Broken (Dying For Diamonds Book 1)

by Kiley Beckett

  He walked her through the throng of mafia men, she nodded to the familiar faces and he nodded as well. He recognized a lot of them. It had been four years since he stood with them and there were new faces, missing old ones. Guys had died, youngbloods came up to take their place, it was a neverending churn and their lives seemed to have little value. But they were good men, some of them. Some of them had been friends.

  There was some back-patting, some winks, and Daniella stopped and had her cheeks kissed by the family heads. Tony T, Saturn Paradiso, and Papa Joe all held her and kissed her and looked in her eyes. Papa Joe said, You’re your pop’s kid, ya know? His eyes looked a little wet.

  Then they were clear. Clear of the crowds and they passed the armored Caddy they arrived in. Each step a literal and symbolic distance greater from their old dangerous lives. They left the Caddy, left Mickey and Jimmy and the lawyers, left the soldiers, walked towards the city and they didn’t look back. Soon they were on the gravel drive between drifting banks of snow and ahead, over the rise of untended land, they could see the light of the Target sign and the passing traffic of people with regular lives, out to do something fun on a Saturday night. Something normal. He ached for normal.

  His heart swelled with joy, swelled with love for this woman who walked next to him, her tiny hand in his. “Hey,” he said, abruptly, looked at her, “Look at me...look at my manners...”

  “What?” she said, her wonderful face turned up to meet his.

  He bent to look at her feet and she looked down to see what he was looking at. He was letting her walk through gravel and snow in high heels?

  “Letting you walk in those shoes...”

  “I love my shoes...”

  “You and your fuckin’ shoes,” he murmured. In one easy flip he had her hoisted to him, cradled in his arms, and she hugged his neck.

  Daniella laughed, fixed sultry eyes on him and said low, “My hero,” and she kissed his neck. He walked with her, breathing deep and feeling her warm little mouth work on his cold skin.

  He carried her til the Target sign loomed large ahead of them and then they saw the taillights of a car idling at the mouth of the road where it met the busy byway. Cold exhaust plumed in soft chugs from its exhaust and they could hear its fearsome rumble from far.

  “That our ride?” she whispered in his ear.

  “Sure is,” he said.

  He carried her to the steely Camaro and when they met it, he opened the passenger door with one hand and set her feet in the back seat.

  Killian was in the driver’s seat, one hand pressing the folded passenger seat forward so she could enter. He laughed, said, “Need a lift?”

  Daniella said, “You let us walk all that way?”

  “Didn’t look like you were walking, love,” he said and winked as she climbed in behind him. Rocco grabbed her ass and she yelped and laughed. He climbed in next to her and held her, draped her beautiful legs over his lap and slid a hand up her skirt.

  “Not yet,” she laughed and slapped at the fabric and what his hand was doing under there.

  Killian eased the muscle car into traffic and headed west. He looked in the rearview and said, “What do you think happens now?”

  Rocco looked to Daniella and she raised her eyebrows as she considered it. “That’s up to Flavio. The Dons will do what they said... They will let him lead for six months, then I imagine it’s like teaching a baby to swim, you let your hands off and see if they can do it on their own. Only those men would stand by and watch that baby drown.”

  “Think he’ll swim?”

  “I think he’ll be dead in seven months,” she said and despite all the harm her brother had intended for her a sadness pulled at her features. Rocco rubbed her knees.

  “What about your mother?” he asked her.

  “She’ll be fine. Pop left her all set financially. She’s going to sell that mansion and she’s going to get a condo in Italy probably. She doesn’t need all that house. She doesn’t need the snow either,” she said and looked out the window at the cold starry night. “But Flavio won’t make a move on her. She’s too protected and he knows the retribution. My question is, what are we doing?” she turned to him and smiled.

  He kissed her on her lips. This was their first day together in their new lives and he wanted to touch her and feel her and kiss and more... Her hands went under his jacket and her nails scratched at his muscle. The car slowed then rocked as they pulled up an embankment. He kissed her one more time, then got himself together.

