by Maria Luis
My feet beat it to the stairwell, and I had almost managed to get the hell out of dodge before her voice stopped me in my tracks:
“Mon amour, a deal is two-sided.”
“Yes . . .” I glanced over at her, where she’d yet to move. “I want the same thing Hampton does. What you would have offered Asher last night.”
“But it isn’t what I want, and as I’m the one who could personally ruin you, it seems imperative that I get what I want, as well. Perhaps even more so . . . unless you don’t mind having your heartbreaking tale told to everyone tomorrow.”
She rose, crossing the space between us, until she was less than two feet away.
That spidey sense was back. Her tone had turned sly, which matched the devilry that I saw in her dark eyes.
I clutched the stairwell railing. “And what is it that you want?”
She leaned forward, eyes glittering.
“I want Lincoln Asher dead, cherie, and you will be the one who kills him.”
8
Lincoln
It was probably an omen that no one stopped me as I busted in Ambideaux’s front door to his fancy St. Charles Avenue townhouse. Not a single house alarm went off as I stormed through the powder-blue parlor or the blood-red dining room.
In a different life, this townhouse had been the hub of all activity.
Politicians smoking cigars with the city’s richest real estate mogul.
Elegant women reclining on the settees in the parlor.
New Orleans was a city that clung to its traditions—and no matter how many years passed, its snobbery remained intact without a single crack.
Money and pedigree guaranteed entry to the upper class. Without it, you’d be lucky if your ass was even allowed to stand on the front step.
I should know.
In Ambideaux’s eyes, I’d always been the perfect fit when it came down to his Basin runs. Entering his house, on the other hand, had always been off-limits. Like the dogs, I’d been kept outside to watch the perimeter of the property.
Always on the outside looking in.
Always experiencing life through the windows I’d crack open just to catch the scent of a cigar or hear the titillating sound of feminine laughter.
Don’t go down that road, man.
Molars grinding, I checked back my impulse. Snapped my hand back to my side from where it’d been flirting with a priceless antique vase Ambideaux had once sent me to “collect” from a man named James Mayer.
The vase sat on the gold-leaf table at the base of the circular stairwell.
James Mayer sat at the bottom of the Atchafalaya—or he had when I’d dropped his body in when I’d been nineteen.
My lips twisted in a sneer, which I caught in the table top’s reflective mirror. Swollen eye from last night’s activities out in the swamp. Cut lip. To say nothing of the right half of my face, where the flesh remained raised and red.
I was tired, so tired of dealing with all the bullshit.
And you’re in a shit mood because of Avery . . .
Fingers twitching, I stared down at my reflection. Reached out to wrap my hand around the base of the vase. It wasn’t massive, and my thumb and middle finger easily touched as I took its weight in my hand.
One million dollars sat on my palm.
In the next breath, one million dollars had been hurled at the wall.
It shattered upon impact, bursting apart like fireworks composed of centuries-old Chinese porcelain. Fell to the marble flooring like shards of ice.
A single piece skipped along the flooring, aiming straight for me—I crushed it with my right boot, finding a sick sense of satisfaction when I felt the delicate pottery crumble beneath my weight.
“That was from the Yuan Dynasty. Almost a thousand years old.”
Following the direction of the familiar voice, I looked up to see Ambideaux meandering down the stairwell.
I flicked my gaze down to the mess I’d created. “It had a good run.”
My former boss stopped at the base of the stairwell, one hand on the balustrade. “You never understood the significance of antiquities.”
No, I didn’t.
Antiques were for people who could appreciate them—those who had the luxury of raking in millions of dollars each year, or more, and who never had to wonder when they’d eat next.
Antiquities were for men like Jason Ambideaux, who practically shit wads of cash on command.
They weren’t for me.
“I didn’t come here to talk about your vase.”
“My broken vase.”
