She’d known. She’d thought she’d understood. They would have let her back out of the contract—in fact, Corti had encouraged her to back out. He’d been pretty nice about it. But she loved Quiet Cove. For her whole life, the only time and place she’d been happy to be a member of this family was summers in the Cove. She wanted to live and work there. She wanted to succeed there.
So far, she’d gotten everything she wanted but that last one.
She’d been knocking around the idea of asking Uncle Gareth for help. He was an interior designer and had connections all through New England with cultural bigwigs, and his shirt was much less stuffed than his brothers’. If any Bradford with a solid head on their shoulders (sorry, Mama, that’s not you) would be willing to help her out, with pointers or a little bit of a financial cushion, she’d thought it would be Gareth. But he was giving her the same smelled-a-fart pinched look as the rest of them.
Riding it out was boring. Plus, it meant sitting there like a puppy who’d done a dirty on the carpet while they all berated her in their quiet, elegant tone.
Fighting was better.
Keeping her foot on the chair, just to ping her aunt’s control issues, Billy leaned toward the table. “I’m a business owner. How is that different from you, Uncle Elliott, or you, Uncle Gareth? You both own businesses. So do I. I should think you’d be proud of me.”
“I own newspapers. Gareth owns a design firm. These are worthy pursuits. You own a nightclub in mobster town.”
Billy laughed. “And Boston isn’t ‘mobster town’?”
“You know what I mean. We all know Quiet Cove. No business gets done there that the Paganos aren’t twisted up in. That’s seedy, at the least, and it’s dangerous, certainly. We know you’re struggling, so we’re offering you an out. Let this foolishness go, and we’ll cover your losses. It’s not good for you, Wilhelmina. And it’s not how Bradfords conduct themselves.”
She was too incensed at the hypocrisy and condescension to consider the merits of the offer itself. “Come on, Uncle Elliott. I’m not an idiot. I knew Grandfather probably better than any of my cousins. I know how well he knew Gabriel Sacco, and then Tommy Sacco. And Mick Donnelly. He had lots of stories, and I actually sat and listened to them. He bent an elbow all the time with Boston’s big bosses. And did business with them, too. Organized crime was all twisted up in the Bradford empire. I bet it still is.”
Uncle Elliott’s lips disappeared. That was as far as he’d allow himself to show anger or any lack of composure.
“Stop, Bill,” Uncle Gareth said, quietly. “Not here.”
“Not here? You dragged me here to some kind of gold-plated intervention because I am trying to build a career for myself, and somehow that’s horrifying to you, and you invite everybody in the fucking family to watch it go down. Now, when I fight back, you get precious? Oh please. Also, fuck off.”
“Billy, baby—easy, girl.”
Billy glared at her mother. Way to have my back, Mama dearest. Uncle Jameson had one thing right—about the only thing her mother had really taught her well was how to fuck up in the Bradford family, and how to make a scene while she did it.
“Well, this has been a lovely afternoon. Truly. We should do it again never.”
She got up and made her escape. Nobody came after her, not even her mother, so she had time to collect her bag from the cloakroom.
She was on her own, apparently.
~oOo~
The drive back to the Cove was about an hour and a half, and by the time Billy pulled the bus in behind her building, she had only about an hour left before she had to be in the club, less than that before tonight’s shift started to clock in. She’d been hot, inside and out, the whole ride, and her mood was thunderous. An hour was hardly enough time to wash the sweat and heat and foul feelings from her body and brain.
Her fucking family.
The black sheep’s black sheep child, she’d been born with a silver spoon dangling just above her mouth. Always aware of and surrounded by opulent wealth, but never quite fully part of it. Every now and then, she’d get hold of it and have a big taste of rich-bitch privilege, but it always choked on the way down.
All her life, she’d lived with her mom in a regular house, or apartment, or whatever. Something decent, but nothing special. They’d moved a lot. Just a normal life. Her mother had never worked steadily. She’d had a long succession of wild-hair ideas that never went anywhere and called herself ‘self-employed,’ but she’d never held down an actual job. Still, there had always been enough money to live okay.
And then, for holidays and other celebrations, they’d go to the ancestral home or the home of one of her uncles, and Billy would see this other part of her life. Almost a part of her life. Where servants in uniforms appeared out of nowhere to do everyone’s bidding and disappeared into nowhere when they weren’t wanted. Where every item at hand was the most expensive version of that item. As a small child, she’d been dazzled and delighted, like a little girl in fairyland. It wasn’t until high school that she’d begun to understand.
Her mother hadn’t finished college. She’d gotten knocked up in her sophomore year by a wannabe rocker, and they’d run off to get married before they’d figured out they hated each other. Grandfather had never forgiven his only daughter, his youngest child, for that, but he’d loved her unreasonably, so he’d never quite cut her loose. Just kept her dangling at the end of a long, golden chain. Letting her fail, then swooping in to save her just enough so he could make her feel like shit but not enough to let her really get her feet under her. So she’d fail again, and he could swoop in again. That was Billy’s mother’s life. And Billy’s childhood.
