by Heidi Lowe
Something was happening to her that she couldn't explain. She tried to convince herself that the sensation between her legs wasn't connected to what she was seeing. Everything pointed to it being arousal, but she wasn't prepared to listen. She didn't want to deal with the implications of such a revelation.
She tore her eyes away, shifted position in her seat. The last time she'd felt a similar kind of arousal was that day at the graveside, when Willa had stroked her badge. She'd ignored the signs then, too, putting it down to the heat, the situation, everything but the thing that it was.
Trying to compose herself, to flush the image from her mind, she momentarily forgot what she was doing in the car. She realized just in time to see that the blue convertible had sped past her while she wasn't looking. She switched on the ignition and stepped on the gas, praying her old car could keep up with Willa's sports car. She'd never tailed anyone herself before, though she'd been in the car a couple of times when others had. Weaving through traffic while trying to stay out of sight seemed impossible to her. Car chases in movies always looked like a breeze, but the reality was that every time she accelerated, every time her speed crept higher on the dial, she had to fight not to crash into another car. Trying to focus on the blue convertible while trying to avoid collision with the vehicles around her was proving a challenge.
As soon as they got off the highway, though, things only deteriorated. It seemed as though Willa took every side street, every narrow alley she could find.
“Where the heck is she going?” Layke growled, swerving her car down yet another side street that was leading her God only knew where. She could hear her car tires screeching, could almost smell the burning rubber. Every time she thought they were on a straight course, Willa would turn abruptly down another street, which made Layke's rapid change of course even more perilous.
She followed the car down a back alley, and by the time she got through, there was no sign of the convertible, only a stray cat that stepped out in front of her car.
“Shit!” she screamed, slamming her foot on the brake and skidding to a sliding stop. Unfortunately, she went careening into a dumpster. The cat scurried off to hide, all four legs still completely intact.
“Dammit!” Layke screamed, slamming her hands against the steering wheel. She'd lost her target, her car was more than likely dented, and if that wasn't bad enough, when she went to start it up again it only wheezed and croaked. “Terrific.”
She got out to inspect the damage, swearing and mumbling to herself about what a piece of crap Willa was for leading her down there. Clearly the whole thing had been done purposefully.
“Need any help?”
She didn't look up, she was too busy checking out the nasty dent in her car. The dumpster, surprisingly, seemed unscathed. “It's all right, I'm going to...” And then she looked up, stopping mid-sentence. “You.”
Willa stood before her, smugness radiating from her in spades. “Sorry about your car.”
“You're not sorry. When did you notice I was behind you?”
“Did you really think I wouldn't hear about the car parked outside the club and my parents' house this past week?” She raised a cheeky eyebrow as she drifted toward her. “I've known you were there the whole time.”
Layke felt stupid for being so inconspicuous, and even more stupid for not figuring out earlier – before she totaled her car – that she was being led down a rabbit hole.
Willa inspected the damage to the car, all the while her smug expression remained unchanged. “What did that dumpster ever do to you?” she said, shaking her head. “You're really not cut out for this, are you? First time tailing someone?”
Layke's blood boiled. She had to fight to keep her temper in check. There was just something about this woman that got to her. It was as though she had been given the schematics to Layke's psyche, and thus knew all the different ways to make her tick. What a powerful thing to possess.
Layke narrowed her eyes, placed her hands on her hips, displaying her badge as though doing so somehow gave her authority. But she lacked the thing she needed most: a witty comeback.
“So, did you like my little show outside the club?” Willa asked, once again looking her over as though appraising a show dog. “You know, it was for your benefit. Figured you would appreciate some light entertainment.”
“I didn't see anything,” Layke said.
Willa's smile grew. “You're lying. And you're not very good at it. You saw. But the question is, why are you lying about it?”
The roles seemed to have reversed. Layke felt as though she'd become the target while Willa stepped comfortably into her role as detective. And why had she lied about witnessing the kiss? She couldn't find anything suitable to say, and prayed her silence would fill the void.
“You did like it, that's why.” Willa chuckled, ignoring the hateful look Layke was giving her. “Did you imagine yourself in Honey's place, is that it? Don't worry, detective, there's plenty of me to go around.”
“Dream on. I'm straight,” Layke snapped, feeling her cheeks burn.
“If I had a dollar for every time a woman said that to me... usually just before we're screwing each other's brains out.”
“I'd like to think I have better taste and a little more self-respect.”
Willa did a little growl. “Feisty, fiery. I like that. You know, I've never been with a redhead before. I heard a rumor – and maybe you can shed some light on it. Is it true that your pubic hair glows in the dark?”
The crude and unexpected nature of the question hit Layke with such profound force that it rendered her speechless, immobile... She blushed like she had never blushed before and thought it would never stop. All she could do was gawp at this woman, whom she had once mistaken for gracious and well-mannered. So this was the game they were playing, huh? If she stood any chance of breaking this woman down, she had to get on her level. Only, she didn't know where to start, or even if she could.
“Perhaps you could show me some time, you know, for research purposes,” Willa continued.
