by Rose Harper
“You know who I am?” There’s no sense beating around the bush. I know he knows who I am.
With a nod, he replies, settling back into his seat. “Yes. Unfortunately, I do.”
Distaste rolls off the end of his tongue. But, for what? That’s the thing I can’t understand. To my knowledge, I’ve never met this man a day in my life. He’s just been the catalyst in the background calling all the shots between my and Mateo’s marriage. It’s either that, or he’s echoing the terms someone above him is instating.
“You don’t sound happy to see me,” I retort, taking it upon myself to sit in the chair located in front of his desk.
His eyes track my every movement, and I can practically see the thoughts running rampant through his mind. They encompass him so thoroughly, he can’t even be bothered to acknowledge that I didn’t come alone. Instead, his beady little eyes stare daggers into mine, hoping I’ll be the one to break first.
Instead, I remain silent. You can always find out more that way, rather than running headlong into something. Feeling Dom take the chair by my side, I can’t help the smile that skates over my face as I feel the utter fury rolling off him in waves. Only, he’s pissed because he thinks this man knows something about Mateo’s disappearance. He doesn’t know the skeletons hanging in John Stewart’s closet; not like I do.
“What do you want?” John breaks the silence, finally allowing his gaze to break away from mine and search Dom’s face.
“We want to know where my boss is?” Dom asks.
“You know, my husband,” I say, going one step further.
By the time the words fall from my parted lips, he’s already shaking his head. “No can do. It’s not my business; not my problem.”
“Everything Calvetti should be your problem,” Dom seethes, clenching his fists.
“My job was to get Ricco off. I did that. I had to pull a few strings, but I did it.” I bet you did, I silently fume.
How can he sleep at night? He’s hiding this entire life away from everyone, pretending to be something he’s not. I, on the other hand, have never tried to be something I’m not. I can’t comprehend why someone would do that. Why they would be so unhappy they feel the need to lie to everyone around them.
“We both know you’re lying through your teeth, John.”
“I’m not …” With a narrowed glare from me, he stops what he’s about to say. Instead, his face relaxes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. In the blink of an eye, he completely transforms in front of my face.
Every stitch of his guise falls away. It’s like a weight lifting off his chest, allowing him to stretch from the force of being suppressed for so long. He breathes easier, a sinister smile claiming his lips as his eyes darken on ours. He looks ten years younger already, and something tells me he’s just getting started.
“How long have you known?” he asks, standing from his chair.
He begins unbuttoning his shirt, and my brows furrow in confusion. What the ever-loving fuck is he doing? The more buttons he unfastens, the farther my jaw threatens to unhinge. It isn’t until he lifts his wifebeater and undoes a few harnesses that his fake stomach slips away, falling with a harsh thud on top of his desk. My eyes bug out of my head as the absence of the offending object reveals a muscular abdomen with a slight dusting of hair. It’s littered with scars similar to the ones that clutter Gavino’s body. John groans, stretching—the movement causing the corded muscle to tighten and bulge.
“What the fuck?!” Dom jumps up, almost falling over the chair.
John divests himself of his jacket and dress shirt. Bulky, well-built biceps and triceps cause utter disbelief to tinge my senses. Allowing his shirt to fall from his grip, he places his hands on his belt, tightening it, so his slacks don’t fall from the fifty plus pounds of fake fat he just shed in mere seconds.
“You’re not the only person who keeps himself under wraps, boy.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Dom queries, stupefied.
John pops his neck. His eyes burn into mine as he raises his hands to his face. The moment they dig into the skin of his jawline, I prepare myself for sickness to roll through me. He’s not really going to do what I think he is, is he? But the moment his fingers dig in, it feels like everything swallows me up. They sink into the skin easily, as if it’s nothing more than putty sculpting his jaw.
When his fingers snatch the piece of mask away from his face, my hands fall to my sides. The world around me blurs, then heightens. He goes on about himself taking out his contacts, and running his fingers through his air, dislodging the wig clipped there. Raven-colored mane and rich, molten chocolate eyes greet mine.
“The names Valentino Bianchi,” he states as if the revelation isn’t life altering. I can tell from Dom’s sharp inhalation he recognizes the name, and he should—everyone in our world fears this man. He’s the second in command to the papa. The man who is rumored to have no soul, even one as black as mine. He kills. Over and over and over, without fault. Without purpose as to why he takes that person’s life. He does it because he’s told to, which is the same reason he protects.
“You assholes fucked up big time. Camille is going to carve him up into little pieces, regardless of who he is to her.”
“So, it was her that took him,” Dom seethes, cracking his neck. He’s on the edge of his seat right now, and it’s only a matter of time before he says the fuck with this and makes his way to wherever Camille is hiding.
Valentino jerks his gaze toward Dom, disbelief shining through his dead eyes. “Of course, it was her, dipshit! She’s been planning this shit from the start, from what I hear.”
“Then why haven’t you done anything?” I ask, butting in.
He sighs, and I can see the fight slither from Valentino’s body. It’s clear he wanted to do something, but he held himself back. But … for what reason? “Unlike you, I can’t afford to blow my cover, sweet cheeks. I’ve been living as this sick son of a bitch just so I can blend in with the crowd and do what needs to be done.”