Ignoring him, I pulled out the notebook full of names he’d thrown at my feet a week ago. Then waited until he’d locked eyes on it before continuing, “Why do you want them dead? Josef, Zak, these are people you know . . .” I dropped the notebook on the table, and its coiled-spirals pinged as it landed on the mirrored top. “You’ve always been a cold-hearted bastard, but why them? And don’t bullshit me on this.”
Growing up, I’d never trusted Ambideaux to give me the full truth. When I’d been real young, he’d kept some things secret to “watch out for me,” he’d always said. By the time I’d hit my teens, I’d learned that he liked to manipulate the truth, stretching it and forming it until his version of reality was so skewed from real life that I was convinced he believed every lie he told.
Probably explained the state of his marriage—which was to say, his non-existent marriage.
Not even Nat, the Queen of Bitches, could handle his shit.
I flipped open the notebook, flipping through the lined pages, and then stopped when I reached the handwriting that looked exactly like mine. “You played me pretty good, Jason,” I said, referring to our little meeting in my kitchen from the week before. “You always have. It’s what happens when you grow up with no family but one asshole prick—you latch on. Grow soft. Hope, maybe, that they won’t stab you in the back when you look in the other direction.”
Without giving him the opportunity to speak, I went on in a low voice. “You’ve stabbed me a whole hell of a lot, some instances worse than others.” His gaze lifted to my scars, and I didn’t look away. Refused to look away. “So, we can do this one of two ways. You can either give me a good enough reason to go after Zak Benson and Tabitha Thibadeaux or I can solve a lifelong problem I’ve had and permanently shut you up.”
Ambideaux’s blue eyes opened wide. “You wouldn’t.”
“You don’t know that.” Pushing away from the table, I strolled near him, hands loose at my sides, until only a foot separated us. He was decently sized, but I was bigger—taller, stronger, broader. “Fact is, Jason, you don’t know me any longer. So, let’s operate on the assumption that I wouldn’t give a damn if you stopped breathing.” I paused, cranked my grimace into something resembling a smile. “Now why do you want them dead? What the hell made you so desperate that you went so far as to blackmail me out of my job and go out of your way to hit Big Hampton where it hurts?”
Silence reigned, stretching and growing, until finally he bent at the knees to survey the broken porcelain. “He’s leaving Pershing to run for mayor when Foley’s term is up.”
Every response that had been ready to leap from my tongue died in an instant.
And then I tipped back my head and laughed. Hard.
So hard that Ambideaux grumbled something beneath his breath and snapped, “Why the fuck are you laughing? I’ve been in the political world for years now. The people want—”
“The people don’t know what they want.” When he reached for a shard of pottery, I kicked it out of his way. He was a sneaky asshole, and I wouldn’t put it past him to plan out an entire plot to kill me off with nothing but some Yuan Dynasty cast-off. “You think they want another eight years of dealing with bullshit politicians who have a tendency to run their opponents—any opponent—into the ground?”
With narrowed eyes, Ambideaux straightened to his full height. “That’s politics for you, son. Everyone is determined to
win.”
“Sure they are, but I can guarantee that the public isn’t expecting death as a result.” Fingering the coiled notebook, I tacked on, “And we all know that death is something you dole out exceptionally well. I’m guessing that Josef and Micah were your handiwork—too lazy to make the drive all the way out to the Basin?”
His mouth flat-lined, and I had my answer.
Got you.
“Did your recruits bail?” I asked, resting my ass on the table. It was sturdy enough that I gave it my full weight, folding my hands over the edge as I studied him. “Let me guess. You went over to Central City . . . Galvez and Fourth—nah, Galvez and Third would be more your speed.” I drummed my fingers on the underside of the table, straining my ears to listen for approaching footsteps. I’d be dead before being caught off guard again. “What’d you offer them? Crack?”
Face flushing, Ambideaux’s jaw clenched. “I offered them enough that they took it.”