  “What’s this?” she said and she looked out to see where they were. They were in the outskirts of the city at the edges of the suburbs. They’d pulled into a busy McDonald's and Killian had eased the Camaro to a swath of empty parking spots near the sidewalk.

  “This is where we part ways,” Killian said.

  “Part ways?”

  Killian was working through a duffel bag sitting in the passenger seat and he came back with a bundle of small things wrapped tightly with elastic bands. He turned and passed them between the seats.

  “These are your passports, credit cards, licenses, ID... All arranged through our friends,” he said, then leveled his eyes to Rocco’s. “You have new identities, new credit histories, good ones by the by, you have travel documents...everything you need.”

  Rocco took the bundle and Daniella said, “Travel documents? ...Greece?”

  “Something like that,” he said.

  “I knew it,” she said.

  Killian said, “No, not Greece. Sorry to say, Flavio has men at the airport. Anticipating you leaving. Sent before the meeting. Maybe they know the new arrangements, maybe they don’t...Maybe you’re in danger...maybe you’re not...I don’t trust him...”

  Rocco said, “I wouldn’t either.”

  Daniella shook her head and said, “My own brother...”

  “That’s it,” Killian said brightly now, changing the subject and thumping Rocco’s knee with a fist. “I’ve packed for you, everything you both need is in the trunk. Oh, Daniella, I packed that sweatshirt I bought you, looks like you forgot it at the Sunnyside house.”

  “Thanks,” she said and laughed, rolled her eyes. “You missed your calling...”

  “Travel agent?”

  “No, personal shopper.”

  “I could do both, I suppose,” he said, shrugging like he was considering it seriously.

  Then he was out, yanking his seat forward and holding a hand to help her. She took it and he pulled her right into his arms and he gave her a tight hug. He said in her ear, “Take care of him for me, promise me?”

  “I promise,” she said back, and she squeezed him just as tight.

  “What will you do now?” she asked him.

  He threw a thumb over his shoulder to the McDonald's and said, “Get something to eat. I’m fucking starving.”

  Rocco came around the car from the other side to join them as Daniella was laughing. He hugged his old friend, the guy who’d saved his life, patched his bullet holes in Afghanistan and Iraq and a few other countries. He’d suffered as well, and Rocco had been there for him, but Killian was as tough as they came and he wouldn’t ever let you see him affected. When they drew back they both made fists and punched them together.

  Daniella said, “Seriously, what will you do now?”

  Killian said, “That’s not the story. You’re the story. What will you do now?”

  “I think I know,” she said and she beamed.

  “You dirty bird,” he said and winked at her and she shook her hair and sighed. Killian extended a hand to him and held out the keys to the Camaro. Rocco took them and they all nodded to each other. Killian said, “I’ll come visit. You’ll see me again,” then he put his hands in the pockets of his jacket and he crossed the parking lot in his cowboy boots and headed to the restaurant. They watched him go, then he slipped an arm around Daniella’s waist and kissed her again.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked.

  “It’s a surpri
se,” he said.

  They got in the car and he started it up, revved the motor. Daniella huddled in the seat next to him and slid the old knob for the heater, cranked it all the way to the red and turned up the fan. “Wherever it is,” she laughed, “it better be fucking warm.”

  He eased the car through the parking lot and Daniella waved to Killian standing at the back of the line in the yellowy light of the restaurant and they nosed the car out into cold blue traffic.

  He said, “Wherever we go, we’ll make it warm.”

  Epilogue

  three months later

  rocco

  It was three in the morning and Rocco swam straight down into pitch black. The water was colder at night, mid-seventies. He wore a wetsuit, weight belt, a backpack with two SCUBA tanks, a mask, a knife on his hip, jet fins on his feet, and clipped to him in four different spots were high powered flashlights. If he lost his light where he was going he would die.

  There was nothing to see at this time of night. All he could see were the bits of drift that shone in the narrow 800 lumen LED beam of his flashlight. The flashlight was bulky, solid, looped to his wrist with a rubber strap. The body was all-aluminum and rated for high pressure, which he needed because he was going deep. Deep enough that the last time he’d been here his light had popped. That’s why he always had backups.

