Chief Stone stepped up to give a speech. He tapped the mike.
“Let’s get back out there,” Dom said.
“I thought we were going to chill a bit,” Tooth said.
“You all can chill,” Dom said. “I’m getting back to the hunt.”
-22-
Vinny spent the day physically with his wife, though his mind was with Adriana.
He couldn’t stop thinking about her: what she was doing, where she was, who she was with. He hated the thought of her out there in the slums, working in the casino where men went to gamble and party with the strippers and hookers.
He also hated to think what would happen if someone besides his father found out about her. If his wife, the Vega family, or any other of his enemies saw her with him, she would be as good as dead.
The scent of gravy cooking on the stove brought him out of his office.
Carmen stood at the stove, dressed in a Gucci shirt and black slacks. Her choker and all four gold chains sparkled in the light of the crystal chandelier above the marble island. She looked ready to go to the Goldilocks Zone, where Vinny had met her on the dance floor. She didn’t look all that different now, seven years later.
His shoes clicked on the white herringbone marble mosaic tile. Sconce lamps with bronze stems lit the hallway, spreading a glow over original paintings. They even had a Picasso Vinny had bought after it was salvaged from some abandoned celebrity mansion.
But Vinny didn’t give two shits about the expensive art that looked like squiggles from a toddler, the scratchy Indian rugs, the uncomfortable Italian furniture that Carmen bitched at him for sitting on, the china dishes they never used, and closets full of designer clothing.
All Vinny cared about was seeing Adriana. She had become his escape while he continued the grind toward his goal of becoming a captain.
He looked in the bathroom mirror, checking the welt just above his right eyebrow. An inch lower, and the round would have broken through the helmet’s eye shield and killed him.
Back in the kitchen, Carmen had set out two plates of linguine carbonara with chopped-up bacon.
“It’s your favorite,” she said softly. Almost ruefully.
He glanced at his Rolex. “I can’t, I’m sorry. Leave it in the fridge for me or wait until my meeting is done.”
“What!” She put her hands on her hips. “You fucking kidding me?”
“I told you I had an important meeting with Don Antonio.”
“And you have to leave now? I worked hard on dinner.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re never home anymore,” she grumped. “You’re either out with the guys or sleeping with your whores.”
Vinny bit the inside of his lip.
She clicked her tongue the way his mom used to when he was in trouble. One of the things he would never forget about her.
“Don’t tell me you’re not fucking around, ’cause I know you are, Vin, and when I find the broad, I’m going to kill her.”
Yup, Adriana had a target on her back, just like the Saints.
“I’m not screwing around,” he said, loosening his tie. “I’m not like the other guys. You know that. I love you, babe.”
“You’re a liar. You’re just like the other guys. Probably even worse. The only one that’s different is your uncle. Don Antonio knows how to treat a woman, but apparently he didn’t teach you that—just how to kill people.”
Vinny wasn’t going to argue with her there. His uncle seemed the only one who could keep it in his pants outside his marriage. But Carmen knew damn well what she had signed up for, and so did the other wives. They got to live in luxury in the postwar hell world—a fair trade-off with the men risking their lives to bring home the bacon.
And he continued to bring home a hell of a lot of bacon.
He looked her in the eye and saw the hate there, and maybe a bit of something else. Was it possible to both love and hate someone?
It wasn’t supposed to be like that. His dad had loved his mom fiercely before she died. His uncle loved his aunt. But Carmen had no love for him right now.
Deep down, Vinny knew that the rage in her eyes was all his fault. He did feel guilty for it, but God damn he was sick of her ball-breaking attitude. No amount of money or gifts would ever be good enough.
“Okay, just be silent and walk away,” she said, sitting down on a chair and turning so he couldn’t see her cry. He hesitated, and she waved at the air like shooing a pesky fly.
“Just go!” she yelled.
As he walked toward the door, she yelled after him, “If we weren’t Catholic, I would divorce you, Vincent J. Moretti.”
The words stung more than he expected.
“You’re not a good man. I deserve better, and I wish the church would let me out of this”—she let out an exasperated sigh—“this prison we call home.”
“Good luck living out in the slums without me. I rescued you. The least you could do is not yell at me one fucking day of your life.”
He walked away, flinching when a plate hit the wall by the door, but not daring to turn. The anger flowing through his veins might tempt him to do something he would regret.
Down the hallway, Doberman opened a door to see what the yelling was about.
“Don’t say anything,” Vinny said to him.
“I got some news, though,” Doberman said as they started walking. “That shipment of cars your uncle ordered—they’ll be on the boat tomorrow.”
Vinny nodded.
“I’ve got a dozen guys assigned to this one. No one’s taking us by surprise this time. Now that Lenny and Jason are dead, we gotta work with some new guys, but I made sure everyone’s fully vetted.”
“Good work,” Vinny said. “Go get the Beemer ready. We’re leaving after this meeting.”
“You got it, bro.” Doberman paused. “Look, man, I’m sorry for selling you out to your dad about you-know-who.”
“Thought you had my back, man.”
“I do. I’d take a fucking bullet for you, Vin.”