“They played you, Jason.” I grinned, slowly, methodically. “You want to run this city and you can’t even figure out the difference between a group of junkies and their dealers. Let me clue you in on how that works: dealers don’t work for you but I’m sure they appreciated the free cocaine.”
“They’re idiots if they think they can get away with—”
“They already did, and that’s why you got desperate and ditched Josef and Micah in the river yourself.” Pushing away from the table, I ambled toward him. “You’ve lasted this long without getting caught because you’re smart. Dumping bodies in the Mississippi? That’s sloppy work.” The shattered porcelain cracked under my boots when I stopped, a foot separating us. “What made you fuck up after all this time? We both know there’s a reason—and don’t give me a bullshit excuse about you and Big Hampton competing for office.”
Ambideaux’s blue eyes shot to the side, avoiding staring at me straight-on.
I waited, already knowing the answer that he’d give.
And because I was a ruthless bastard, I twisted the knife a little deeper, backing him into a proverbial corner that he couldn’t escape. “You blackmailed me into taking out people who worked for you. I remember Josef and Micah from back in the day, and if there’s an idiot here it’s not me. Every single one of them has your damn tattoo branded on their skin. You marked them. Promised them protection. Now you’re taking them out one by one. Why?”
He cracked.
Shoulders hunching, eyes hard, Adam’s apple dancing down the column of his throat as he swallowed. “Because they chose her. All of them.”
Bitter laughter nearly suffocated me. “You’re too old for that shit, man.”
“Nat is—”
“A crazy bitch who won’t stop until you’re dead and she’s watching you bleed out.”
Ambideaux shot a hand out at me, clearly aiming for my throat. Speed and age were on my side, though, and it took me only a half-second to register his intent and reciprocate. Weaving to the left, I caught his elbow in my fist and spun him around like a middle-aged ballerina. His back slammed up against my chest and I locked his wrists at the base of his spine, my hands holding him in place.
He’d taught me the move when I’d been ten and desperate for some sort of guidance.
Now, his dyed dark hair was all I saw, and his heavy breathing was all I heard.
“Sloppy,” I muttered, shaking my head. “Without Godzilla here to protect you, you’re fucked.” Squeezing his wrists in warning, I let him go—but not without a move of my knees at the back of his legs that had him toppling over.
He crash-landed with a thud, the broken pottery going every which way as his arms flailed to catch his weight.
Before he’d fed me to the gators, I probably would have felt a measure of guilt in seeing the only man who’d ever been like a father figure to me splayed on the ground.
But it wasn’t guilt I felt now—more like regret that I’d lived.
That I was stuck in a damn cycle that I couldn’t break free of, no matter how desperately I wanted to. I was chained to this city, both emotionally and physically, and I was beyond ready for the shackles to shatter just like the Yuan Dynasty vase I’d broken.
“You killed her brother,” I said, voice low, my temper tightly leashed, “because he counted cards at a friendly game of poker with his brother-in-law.”
Ambideaux hoisted himself up on his hands and knees, and I watched as his palm sank into a splinter from the vase. He reeled back with a curse, lifting his palm to examine the wound. With it cradled to his chest, he glared at me. “You’re the one who did him off.”
It would be so easy to angle my boot and push him back to the ground, to let off the steam boiling from the last twenty-four hours.
The goddamn “abduction.”
Learning that Avery’s mother had married my father.
Watching Avery as she stormed out of my SUV this morning and slammed the front door behind her as she disappeared into her building.
My foot shifted back, and I set my weight on the sole. Repeated the action again and again until there was a safe enough distance separating me from the city’s richest bastard. I needed some patience—at the very least, I needed to not act when provoked.
“I’m not gonna take responsibility for your divorce. Like any good soldier, I did what I was told. You ordered. I made it happen.”
Blue eyes hardened in my direction. “You’re not making it happen right now.”
“You don’t own me anymore.”
“You still marked?”