“That's not going to happen.”
“Why not? Because of the straight thing?”
“No, because I don't associate with dangerous criminals.”
Willa looked around. “I don't see any dangerous criminals here. Just two women talking, when they could be doing something much more satisfying.” She winked lecherously. Her hazel eyes, Layke noticed, had definitely changed color in the sun. They had a certain cat-like slant to them.
“The only thing more satisfying than this, Miss di Blasio, would be hauling your ass to jail for gun-trafficking and all the other stuff your family's gotten away with over the years.”
She was holding her own, even managing a roguish smile to match Willa's. She only prayed Willa couldn't see her shaking like a leaf from being so far out of her depth.
Willa stepped closer to her, the space between them negligible. Her eyes sparkled playfully. She was enjoying this more than she should have been – they both knew it.
“You just want to use your handcuffs on me, don't you, detective? I could tell you were a kinky one the moment I met you. I bet you like it rough, too. I'm game.”
The uneasy feeling Layke got as she stared deep into the eyes of her provoker didn't come from fear. No, fear wasn't the thing stirring her loins, causing that warm sensation, that kicking throb between her legs. To her, this feeling was far worse than fear.
“Too bad you'll never find out,” she said. Although it came out confident, it was a facade, a flimsy facade that would fall or crack at any moment, if she wasn't careful.
“Damn, and I was so sure that was why you were following me. So why don't you tell me why you were following me, Detective Owen.”
Hearing her surname sent a cold shiver down her spine. She'd known sooner or later the whole di Blasio clan would know all about her, and would discover her familial tie to their history, but even so it threw her.
“Why were you trying to lose me?�
�� Layke asked.
“You first.”
“Just trying to catch you doing something you shouldn't be doing.”
“Really, detective, you shouldn't paint us di Blasios with the same brush. I'm just a simple girl doing simple things.”
“Then you have nothing to hide, and won't mind me following you. But we both know that's poppycock.”
“Out of curiosity, why me?” Willa tilted her head to the side, looking more intrigued than ever. “You and I both know I've never been in trouble with the law. Not even close. I can't help thinking that this is personal.”
“You're a smart woman, Miss di Blasio. You did everything right. Went to the best schools, got a great education. Kept your nose clean. On paper, you're the golden child.” Layke's face became serious. “That's why you're the most dangerous one of them all.”
Barely any space remained between them, but that didn't stop Willa closing the gap even further still, so that they could hear each other breathing. Layke's hand felt around her waist for her gun, her palm sweaty, and remembered that it was tucked away in the glove compartment. She gulped, staring unblinkingly into a face that, like hers, had now grown serious. Even the sun seemed to have ducked for cover.
“Then you're either brave or foolish, following someone like that around. That's the kind of thing that gets people killed.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Of course not, detective. Only dangerous criminals make threats. I'm just an innocent girl with an infamous surname.” When she smiled it was heinous and lacked the joy of a real smile. But Layke couldn't help thinking that she hadn't looked more beautiful than now, when she was at her most menacing. “It's probably best you stop following me, in any case.”
“I'm afraid I can't do that. Better yet, I don't want to.” Layke didn't know what it was, maybe fear or anger at being covertly threatened, but something was driving her to build a backbone, to hit back. “Because sooner or later, you're going to screw up. You're going to have to conduct your business, and you're going to break the law. That's what you people do. And when you do, I'll be right there to catch you.”
“So I guess I'll be seeing you around?” Willa said, finally stepping back.
“You can count on it.”
“Looking forward to it.” She started off. “See you soon, detective.”
Layke watched her until she was out of sight, then she let out the breath she'd been holding. Her heart slammed against her chest, her head throbbed. Her breathing was labored. For the first time in a long time she considered giving up, handing in her badge and gun and walking away. The first time she'd felt that way was on her first day on the job as a beat cop.
She sat in her car and tried to calm herself. Playing the tough guy was all well and good until you were up against a real tough guy – or girl – who wouldn't have thought twice about putting a bullet in you. The doubts didn't last, however. They never did. This was her job, and she hadn't made detective by being a wimp who scared easily. Criminals were frightening, but she had the law on her side.
She managed to get her car to start, miraculously, and as she drove out of the alley, she was more determined than ever to bring Willa di Blasio down. And she wasn't going to die trying.
SIX
In the ten years since its sale, The Persian Dream rug shop hadn't managed a year of breaking even. It sat in an undesirable part of town, sandwiched between a fast food burger place and a boarded up laundromat, which had become home to a bunch of opossums. It had a handful of regular customers of the bulk-buying variety, but for most of the time, to say business was slow would have been an understatement of epic proportions. The people running it were an old Iranian couple who enjoyed a quiet life. They'd been passionate about rugs, passionate about their shop, but ignorant of the business world. The shop turned a profit in its first few years, but eventually they couldn't afford to keep it open.