And now, it seemed, the family thought they could continue that bullshit on her.
Nope.
She let herself in through the club kitchen, grabbed herself an IPA from the big fridge and speared a cold chicken breast on a fork while she was in there. Then she clomped her feelings out on the stairs to the second floor.
When she’d bought the building, she’d seen this unfinished storage space and thought, Ooh! I could make this into a beautiful loft! Like SoHo!
And she could have. If she’d had enough money left over. She’d run out before she’d done more than put a basic bathroom up here. So her loft was about as authentic as it could possibly be. SoHo-before-gentrification authentic—brick exterior walls, unfinished wood floors, a nest of pipes and ducts overhead. And still the storage space for the club, as well, so she lived with boxes of cleaning supplies and barware.
Whatever. It was hers. All hers. And at least she’d gotten rid of the rats.
Eating her chick-sicle and drinking her IPA, Billy stood at one of the big warehouse-style windows and looked out over the still empty West Egg parking lot. This was such a good location. Right at the edge of the Cove boardwalk, the main destination of this destination coastal town. She could see the beach and the water, all the people still playing in the sand and sea as the afternoon dimmed the day’s lights.
Clamping the chicken in her teeth to free her hand, she pulled the handle on the casement and pushed part of the window open. At once, the sounds of summer swirled around her and brought nearly every happy memory of her life with them.
She loved this town.
This was where she belonged. And this thing she’d done, this great leap of faith? It wasn’t wrong.
It would work. Nobody could drive her from her goal.
Nobody.
~ 3 ~
The room was loud with gunfire, the bursts slamming into his eardrums like battering rams. The underlaying sounds of men surprised and outraged were like mumbles through cotton in comparison. The dim after-hours lights forged long shadows across the floor and over the windows.
Paolo yanked open the door, and Dre went through. Tony aimed his Beretta ARX160 forward, in ready position, and followed, veering to the left as Dre went right. Paolo came through and stayed center, blocking the door completely.
He didn’t think. He squeezed the trigger—just a quick squeeze, for a short burst—and brought the guy down.
When he fell, Tony saw the boy.
“FUCK!” he shouted. “FUCK!”
The shout still sharp in his throat, Tony sat up in bed. Bed. His bed. His bedroom. Getting his bearings, he turned to the window. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed, and rain pelted the glass.
He let a breath out and dragged his hands through his hair. Fuck, he was sweating like he’d gone five rounds in the cage.
That goddamn dream. Eight months since they’d hit the Bondaruk base. Eight months since he’d killed Artem Honcharenko, and still he was reliving that moment four or five nights a week. Unless he was pass-out drunk or he took the sleeping pills, the kid haunted his sleep. But booze or pills made him slow the next day, so he tried to keep away from them until he was desperate for sleep.
A kid shouldn’t have been there. Why had he been there? It was late, and his father and the other men were doing dirty business. The kid should have been with his mother. Safe. Away from bullets and blood.
Goddammit.
Tony picked up his phone and checked the time. Almost five. Close enough. He got up and headed for the bathroom.
~oOo~
CBSD opened at six, and they had a few regulars who came in before work on weekday mornings like this, but today, with the heavens still doing a full flush, the lot was just about empty when Tony pulled in at quarter-to. He parked next to the only other vehicle, an old Toyota Land Cruiser. Del Sweeney, their manager, was on the clock.
Not intending to use the basement today, Tony still brought his gear bag in, as well as his gym bag. He didn’t like leaving it in his trunk. Maybe it was paranoid, but he preferred to think of it as cautious. That bag alone could put him away for a few years. Sure, the Pagano Brothers—Nick—had cultivated long, rich relationships with all sorts of people in the legal and political realms to create a thick cushion of safety for his businesses in Rhode Island and beyond, and sure, Nick basically owned the Cove, but Tony did not want to be the tiny crack through which trouble got through Don Pagano’s hermetically sealed world. He was an enforcer, and he had to carry the tools of his work with him. So he carried his tools with him.
He locked them up in his locker, changed into workout clothes, and went to the gym. By then, there were a couple regulars who’d braved the downpour and gone straight to the gym, working the machines already.
Tony went to the heavy bag. Today was a day to work some shit out. Last night’s dream had been especially vivid—he’d smelled the tang of gun smoke and heard the kid’s wet gasps and that rhythmic click that had been, he guessed, his little body trying to figure out what was missing and keep going.
Artem Honcharenko. Seven years old. Goddammit.
He tightened his gloves around his wrists and started punching.
~oOo~
He snapped out of his fight fugue and hugged the bag as he took a breather. His arms ached, and sweat ran down his scalp, under his t-shirt, over the topographic range of scars on his back, to soak his waistband. Looking up at the caged clock high over the main doors, he saw he’d been at it for more than half an hour, but the gym was no more crowded than when he’d started.
It was the rain. Just the rain. Besides, daily attendance didn’t matter, right? Except for the basement and some of their martial-arts classes, Coastal Ballistics and Self-Defense ran on memberships. They’d build up the roster. They just needed time.