Vinny scrutinized the friend who had done so much for him over the years. Soon, Vinny would pay him back in kind by getting him made. It was long overdue.
He patted Doberman on the arm and left without uttering another word. Once inside the stairwell, he let the door click shut, then exhaled a long breath.
Everything’s good, man. You got this.
A few moments of peace in the enclosed space let him calm down and focus on his meeting. He had no idea what his uncle wanted to talk to him about, but he held out hope it was good.
The news he had been waiting years to hear: that taking down Sergei had earned him a seat at the table as a captain.
Vinny climbed the tiled stairs to the tenth floor instead of using the elevator. At the top, he regretted his decision. The sweat might make him look nervous and weak.
Two guards waited in the oak-trimmed carpeted hallway. He nodded and marched past them to the oak double doors, where he rapped twice.
They opened a moment later, and he stood ramrod straight, like a soldier.
To his surprise, his aunt Lucia greeted him inside the office. She gave him a warm smile.
“Good evening, Vinny.”
“Good evening, Aunt Lucia.” He gave her a kiss on both cheeks and followed her inside.
Don Antonio stood with his hands behind his back, looking out the big window, at the terrace and courtyard below.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Lucia asked. “Coffee? Wine? Water?”
“Coffee would be great.”
Antonio turned from the window, wearing a pair of glasses with metal frames. It was the first time Vinny had seen him wearing them.
Damn, he is getting old.
Antonio sat behind his desk, then pointed at the two chairs in front of the desk.
“How’s your head?”
“Could have been much worse,” Vinny replied.
“It wasn’t your time.”
“No, Don Antonio,
I was lucky.”
“Luck is one way to stay alive in this world. But skill is another. Skill and strength.” Antonio leaned back in his chair. “Unfortunately, as you already know, your cousin Marco lacks both those virtues.”
Vinny didn’t take the bait. The last thing he would ever do was bad-mouth his cousin to the kid’s father. Don Antonio already knew the truth, anyway.
Antonio cracked a half smile—something he rarely did.
“You can speak freely here, Vinny. Go ahead, tell me what you think of how Marco performed in West Hollywood and at the Devil’s Graveyard.”
Vinny straightened his tie. “In West Hollywood, Marco didn’t follow orders and almost got himself killed, but he rose to the occasion at the Devil’s Graveyard.”
Antonio pulled off his glasses and put them on his desk. Sometimes his slow, methodical actions surprised Vinny. But they were just part of his makeup—always thinking deeply, down to the smallest things, before implementing a plan.
“Tell me what you and Marco have done to catch the Saints so far,” Antonio said.
Vinny explained tracking down the doctor and finding him dead. Then he explained the port worker Marco had ordered some thugs to kill.
“I see,” Antonio said. “At this point, I believe the information about the port came from someone other than Lieutenant Best.”
“You think someone on the LAPD is still helping the Saints?”
Antonio nodded.
“That’s where we’ll focus our hunt, then,” Vinny said.
“Good.” He folded his hands together calmly. “These men are like cockroaches. Every time I try to stomp them, they skitter away.”
Lucia returned with two cups of coffee on a silver tray. She handed one to Antonio and the other to Vinny, who stood and accepted it graciously.
She smiled, but instead of leaving the room, she placed the tray on the desk and sat beside him in the other chair.
Vinny looked at his aunt and uncle in turn, confusion setting in.
“We wanted to talk to you together today,” Antonio said.
“About Marco.” Lucia placed her hands in the lap of her tight white dress. Her lips were drawn tight. “We know that you love your cousin and want the best for him. You saved his life the other day, Vinny, and I can’t thank you enough for that.”
“And I’m fully aware you want to become a captain,” Antonio said. “You’ve more than earned it, especially after saving Marco and keeping Sergei from escaping the other night.”
“But it would look bad if we made you captain before Marco even becomes a soldier,” Lucia said. She took in a deep breath. “I didn’t want this life for my boy, but if he’s going to sit at the table, the other men need to respect him first.”
Antonio took a sip of coffee and set the cup down. “You heard me make a deal with Marco about catching the Saints, and promise him a seat at the table if he does.”
Lucia shot Antonio a look. Maybe this was something his uncle hadn’t told his aunt.
The door opened.
“Ah, just in time,” Antonio said.
Christopher walked over and stood by his brother’s side, behind the desk.
“You have exceeded your father’s expectations, Vinny. Mine too. Actually, you remind me of Christopher when he was your age.”
“Thank you,” Vinny said.
Christopher bowed his head.
“We called you here today to thank you and congratulate you, but also to make you an offer,” Antonio said.
He looked up at Christopher—not a request for approval, but a nod of respect.
“Show Marco all the ropes of the business,” Antonio said. “Help him catch the Saints without catching a bullet. You do that, and I’ll give you Frankie’s territory at the Four Diamonds. You’ll be captain, and Doberman will join our ranks with Marco.”
* * *
Ray was still alive but on borrowed time, and he knew it. In his mind, there were only two ways out for him, and sucking on his pistol was the one he hoped to avoid. Besides, Mikey the Mutant had already threatened to kill his wife and kids if he took the easy route.
