by April Lust
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 l
ast 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 let 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.
Unless he could somehow make his rendezvous with Maggie into a guarantee of even more money for all of them. Unless he could turn it into part of the score itself. They couldn't be too angry then, could they? Sure, maybe they'd yell and curse at him a little for changing the plan again without telling them, but, ultimately, they'd want that extra cash. Who wouldn't?
You're drunk, his brain informed him sourly. You're horny, you're lovesick, and you're making stupid excuses for a bad decision.
It's a brilliant decision, his heart shot back. Who wants to see Turo Ricci taken down even more than Hammer and the others?
Maggie, that's who.
Brock crept across the hotel room, keeping his eyes fixed on Crack. He made it to the door and stepped out, closing it gently behind him. When he got down to the lobby, he ducked into the bar and ordered a cup of strong black coffee.
For this next part, he'd need it.
Chapter 22
Brock
Brock stood outside the high gate surrounding Ricci's house. He remained behind the tall bushes, peering in.
Scaling the gate itself wouldn't be too difficult, except that he'd have to find a way to keep the loose bars from rattling together and drawing attention to him as he climbed. He'd already found several thick sticks beneath the foliage, and he'd wedged them into the spaces between the bars so they wouldn't move around and make noise.
Avoiding the lone guard with a shotgun who patrolled the grounds wouldn't present much of a challenge, either. It was a large house, and once the guard disappeared around the corner, Brock would have about three or four minutes to shimmy up the gate and run across the lawn.
No, the real problem was what came after that.
Brock knew he couldn't go in through any doors or windows on the ground floor—someone like Ricci would certainly have a hell of a security system in place, and he couldn't risk an alarm going off. There was a wooden trellis at the side of the house with a window right next to it, but who knew what was behind it? Turo's bedroom? And even if it weren’t, could Brock really expect to sneak around the second floor trying to find Maggie's room without being caught? For that matter, even if he could, what reaction could he expect from Maggie if he just pushed open her door and walked in?
Wow, I must have been pretty drunk, Brock thought. This plan was incredibly stupid.
Suddenly, a light switched on in the window next to the trellis. Brock saw Maggie's face in it, looking out into the night. She wore a nightgown, and without her makeup, Brock thought she looked more beautiful than ever despite the sadness in her eyes.
It's a sign, Brock thought, smiling. I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be tonight, and the plan's going to work after all.
Maggie watched the armed guard stroll across the lawn. When he went around the corner, she withdrew from the window.
It was time.
Brock hopped up onto the gate, using the cross-bars as footholds. The bars swayed and wobbled a little, but the pieces of wood between them kept them from hitting each other. When Brock reached the top, he considered climbing back down the other side carefully, then figured it was better to save time and jump. He landed badly on his right ankle, rolling it. The pain was sharp, and he almost cried out.
He hobbled across the grass as quickly as he could, agony flaring in his ankle with every step. He knew this would make climbing the trellis a lot harder than he thought, and he briefly considered turning back and hopping the gate again before he was discovered.
Then he took another look at the light in Maggie's window and kept going.
When he got to the trellis, he hooked his hands and feet between the slats cautiously, lifting himself up to test the weight. The wood groaned a bit, but it seemed like it would hold.
He hoped it would. If he came crashing down on the lawn in a pile of boards and vines, he couldn't think of a single believable excuse he'd be able to give Ricci.
Brock pulled
himself up the trellis, trying not to put too much weight on his injured ankle. He did his best not to count off the seconds in his head as they turned into minutes, but he couldn't help it. He wasn't ascending as easily as he thought he would, and if he didn't make it up the trellis and into Maggie's room in the next seventy seconds, he'd have an ass full of buckshot.
What if she doesn't let you in? his brain scoffed.
Too late to worry about that, genius, his heart snapped irritably. Just get to the top.
One of the wooden slats splintered under Brock's left foot, and he almost lost his balance and fell. He was sure Maggie or the guard would hear the sound, but the window remained shut and no one came running.
As Brock reached the highest slats, a splinter dug into the palm of his hand. Twenty seconds, and the guard would come around again.