At the invasive question, my hand shifted to the base of my skull. Egotistical prick that Ambideaux was, he enjoyed knowing those who worked for him were always aware of who held the upper hand. The placement of the quarter-sized tattoo always changed—mine had required me to shave my head so that the tattoo artist could ink the back of my head. Women, generally, were marked in more prominent areas—their collarbones, their arms or their faces, like Tabitha Thibadeaux.
The men worked under Ambideaux’s employment.
The women for Nat at the Basement—either as dancers in Whiskey Bay or on the stages or rooms upstairs.
Sexist. Masochist.
Jason Ambideaux reigned as king of it all, threatening to tear down any pawn that didn’t fall into line.
And he thought he’d be a successful mayor? I’d rather have my asshole father for another eight years.
“Don’t want to answer that?” Ambideaux taunted. “You’re marked, Lincoln. You took a vow. You—”
“Yeah, well, you took a vow that you’d let my mother out of her goddamn cell.”
His nostrils flared. “It’s not a cell—”
“She hates it,” I growled, hands curling into fists at my sides before I did something ridiculous—like strangle the man before me. “You don’t get to choose what’s best for her just because the two of you were childhood friends. She’s suffered.”
Jaw working, Ambideaux got up close in my face. “If there is anyone who knows what she went through, it’s me.” His knuckles connected with my chest—but even with the weight behind his shove, I didn’t budge. Not even an inch.
It was like the last twenty years hadn’t even passed. I was the troublemaker kid pushing all the right buttons, knowing what to do and what to say to send the people around me into a downward spiral.
And maybe he was right about my mom.
Hell, it wasn’t like she’d wanted me. When I was two, she’d given me to the Ursuline nuns. I had no memories of her from that age, no splices of a vision of her cradling me against her chest. Nothing. It hadn’t been until Ambideaux entered my life when I’d been seven that I was even made aware that my mom was still alive.
Ambideaux had fashioned himself as my mom’s best friend. A neighbor from when they’d been kids. Promised me that if I did everything he said—if I behaved—he’d take me to her.
So I’d behaved.
Everything he’d wanted of me, I did without question.
I
was desperate, and it didn’t occur to me until years later that in those intermittent five years between when I’d met Jason Ambideaux and when I’d first seen my mother, he’d stripped every bit of my conscience.
I stole. I cheated. I threw my entire body, soul, and mind into being good enough to run with the older guys who worked for Ambideaux. At eighteen, the tattoo on the back of my head had felt like a rite of passage.
A reason to live. A reason to fight.
Particularly when only Ambideaux had ever cared if I lived or died.
Nat hadn’t cared.
Neither had my mother.
And yet I still gave a fuck, even when she didn’t give a damn about me.
When I opened my mouth, my voice emerged like I’d smoked a pack of cigarettes all in one go. “I’m taking myself out of this equation. You pissed that your crew ditched you in favor of Nat? Find someone else to do your dirty work. And when it comes to Big Hampton, maybe try doing shit legally for once. You never know—you might find that it’s not so repulsive.”
I turned to leave.
Had made it two steps when Ambideaux’s hand at my elbow pulled me to a stop.
“What about your mother?” His voice echoed in the room, hammering on my dead heart as I stared at the broken shards of priceless pottery on the floor.
The doctors had always said that a concussion like the kind my mom had experienced after her car accident could change a person. I wasn’t a doctor, had never studied medicine, and had technically only “met” my mother, Victoria, after she’d survived the traumatic four-car pileup on the Greater New Orleans Bridge. She’d lost the use of her legs, the metals of the car twisting and turning and crushing the lower half of her body. I’d only been allowed to see her at the age of twelve; I’d never known her any other way.
When I’d first met her, she’d been hooked to a ventilator and had spent her days binging on Jerry Springer and every court show TV had to offer. Although the ventilator was long gone now, her bills continued to be expensive—more so than I could ever afford to pay—and Ambideaux used my limited funds to his own benefit. He ensured my mother’s welfare, kept her healthy, and I paid the price for loving a woman who’d never love me back.