Escaping the city wasn’t an option, either. That would just be killing his family in a different way. They couldn’t survive without him. Besides, where the hell would he go? To the wastes?
He didn’t trust some one-legged wetback or a bunch of bikers to get his family somewhere safe. Especially with Lolo needing her daily doses.
If he was whacked or lost his job, she would have to go on rations. Most of the people on rations ended up with side effects or worse.
He pounded the steering wheel of his Audi. Over and over, pretending it was the Mexican Mikey’s ugly face.
It had been several days since Ray found himself hanging from a crane hook over a garbage truck at the landfill. He still didn’t know whether that homicidal freak really knew where Alicia had taken the kids, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
So yeah, he really had only one out: deliver one or more of the Saints to Mikey the Mutant and Don Antonio Moretti, or lose everything he held dear.
Ray took a swig of tequila from the flask and sighed. He sat in the dark parking lot, listening to the sirens and the chatter of the radio.
“Good eeeevenin’, City of Angels,” said the announcer. “Breaking news tonight to help you sleep a tad better. Sheriff’s deputies tracked down and killed the rest of the Pyros who penetrated the border two nights ago.”
Ray shut off the radio. He didn’t much care about the raiders’ attack, although hearing about the twenty deputies they’d killed had him worried about his brother’s safety.
Assuming his brother was even a deputy . . .
He took another slug of tequila and let it warm his insides, wondering how it all had come to this.
You know how it came to this.
The Saints had fucked this all up. They had gotten greedy by hitting the Morettis too hard. They had detonated a nuclear warhead and let everyone else get hit by the fallout.
Ray had seen a lot of death in his life, more than most cops and even some soldiers. And his gut told him this was just the beginning.
But could he really turn a Saint over to the Morettis if his brother turned out to be one? Could he do that to save his wife and kids?
The thought made him revisit the idea of blowing his own brains out.
If he did turn over a Saint, the gangsters would torture that Saint until they knew everyone’s identity, including his brother’s if he was indeed one of them.
You’re going to find out really soon . . .
Ray pulled out of the parking lot on the eastern edge of the Four Diamonds, watching another vehicle’s headlights flick on as soon as he hit the street. The tail was one of Mikey’s guys, driving a green Subaru Outback with tinted windows and blacked-out rims. The twenty-year-old vehicle, built to survive, was common on the streets in Los Angeles. But it couldn’t keep up with his Audi.
He gunned the engine on the next street and made a run for the foothills, where crumbling mansions littered the sepia terrain like bones in the desert. Traffic was light tonight, especially out here on the border between death and life. Most people had been avoiding the roads just in case some Pyros were still out here.
But his tail wasn’t giving up.
Ray passed a motorcycle and a pickup truck. Several pedestrians were out walking on the sidewalks and hanging outside the local food establishments.
The city was already returning to normal after the violence that had raged for the past week. This section of town was also safer for being Moretti-controlled territory. The gangsters did a good job cleansing it of gangbangers and the psychos. He wouldn’t be surprised if the gangsters had actually hunted the Pyros who attacked the border three days ago.
Ray looked in his rearview mirror at the guy on his tail.
“See ya later, motherfucker,” he said.
He steered around a curve and floored it. Seeing no other traffic, he flipped off his l
ights and sped down another street. About halfway down, he took a hard right into an alleyway, whipping up a trail of dust between the decaying buildings.
He pulled into a parking lot and maneuvered his car under a eucalyptus tree. By the time the Subaru shot by, the dust had settled.
Ray sat there several minutes. When he was sure he had blown his tail, he pulled back onto the street and backtracked to the highway.
The drive across the city gave him plenty of time to think about his family. There was no way they could survive without him in this world. Lolo needed her medicine. Alicia needed the money for food and rent. His boys needed him to teach them how to be tough and smart on the mean streets. Without Ray, they were as good as dead.
Something wet rolled down his cheek, and he wiped it away, not realizing what it was until it happened again.
Don’t do that, Ray. Don’t fucking do that!
Now was not the time to be weak. He had to keep his head in the game.
Ray finished off the tequila. The burn helped relieve the sorrow. He slipped the flask back in his jacket and drove to the city’s eastern border. Junked cars, shipping containers, and rubble blocked the intersections. No inch was left unprotected or unguarded.
High fences blocked off the terrain between the roads. Red signs marked minefields. Spotlights raked over the terrain beyond the walls, and he glimpsed guard towers where deputies spent the hot, lonely nights looking over the wastes.
Ray never did understand why Andre had transferred from the LAPD to the Sheriff’s Department. Most of the time, the job was boring as hell.
Until the raiders attacked.
The damage from the attack was still evident from the shipping containers scattered across a road. Their metal sides were blown open among hunks of soot-covered concrete.
The area was cordoned off, and several deputies patrolled, their capes whipping in the dusty wind along the border. He spotted a drone flying overhead, its red light blinking as it zipped through the sky.
He took a left and headed for Refugee Processing Center 4. The warehouse-style housing units were surrounded by razor-wire fences and patrolled by deputies with German shepherds.
Everyone who came into the city came here first, where they were vetted to make sure they weren’t sick, or raiders in disguise.
Sons of War 3: Sinners Page 27