If anyone asked them today how they managed to stay afloat, managed to afford frequent trips abroad, a nice car, and the kind of things a failing business could scarcely afford, they would tell them that a rich aunt had died, leaving them a substantial amount of money. They would never admit to the money's true origin, and what they'd had to give up in exchange for it. And although the shop remained in their name, they didn't really own it. There were parts of the shop, namely the generously-sized, heavily-bolted warehouse, that they were simply forbidden to visit, under any circumstances. Because laying in the locked warehouse was a small arsenal of machine guns and other military grade weaponry, hidden beneath handsome Persian rugs.
The burger joint, in comparison, had a thriving business. It also had a backroom, and it was here that the di Blasio clan and their foot soldiers currently sat. The door was bolted shut and the room was dark, with only one hanging bulb above them to provide light. A small table lay in the middle of the room, around which everyone sat, twelve of the most important members of the organization.
Willa wasn't happy. She'd only been the number one for three weeks, and already things had started to crumble around her. The change in management had caused the cogs and wheels to malfunction, and nothing was running as it should have. As it had been when she'd stayed behind the scenes. Preventing a mess was what she excelled at; cleaning one up was a totally different ballgame.
She peered across the room at the eleven men in her charge, her three brothers among them. Between them all they'd dropped the ball.
“I don't think I have to tell you all about the container that's still burning a hole in the warehouse next door,” she opened with, looking at each of them sternly. “The longer we keep it, the more dangerous it becomes, and the more likely the load is to be discovered.”
No one spoke.
She stood up. “The cops know we're behind the robbery. They always have known. So they're going to be hunting for that one clue that leads them to us, next door. And what do you think will happen to all of you if the container is still there?”
“So we get rid of it. That was always the plan,” Trent said confidently, almost nonchalantly. “You're the one who doesn't want to move on that.”
“The whole reason behind the agreement with the Italians was so we didn't have to deal with anyone directly,” she hit back. “It was an arrangement that worked for fifteen years. And don't start up with the Armenians again. Dad didn't trust them. There must have been a reason for that.”
“Dad didn't trust anyone,” Trent said. “I'm surprised he ever made any money.” He snorted a laugh, which he seemed to share with Asher, the man sitting beside him.
She cut them both a look, swallowed back the feeling of her ineptitude, a feeling her brother no doubt was doing his best to exacerbate, and tried to forget that she was the only woman in a room full of tough guys who had no experience taking orders from someone with a vagina. She found she even had to alter the way she spoke around them, forcing on a gritty street vernacular that felt and tasted alien on her tongue. Her brothers knew she was a fraud, but the others, she prayed, couldn't tell.
“Little Johnny, where are we with the Mexicans? I know it's not the type of stuff they're used to, a bit, shall we say, high maintenance.”
Little Johnny was actually anything but. He was six-foot-three of pure muscle, a wall of a man, who sported a little ponytail that he kept very good care of. He had also been a loyal part of the extended di Blasio family since he was seventeen.
“No-go. Too much heat,” he replied, his voice gravelly and deep. That was all she would get out of him on the matter. Little Johnny was a man of few words, but the ones he did use were more than enough. The Mexicans were out.
She heard Trent whispering to Asher but pretended that she couldn't, trying to avoid an argument. This was his latest tactic of trying to undermine her. He never would have dared whisper when their father had the floor.
“Guy and Noah, I want you to reach out to some of our family in Cuba. Dad did business with them a few years back on a shipment he couldn't shift
. Maybe we'll have some luck there. Offer them a family discount if we have to.”
No longer satisfied with just keeping his voice to a whisper, Trent's protestations became louder. Until finally, Willa was forced to confront him.
“There a problem, Trent?”
He sat with his hands tucked beneath his pits, lounging back casually in his seat, like the asshole student every classroom has, playing the rebel. He'd broken her arm one summer, when they were play-fighting. She was nine, he should have known better. Looking at him now, his smug face visible even behind his mass of thick facial hair, she knew he'd done it on purpose. He was always screwing with her. Nothing had changed.
“No problem. I just don't think you've thought any of this through, that's all.”
“Okay, humor me. How would you approach this?”
“Well, for starters I wouldn't go knocking on the doors of random Mexicans, or Cubans we share the weakest familial tie with. That makes us look desperate. We already have buyers who are ready to pay full price. And we don't even have to share it with the Italians.”
Willa had to admit his way sounded the smartest, and judging from the facial expressions of the other guys, they tended to agree with him. But doing business with the Armenians was a dangerous play. They were far too unpredictable and would double-cross anyone when the time was right, when they perceived a weakness. They'd seen it happen before with a bunch of Colombians, and then a couple of years later with some Jamaicans.
“We need other options,” she said finally, and was prepared for the big, furious sigh from her brother. “For now, we'll hold off going to the Armenians. That's my final word on it.”
“Dad wouldn't have been so shortsighted,” Trent mumbled.
“Yeah, well Dad's dead. It's just me now, trying to keep the shit from hitting the fan.”
“Great job you're doing of that, sis.” He gave a sarcastic clap. “Even brought heat to the door in the form of that little ginger snatch that's been following you around.”