  There were rules of diving and he was breaking them. The most important: he was diving alone and that was always bad news. He was no Navy SEAL, but when he’d been recruited from Delta to join the ‘Team’ with Killian and the others he’d been provided extra training. He’d spent three weeks in San Diego with real SEALs learning the in and outs of SCUBA and diving. He’d been deployed on three missions where he’d had to utilize SCUBA in the ocean and each of those times he’d excelled. He wasn’t a SEAL but he would have made a good one if he started out in the Navy. He had lungs, one of the instructors had told him, like huge hot water bottles.

  The depth gauge on his wrist showed him 140ft and he knew he would be near the bottom soon. He kicked his fins and wiggled his way deeper until at last the beam ahead of him lit up the sandy floor. On his other wrist was a Navimate, a display on it bigger than an iPhone. It was lit up with a topographical map of the area and there was only one personal indicator on it that he’d entered himself. It showed as a red dot on the screen and he swam towards it. GPS didn’t work deep underwater but this used radio signals broadcast from his boat’s GPS so he could navigate at night.

  Soon he found the wreck of an old fishing boat, its wooden ribs curling up out of the silt like a hyena-gorged carcass. He found the prow and followed the direction it pointed, kicking along and trailing a finger in the sand until he came to a rocky ridge. He followed it upward, crested it. The top of the ridge was blossoming with Purple Coral, lit up the shade of lilac in his beam.

  It took a minute but he found it. The narrow mouth of a cave, a black hole that headed down at a steep angle. The rim of the cave was lined with the long bent fingers of the coral and partly obscured by a patch of Red Sea Whip, a blossoming coral that raised up off the ridge like shrubs.

  He unhooked a coil of bright orange Dacron line and swam into the black hole. Near the entrance there was a stalactite with a nice rough edge to it and he tied one end of the line off. Once it was tugged and he was sure it was secure he headed into the dark hole and spooled line out behind him so he would find his way back out of this network of caves.

  The one he was in now was a narrow tunnel, not much bigger than his bulky frame and the tanks on his back. He guided himself along with one hand pulling, his fins gently kicking and the flashlight lighting the way. He came to a narrow. A pinch in the passage where there had been a stone-fall and he struggled to squeeze himself through it. Not far on the other side the cave opened to a less frightening width, almost the size of a hotel hallway. He made left turns and right turns, the tunnel sloped up, then back down. He came to forks where the tunnel broke in two. He’d memorized the path through, but he was thankful for the line in case he got mixed up. The GPS from the radio signal wouldn't reach this distance and his navigation screen just showed a blank topographical map with no indicators, not even the location of his boat. There was nothing in Special Forces more dangerous than cave diving. And he was doing it at night, and he was doing it alone.

  At last he came to the end of the line. The tunnel narrowed again so that he was just able to pass and he kicked through and it was like he’d leapt off a cliff. He shone the light around and there was nothing but black all around him. He whisked the light up and saw the rocky stalactite ceiling. Shone it below and saw nothing but the bright white specks of silt kicked up by his passage through the tunnel. This space he was in was enclosed on all sides, sized and shaped like a big city cathedral. His depth gauge showed he was at 220ft. This was deep. Past 300ft was theoretically bad news. Something that shouldn't be done. He jackknifed and kicked himself straight down. The pressure grew intense. He passed 250, 260, 270...it was here, he knew, if he were to explore, that the cathedral bottom opened out. The cathedral above, bottomless, as if it hovered over a rocky space the size of a football stadium. He dove deeper. 290 his gauge read, then he was below 300. This was where it got real tricky. This is where he could get narced. Nitrogen narcosis could rob him of his ability to think. Like he would be so confused he wouldn't know if he was swimming up or down...or who knows what he might do. He could get so stupid he might take all his things off and lie down for a nap.

  He kicked deeper, went past 310. Then ahead he saw the rocky and silty floor of the cave. Coming straight down from the center of the dome above should put him roughly where he would want to be. His hands worked over the rocks at the bottom looking for one particular...