“And what’s that?” Dom asks.
“What I’m damn well ordered to, and something that’s none of your goddamned business. Now, explain to me how the fuck she got him when I’ve been strategically planning his safety for years? When all of you were supposed to be protecting him? That’s the reason I gave Marco that information about you and Mateo; it’s the reason I got my fucking face busted up by that little shit Gavino. I knew the more people you had on your side, the better your chances were for protecting him. Boy, was I fucking wrong.”
“Protect him from what?” I ask, and for the first time in my entire life, there’s a thread of fear mingling in my voice.
Valentino’s stern eyes shoot toward me. The vehemence in them causes me to take a step back. This is clearly a man teetering on the edge of sanity, and just one small push will send him toppling over the edge.
“From what? You mean, from whom,” he says with a growl. “And that person is his fucking father.”
A pitch of laughter barrels from Dom’s chest. He’s so lost in exuberance, he doesn’t even see the death glare Valentino is shooting his way.
“That’s the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever heard!” he roars, wiping the tears from his eyes. “All of this over Anjelo? Seriously? Jesus jumped up Christ, man.”
As if in slow motion, Valentino stops looking like he’s about to commit murder. He continues staring at Domino for several minutes before his face softens, the lines around his eyes not as pronounced as before when his face was scrunched up in fury. A secretive smirk tugs at his lips. It’s enough of a change that it garners Dom’s full attention. He breaks off, mid-laugh, and it envelops us in pure silence as he studies Valentino with a pensive stare.
“Why do I get the feeling you know something we don’t?” he asks, looking between the man and me who looks like the cat that ate the canary.
“Oh, the lies you wee young ones are brought up to believe,” is all he says, leaving
Dom and me both speechless.
12
GAVINO
The last time I was here, I was so close to killing him. But, with all things, it was nothing more than a front—a guise to steer my brothers clear from his scent. No one can know this man’s true identity. If they did, there would be more hell raining down on this earth than the apocalypse.
Standing idly on the street, pedestrians pass me—some bumping shoulders with me—as I glance up at the building resting in front of me. Stewart and Stewart law firm—another front in his quest to take over the city. All given to him by the papa himself. To help with the questions that would be sure to come his way otherwise.
You see, John Stewart isn’t even John Stewart at all. His name is Valentino Bianchi, the man—if people knew his true identity—should be feared more than even myself. He’s changed his appearance over the years to fit the description of John Stewart, but they couldn’t be more different. He’s Italian through and through, and I know without a doubt he’s holding a grudge on my last visit here.
Valentino Bianchi is the second in command to the papa—the one, true fucking terror of New York City. And I know he’s going to have a few words, if not more, to say to me when I go in there. The last time we were here, I almost blew his cover. A cover he’s been working on for almost two decades.
John Stewart is nothing more than fish shit now. In fact, that asshole died close to fifteen years ago. All by this man’s hand. That’s what happens if people in my line of work don’t procure what they are assigned to within the given time. The papa orders your death. Then this man chops you up into little bitty pieces and literally feeds you to the fish in the lake at Prospect Park.
There’s no time to speak up. No time or benefit for that matter to give excuses why you didn’t succeed. If you don’t bring the papa what you’ve been assigned to, you die. No question about it.
Casing the street, I can’t get the feeling out of my mind that I’m being watched. More than likely, Valentino has people watching the front of the late John’s law firm. And I can’t say that I blame him. The last time I was here, I had to rough him up a bit. He’ll take offense to that, like most people in our profession do, and he will want his mark on my flesh for thinking I could do something like that and get away with it.
Cracking my neck, I straighten my lapels. Sweat dots the back of my neck as the sun rises in the sky to full mast, the vast amount of people and traffic causing it to heat the heart of the city like an oven. The sound of horns honking, people talking amongst one another, and the loud sound speakers from various stores causes a mixture of apprehension to enter me. It’s loud during the day, but deathly quiet at night. For a city that never sleeps, it’s the most daunting.
Having slipped out of the house while all the others passed out from exhaustion, I made my way here in one of my cars—the unmarked one Valentino would recognize the minute I parked alongside the curb. So, whether I’m ready or not, he already knows I’m here. And now, I have to push aside whatever reservations I have and make my way inside.
Looking down both sides of the street, I begin making my way toward the front door. But, as my hand lands on the smooth, golden handle, a reflection causes me to stop in my tracks. Glancing over my shoulder, my mouth practically hangs to the ground as I see Dom and Carina standing on the other side of the street. Normally, I don’t show any type of emotion—to make the kill that much more menacing. But right now, I can’t help it.
Dom, in the same black clothes they left the house in, is covered with a darker substance. Blood. Dried blood that meticulously blends in with his clothing.
Thinking quickly, I head down the alley located next to Valentino’s headquarters. I peek around the corner just as Carina and Dom come to a stop in front of the doors, my heart thumping wildly in my chest. What are they doing here? I inwardly groan, knowing they’re about to poke a bear they don’t know is deadlier than Carina ever could be.