Before he went back to the locker room to shower and dress for work, he stopped by the bubbler to refill his water bottle. A window above the bubbler showed the lobby and main office, and he saw Sonny Trighetti, one of his partners, in the office. They made eye contact through two windows, and Sonny waved a greeting, then waved him into the office.
Hoping for good news but ready for bad, Tony crossed the lobby and went into the office.
“Hi, Tone.” Sonny lifted his arm, and they slapped their palms together and clenched hands.
“Sonny. Sup?” He nodded to Del. “Hey, Del.”
Del looked up from his monitor and gave him a nod. “Tony.”
Turning back to Sonny, Tony said, “I gotta head out soon.”
“Yeah, I figured,” Sonny said. “But the second quarter ends in a few days, and I’ve been running some first-look totals. Two quarters is just enough data to let us see how trends might be shaping up.”
Sonny was their financials guy. Tony had had to fight him hard to get the basement done. “Yeah, and?”
Sonny waved him forward again—Tony was starting to feel like he wasn’t being sufficiently respected here—and led him to his office. When Tony stepped in, Sonny closed the door. If he sat at his desk, like a principal preparing to lecture a wayward student, they were going to have a problem.
Sonny was in his fifties. He had more than twenty years on Tony, and he was the one with the education and experience in running a business. The oldest and most experienced among the partners, he had a tendency to act like the boss.
But he wasn’t a fight guy. Or more than an occasional gun user. And his share was smaller than Tony’s or Tim’s. They’d brought him in for his expertise, but that didn’t make him the boss.
Tony was in a mood today, and he was about to hear bad news from a guy who thought his ideas sucked. So Tony was ready to remind him that if either of them was in charge right now, it was not Sonny.
Sonny did not sit behind his desk. He went to a credenza along a side wall and picked up a tablet. After he swiped around on it, he handed it over. There was an array of colorful lines on the screen.
Tony didn’t want to see charts. They’d have a partner’s meeting in a week or two, and everything would be laid out then. “Just tell me.”
With a frustrated huff, Sonny took the tablet back and looked himself. “It’s good, overall. Memberships are up. Twenty-seven percent over last quarter. That’s great. Gun range reservations are stable. They could improve, but they’re paying their keep. We need to make better use of the classrooms. They sit empty three-fourths of the week, and if we had a wider variety of classes and instructors, we could fill that up and advertise package deals. Maybe add yoga.”
“It’s not a yoga studio. Yoga isn’t self-defense.”
“Yeah, but you do yoga shit when you stretch out and get ready for the ring, or just to use the bag. I’ve seen it. And something like that could draw more women in. A lot of women who could afford memberships here have free time in the weekdays.”
“This is not one of those fucking essential-oils, Enya-loving, find your chi bullshit mommy-time setups. CBSD is for self-defense. So get off the yoga.” He didn’t want chicks in here, anyway. He liked that it was a place most women wouldn’t be caught dead in.
“Tim didn’t think it was a bad idea.”
Tony scowled. He didn’t like Sonny going one by one to the other partners if his plan was to create trouble. “Well, I do. What else? How’s the basement doing?”
Sonny sighed. “Tone, you know we’re not ever gonna clear the red down there. Every element is wicked expensive. Ballistic gel costs a fortune, and every time somebody runs a scenario, we gotta recast at least a few dummies. You run scenarios three times a week, sometimes more, and you take almost all of them out—and you’re not paying the rate.
And he would keep running them until he never took out a collateral ever, until he no longer saw Artem Honcharenko every time he turned a blind corner. “I already paid. I put everything I have into this place.”
“I know, I know. I’m just saying, unless we get more people with your hard-on for destruction, we’re gonna have to ramp up the first floor and get it really cooking, so it can carry the weight downstairs. So think about yoga, or some other way to pull in more rev
enue.” He took off his glasses and gave Tony a paternal look. “Women need self-defense, too, Tony. If you think about it, they’re probably our best demographic opportunity. Guys, most of ‘em come in to play tough. They want to work out and practice with guns so they can strut when they walk around in the world. Gals are the ones that need to know how to take care of themselves. We don’t have to string lights and play sitar music to draw women in. We just have to think about what this place is really for.”
Tony hated to admit it, but it was possible that Sonny was making some sense. He went to the office window and considered the main lobby of this business. They’d left the design bare-bones. Concrete and steel, black and grey. Their logo was military stenciling. The benches and seats were steel, and sparse. Everything about this place said you weren’t going to be comfortable while you were here. You were going to sweat and burn and ache. You were going to earn everything you took from your time here.
He’d burn the fucker down before they softened up a single edge. But maybe there was a way to entice the kind of women who’d be caught dead here, so they wouldn’t be caught dead out there.
He lifted the end of the towel hooked over his neck and wiped a lingering skim of sweat from his face. “Okay. I’ll think about it, and we’ll talk at the partners’ meeting. Put together some notes and ideas.”
Accidental Evils Page 3