The Enforcer (The Gafanelli Mob series Book 4)

by Natalie Wrye

  Because she makes no noise. With one palm pressed firmly against my chest, she pushes me to the back of the room, her fingers splayed, white-knuckled against my white-collared shirt.

  Her eyes glass over with alarm, the panic inside making the white and blue orbs wide. Her heart-shaped lips are closed. Her face is stone, and her body language is frenzied. Every bit of the emotion that she seems to bottle up is shining right through her manic stare. And in a matter of a minute, something else is beaming right towards me… A blue-white light shining in my direction from the center of a cell phone screen.

  I look down at the text on its surface and read.

  And in national news, FBI officials have begun a search for escaped prisoners from New York State’s Penitentiary after an overnight break-out. FBI reps have yet to discuss the names of the prison escapees, but ask that if you have any information about the details of this incident, please…”

  The news report’s following words fade into a white noise of oblivion, and I can’t think above the roar that’s in my head. My fingers are shaking, fiending for a fucking cigarette, and before I’m able to speak, Angie does it for me, her words soft, her intake of air sharp. My pulse picks up as the next words fall from her lips, each syllable as heavy as an anvil… and just as deadly.

  I already know what she will say before she does. I wait for it.

  She pauses. “He broke out. The Gafanelli’s old Enforcer. They say he escaped from prison and is already on the loose.” She exhales. “According to all accounts, Mr. Deadly himself Marco Morelli is now a free man.”

  Confidently Lost

  JAVI

  A branch digs into the fleshy part of my forearm, dragging its claws into me so deep that it draws blood that drips down to my elbow.

  I notice the cut… but I don’t even feel the pain.

  I grab the branch, gripping it hard, letting the bark bite in my palms before I snap it violently, cracking it in half and throwing it to the ground. In the time it takes to do this, it begins to feel real. Like somebody’s throat.

  Like Delilah’s throat.

  I could strangle the life out of her right now. But that’s not possible.

  Because she’s gone, long gone, her hotel room empty.

  I sat, staring at the empty walls of her room, confused, until comprehension finally sunk its teeth into me. Nearly seven days.

  Of talking, traveling, fighting to stay alive. With me.

  And Del never said one word.

  I crumple the flyer with Marco Morelli’s face on it still in my hands, anger searing itself into my chest. If I wasn’t so fucking pissed off, I might have laughed.

  What an awful, sadistic pair we made. It’s almost one of those poorly written clichéd jokes.

  Two liars walk into a cupcake shop. A manipulator meets a deceiver and…

  Argh. I run a tired hand down my face, ignoring the sticky blood still sitting on my arm. I’ve never felt so frustrated in my entire life… and I’ve dealt with some fucked up situations. I’ve been a giant ball of tension since I packed up the rest of my luggage this morning and set out.

  I stand there, the dawn’s warm light hitting my face, the sound of hound dogs echoing through the air as I stuff the rest of my things into my bag while I considered the two choices being presented to me:

  One… Leave Delilah. Continue on the Enforcer’s trail. Forget she exists.

  Two… Leave my post. Risk everything. Find Del.

  I finally look down on the cut on my arm, feeling entranced by its sting. It suddenly hurts. It took a while but there it is. The pain. It always comes. Eventually. And I know I won’t be able to stop it.

  Daybreak happened several hours ago, and several hours later… the search party is still looking. The dark of dawn has dwindled down to nothingness, and I am chronologically closer to a new sun than I am to the one that just set behind me.

  And Marco… He is still missing.

  After being called to the assembling search party, I moved with a fervor that I didn’t know I possessed, cutting my way across land and water faster than my injured body should allow. I barely take breathers, opting to walk and climb in the fear of losing precious time to dawdling. I can’t risk a small shower break, can’t afford much of a “bathroom” pause, either.

  Her life depends on it.

  The cloak of noon falls heavily upon me, and the hotter the day becomes, the quicker I move, the farther I press onward. Scrapes now cover my body like decoration, and the moisture of sweat is now an ever-present sheet on my body. My voice is hoarse from the repeated yelling, and the name now coming out from my lips isn’t that of the man I’m looking for, but instead a caress, a whisper between my chapped lips.

  I smell nothing. I hear nothing. I think nothing… but Del.

  Del. Del. Del.

  She is out here, somewhere. Defenseless. Empty-handed. Solitary. I have to find Marco. But I need her more.

  The niggling needle of exhaustion pricks my skin once more, and I push it away, willing my body to ignore the pull of sleep or rest. Every time I think of sleep, I imagine her long brown hair. Every time I think of sitting, I see those big blue eyes, staring back at me.