After they disappear inside, I silently make my way around the corner and come to a stop in front of his office. Peeking inside, I see both of them head straight past the secretary, making their way to what they think is John Stewart’s office. My insides churn, causing nausea to roll through me.
They have no idea who they’re about to get involved with. Grasping the handle, I quietly make my way inside. The moment I walk through the door, the secretary—who knows the ins and outs of Valentino’s business—gives me a wide-eyed stare. She’s pleading with me to do something, but what the heck does she expect me to do? I can’t go in there and blow my cover. In my line of business, that’s the last thing I need to do. Because in doing so, I’ll sign my own death certificate.
Placing my finger in front of my mouth, I shush her into silence. It’s a universal sign that I’ll take care of it, even though I have no idea what the hell I’m going to do. All I know is … I need to do something. Because if Carina and Dom start digging too much, they will be my next assignment. And if we bring Mateo back alive, he’s not going to like that I have to kill his wife and best friend because they stuck their nose where it didn’t belong.
Thinking quickly, my gaze wanders over the interior of the room. The same décor greets my senses, reminding me of stepping into my grandparents’ home. Formica floors cause my eyes to bleed. The fake plants in the corner have more wear and tear since the last time I was here, but nonetheless, shine with their false brilliance. Well-worn chairs grace the side of the wall in the waiting area, and the paintings hanging scattered throughout the office look innocent to the eyes, but only a select few know the difference.
When my eyes land on the door that leads into the makeshift kitchen, a plan starts formulating in my mind. This shit is going to suck, and I’ll pay for it later, but it will get Carina and Dom out of the crosshairs and far away from that demented son of a bitch.
Because, if I know Valentino like I think I do, any person who comes looking for information who isn’t myself or someone in our organization, he’ll kill them right on the spot. Carina and Dom don’t know they just stepped into the blazes of hell, but it’s my job to rescue them before they feel the lick of the flame.
13
MATEO
Just a little more … Just a little more …
The mantra repeats itself in my mind like to the meditation of a monk. I don’t know how many days have passed since I was taken. I have no recollection of anything beyond the four walls that surround me. Nonetheless, all of that is about to change. It’s been hours since she’s been here, and longer since she’s taunted me.
I’m done with it. This is where it ends. Just as soon as I get out of these binds, I’m going to wash the grime and defecation off me and lie in wait for her return. She thinks she can humiliate me and get away with it? I don’t fucking think so. I’m about to show her what it means to mess with me.
Carefully moving the knife to and fro, I watch with barely refrained excitement as the rope frays a bit more each time. Each slack gives me an ounce of hope I didn’t have previously. It’s taken me hours to get to this point. Only having centimeters to move here and there to get the knife exactly how I want it. It took me even longer to scrape my chair across the floor and bump the table until one of the instruments fell from the top into my lap—the whole time hoping it didn’t fall right side down and jab me in the leg.
Thankfully, it landed in my lap with a soft thwack. The easy part was over by then. The next step was getting it into my hands so I could cut myself free. Now that proved to be a task that seemed unreachable. Sweat had peppered my forehead, breaking away to slowly trek down the side of my face. It dripped off my jawline, wetting the knees of my pants as I focused solely on getting that knife in my hand.
Shimmying this way and that, I finally got the handle wedged between my knees. My heart set up permanent residence in my stomach when I thought I’d lost it on my first attempt. The handle had dislodged from between my knees, but luckily, the tip caught on my slacks.
Cari
na may say what she wants about God, but I know he was watching me at that moment. Giving me the chance to turn the tables on the person doing me wrong. I may not be the most innocent person out there, but there is one thing for certain—I never doubt my faith. And he was showing me just why I never should.
From there, I slid my legs and the rope up the bottom of the chair. I had just enough leeway with the ropes on my wrists to slide my arm farther down and grasp my weapon. Ignorant little wench didn’t even use a chair with a brace between the legs of it. A rookie mistake she’ll never live to make again.
Now, for the past—what feels like forever—I’ve been systematically cutting through this rope. All the while, hoping she didn’t come barging downstairs and catch me. I’m not scared of her. Nor am I concerned of what she will do when she finds out I’ve freed myself.
I want my freedom to take her by surprise. I want to relish the fear living and breathing within her crystal blue depths as I torture her until she draws her last breath. If she were to come in before I’m able to get out of this predicament, clean myself up of the degradation she’s made me succumb to—then she will win. And I refuse to lose to a pathetic slit like her. Be damned.
My eyes stay glued to the complex work of the knife as it slowly slices through each intricate braid in the rope. Nerves I’ve never felt before start building inside me. Just a little more, and I will be able to gain my freedom. Be back in charge of my life and the people that surround me.
The sound of a door slamming causes me to jerk suddenly, the knife skittering to the floor. I watch with frustration lining my brow as it disappears underneath the table. Growling under my breath, I try pulling against the bonds, hoping I’ve cut the rope enough to at least be able to break the ropes. But no such luck. Although frayed, they still hold strong in their quest to keep me Camille’s captive.