  He found it at last, a boulder, squat but oblong, roughly the size and shape of a barrel. He sunk to its base and he tucked the torch under his chin while both hands dug at the sand. Fingernails scrabbled across something hard and flat and he worked them quickly, discerning its shape, smoothed the silt out, the water growing muddy in his mask. He went by feel until he had it dug. He waved his hand and tried to clear the rising fog of silt. In his hands was a metal ammo can. US Army.

  The pressure at this depth was enormous. His fingers and toes tingled as his body pulled away support to them to try and keep the rest of him alive. His chest felt squeezed, his hot water bottle lungs crushed like soda cans. But they worked. And tough as it was they could draw air from his regulator for now. He popped the clasp on the ammo can with his clumsy fingers. He had to pry the lid open with his fingertips, the pressure keeping it closed was five times as great as if they were on land. He popped the lid free, swinging it wide on its hinge. Inside was a black cloth bag. His vision had gone very narrow but he found the mouth of the bag, it had a drawstring tying it tight, and his fingers poked in and searched. He withdrew a stone as broad as a quarter that sparkled and shone in the light beaming from under his chin. It was a diamond. Three carats. Not ostentatious enough to draw unwarranted attention, but the diamond was internally flawless. He could sell it for a quarter million dollars but that was just money and all he wanted from this diamond was to mirror the perfection of the woman he loved. The two of them internally flawless, astoundingly beautiful, and men would kill for them. He laughed at the thought, laughed at the idea that he could compare the two. One thing a rare rock, a beautiful one at that—one he and his friends had risked their lives to attain and one that others would kill for. But ultimately, he thought, rolling the dazzling diamond between thumb and forefinger and watching the twinkle from the LED light, it was absolutely valueless compared to his Daniella. It was nothing compared to the woman he loved. He thought of scale and worth for a while, watched the winking light, thought of his future, thought of what might be between them, him and his woman, thought of all that lay ahead and all the happiness that would be his and all that ... And that was when he panicked that he was getting narced.

  He willed his wrist to bend,
found it difficult and unwilling, turned his hand and bent his neck to read his depth gauge and try to remember where he was. He was in the ocean, right? He was sure of that. Okay, okay, he was deep in the ocean...get it together, Rocco! His vision was a narrow pin point and he struggled to read his gages. Plenty of air left.

  Maybe he wasn't narced. Maybe he was just dumbfounded by his love for Daniella. It would be impossible to tell them apart. Being this deep put you under the Martini Law, where every 33ft below 66ft was like having a martini. He was astoundingly deep; 329ft to be exact. How many martinis was that? Shit, he couldn’t do the math and he felt anxiety. His brain struggled wildly to figure out how many drinks that was. But then again he was never that good at math, even on dry land. Didn’t even make it out of high school. Shoot, it had to be what? ...seven, eight martinis? He would be drunk. Drunk on love for his woman. Ha, ha. Shit, he was starting to think he was definitely narced. He focused hard, so hard his dim eyes narrowed. He tied up the bag again, hands moving quickly, stuffed the bag that was full of the remaining diamonds into the can, closed it up with increasing difficulty, got it hidden, arranged the sand the way it should be and began kicking his fins.

  He shone the beam ahead of him, swimming towards his own cone of light and soon he came to a black maw poked into a charcoal face. The limestone cliff, the wall of the underwater cathedral. His way out. His orange line was tied to a rocky outcrop and he didn't remember doing that. He pat the front of his wetsuit, felt the hard stony lump of that perfect diamond stab the muscle of his chest. Didn't remember putting it in there either. He swam.

  Inside the black mouth he untied his line, gathered it. Swam his way back through the tunnels, working his way up and down and sideways through the winding maze, following his line. When he got to the mouth that opened to the ocean floor he stopped and wound up the line again. He folded the line to a hank and looped it through the clip on his belt and kicked his fins, heading to the surface. He checked his gages. Pressure was good, lots of air left, but he was on his reserve tank. At 70ft he paused and swam laterally, watching the navigator on his wrist which had come back to life.