pity. “Seriously? They are all one family. You feel comfortable sleeping with the guy whose brother killed your dad? Or father? Or the guy who gave the order?” She shakes her head.
I stand up and heave.
“Oh shit,” Agent Docker says and lurches for the garbage can, which she shoves in front of me.
I heave again, but nothing comes out.
I sink slowly back to my chair.
I’m suddenly cold. So freaking cold.
Ice cold.
“Listen, I get it. He’s a good-looking and powerful man. I’m sure he’s very suave. He’s also good at making threats. He knows how to get people where it hurts so they do exactly what he wants them to. Is that what happened with you?”
It’s hard to even think through the nausea. Plus, I’m starting to leave my body, which is a godsend at this point.
“Did Paolo pay you to hack into the Luxor?” she asks, but it’s from far away. “Or did he blackmail you into it?”
I’ve retreated. Blessedly.
As if from underwater, I watch the other agent return with a granola bar, which he tosses on the table. I watch myself open it and eat it, tasting nothing.
It’s dry and chews up the inside of my mouth, but I barely register that, either.
“We think you might be in trouble, Ms. West, and we want to help you.”
“I’m sure you do,” I hear myself say.
“He made you believe you were safe from the law. He sent in his expensive lawyer and made a deal that got you out, but let me tell you something, Ms. West. There’s only one reason we let you walk, and that was to find out who you were working with. We figured it had to be someone big, but when we found out it was the guy who killed your father and left you and your brother in foster care, we figured you might be in trouble.”
I barely hear them above the cotton stuffed in my ears. It doesn’t matter what they say, anyway. I’m not listening. I don’t have to.
The male agent leans forward. “We are fully prepared to bring all charges back against you for the Luxor crime. You’re looking at twenty years in a Federal penitentiary. Are you prepared to rot in jail for the man who killed your own father?”
I don’t answer.
“But if you’re under duress, we can help. Has Paolo Tacone threatened you, your brother, or your livelihood in any way?”
The memory of him showing me the photo of my brother on his phone, warning me of what he’s capable of, momentarily brings me back to my body with a flood of dread.
Even totally checked out, I know these two are all over the place. They don’t know whether to play good cop or bad cop. They don’t know what angle to chip away at.
I may be reeling, but I’m not stupid.
I’m not going to answer any of their questions.
Except maybe one. I lift my chin. “I’m only with Paolo Tacone because he fucks like a porn star. No other reason.”
Bad Teeth’s jaw drops. Then he frowns and gets up in my face. “You are in bed with the wrong man, Ms. West. And you’re going to pay for it, dearly. I will bring charges against you that will send you to jail until you’re too old to think about sex anymore. Or you can cooperate and help us put a dangerous killer behind bars. You decide.”
The room spins. I look at the garbage can, trying to figure out if I’m going to need it again soon.
I stumble to my feet. From far away I hear myself say, “I’m leaving. You can’t hold me here without charges or a call to my lawyer.”
“We’ll give you forty-eight hours to think this over,” Bad Teeth says. “If we don’t hear from you by then, we’ll bring charges against you. Your choice.”
My feet somehow move toward the door and they let me out, escorting me to the front door, both of them looking disgusted and having conversations with their eyes behind my back.
“Here’s my card,” Agent Docker says to me when we reach the front door. “Make the right decision.”
I don’t take the card. I don’t even bother answering. I just push past them into the parking lot.
But once I’m there, I don’t know where to go.
I don’t even know how to function.
Paolo
Caitlin’s not in her apartment when I get there, which isn’t unusual. It isn’t quite 9:00 p.m. yet. Still, I have a strange prickling sense that something’s off.
I didn’t tell her I’d be here. I probably should have.
All it takes is a little communication, I hear my brother’s words ringing in my ears.
I don’t know why communication feels like a weakness. Like I’m admitting to something or giving up the upper hand.
Maybe she had plans with her friends tonight. Except that doesn’t feel right. I stalked Caitlin enough to know she doesn’t really have friends. She’s friendly, she smiles and chit-chats with the people in her dance class or at school, but there’s no one she’s tight with except her younger brother.
I pull out my phone and dial her number.
It goes straight to voicemail.
Fuck.
I send a text instead, keeping it short. Call me.
I lie down on the bed to wait for her.
Caitlin
If it’s business, I’m gonna deal with you in a business-like fashion. You talk to the Feds, we’re done and the gloves come off.
What if I get picked up by the feds but I don’t talk to them?
Would he believe me? Or will he assume I’m wearing a wire?
What if I’m carrying the baby I don’t want him to know about and the FBI wants me to rat on him or I’ll go to jail for the next twenty years? What if I never get to see my own baby because I’m in jail and Paolo doesn’t want it, either? Who’s going to raise it?
I stand in the parking lot, immune to the bitter December wind blowing through the city. I’m out of my body, looking on like an observer.
There’s Caitlin. She’s in quite a pickle. Good thing I don’t have to deal with that shit.
I don’t know how long I stand there before I come to a hazy decision.
I can’t go back to my apartment. I can’t see Paolo until I figure my shit out. What to do about the pregnancy. What to do about the Feds.
Instead, I go to a coffee shop to hack into their credit card transactions. If the FBI are already building a case against me, what’s one more transgression, right? I use the credit card to order a Lyft to take me on the two hour drive to Starved Rock.
Trevor will know where to find me if I decide not to come back. And once he does, we can both disappear. A hacker wields a power few truly understand—the ability to vanish and reinvent. I don’t need the FBI to keep me safe. I can take care of myself. I always have.
Before I step outside to catch the Lyft, I buy myself a hot chocolate and a muffin. Because eating seems to help with the queasiness.
And I’m ready to puke my guts out.
Chapter 13
Paolo
Fanculo. Where is she?
It’s dark in the apartment. The clock says it’s three in the morning. I don’t even know how I slept without knowing where Caitlin was.
I surge out of bed and stalk through the apartment, checking my phone for messages, throwing on the lights.
Where in the fuck could she be?
I try calling her, but not surprisingly, there’s no answer.
I’m ready to drive over to her brother’s dorm and pull him out of bed, but I hold back. That would be harassment, and Caitlin wouldn’t like it.
I start looking through the place more thoroughly, looking for signs. Her suitcase is still there—flung open but not unpacked from our trip to Vegas. Her computer equipment, but not her laptop. I go to her bathroom. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I look.
And that’s when I see the box for a pregnancy test in the trash can. I pull it out. Below it is the actual test. I fish it out of the trash and look at the results.
Madonna. Cristo. Dio. She’s pregnant!
Is that why she’s not here? Where in the fuck did she go?
I go ice cold. Not because she’s pregnant—I’d welcome that if it’s what she wanted, but because she didn’t turn to me with this knowledge. She ran away.
It chills me to the bone and makes me crazy to find her, to give her whatever she needs to get through this decision. To let her know she’s fully supported no matter what.
I start for the door a dozen times, then sit back down. I want to be here if she comes to the apartment.
I wait until dawn breaks. Until the traffic outside becomes a roar. Until there’s no denying she’s not coming back. Pocketing the pregnancy test, as if keeping that evidence with me will somehow help me find her, I leave and head to her old apartment, to see if she’s holed up there.
She isn’t.
My phone rings at 8:30 a.m. and I see it’s Nico. We don’t chitchat, he and I, so I know it’s business, and because of this thing with Caitlin, I nearly crack the phone I grip it so hard.