  I remember that look of pure fear in her face, the unadulterated dread that lay there when she fixed her ocean-colored eyes in my direction in her shop, a gun pressed to her tiny temple. A shared but unspoken knowledge passed between us in that moment.

  It was like we knew it. We knew we were supposed to meet here. Even if it was the worst of circumstances. I never want to see that look in her eyes again. The thought alone that it may be there right now propels me like a missile.

  I’m still thinking about her face when the young agent, Edgecomb, saddles up beside me, his blond brows squinting into the light. He wipes the back of his hand against his forehead, huffing as he falls in step beside me. His voice is a groan.

  “Man, it’s hot,” he grunts.

  “It’s mid-day in spring, Edgecomb. Of course it’s hot.”

  “Think we’ll find Morelli?” he winces.

  “No,” I shoot back. “Fifty FBI agents and more than two hundred local policeman have gotten together to search because we don’t think we’ll find him…” I slap the teeny-bopper associate on the shoulder. “Use your head, man.”

  He nods. “Okay,” he breathes, exhaling. “It’s just that this is one of my first one of these. You know, search parties. And I’m really excited.” He stuffs his hands in his FBI-embroidered jacket. “Though, I don’t know if we’re supposed to be this excited. Chasing a killer? Going full on man-hunt for a guy who wastes people away for the Gafanellis? Kind of gets your juices flowing, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh yeah.” I tilt my head to the sky, staring at the incoming storm clouds. “I definitely feel juicy.”

  I look ahead at the many men ahead of us, equipped with guns and hounds, their eyes glued to forest dirt floor, their meaty heads on a swivel as they scour through the barren trees, the thunder starting to roll over our heads.

  And I wonder if they have any idea how close I am to abandoning this assignment, to taking off to find Del. I wonder if they have any tiny inkling that two weeks ago, I’d been in these same exact woods. Hiding my own secrets. Burying my own bodies. Literally. And I wonder if they have any notion that there is more than one dangerous man in this forest. That there’s two.

  The second is undoubtedly me. But not for long…

  Fuck. I pause, swinging at another low-lying branch that threatens to dig into me, a mere preface of the obstacles to come. It is another warning sign, another alarm flagging me to go back the way I came, to make the other choice.

  But it’s too late. I’ve already chosen my fate. And dammit, I made that decision far too easily.

  Used To

  DELILAH

  I feel the touch still running through my hair. The hot tears searing the back of my eyelids, my throat drier than ever, I sit on my Aunt Reba’s back porch, my hair in my hands, my stomach s
wirling once again from the mix of liquor that refuses to leave my lips.

  And the smell… Oh God, the smell.

  Only this time it isn’t coming from me. And before I can move away from the wretched stench, it settles in beside my body, wafting off the big figure that moves in to sit at the bottom of the stair by my feet.

  Chuck Clifford could never be mistaken for light on his toes. A hunking wall of a man, he was heavy-footed in all he did, his chest just as wide as the tree trunks he mistook for legs. His humongous presence crowds me as he walks past. And as he hunkers down by my side, squatting until he sits, the wooden planks supporting the porch groan beneath his weight, the bulky structure sighing just as heavy as I do.

  I raise my head, swiping a hand at my tears to keep them at bay. Chucky grins into my face, his tiny teeth white in the virtual dark. He smiles.

  “’Cha doing out here by yourself, Delilah? Smoking a spliff?” He laughs at his own joke.

  “No, Chuck,” I grunt, swallowing bile. “I don’t smoke. And even if I did, I wouldn’t do it here. My old Aunt Reba is blind, but not stupid.”

  I rub my eyes to clear the tears, the taste going out of my mouth as I spit. That was it. I was never drinking again.

  Especially with the smell of the beer bath coming off of Good Old Chucky’s reddened skin. Swathed in a jersey that barely fit his meaty frame, he twists towards me, his eyes leery, his hands moving constantly as he fidgets with the front of his shirt. He winks conspiratorially.

  “A shame, really. Some smoke might loosen you up. Look at you. It’s a party. And you’re out here, all alone, not enjoying it.”

  I fix him with a stare. “I know, Chuck,” I shoot back. “It’s my party that we’re at. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone now. I don’t feel so good. I’ll be back in the party in a minute.” I scoff, my smile dry. “Why don’t you enjoy what’s left of it?”

  I look back down at the porch, my gaze going to the big brown slabs beneath me. I hang my head. But then I feel those hands again, stroking. That unwanted touch. It tickles across the top of my head, and when I raise my gaze again, I find Chuck already on his feet, looking down at me, his large physique towering over my own.

  He glares down at me.

  “Why enjoy the party in there?” he comments slowly. “When we can have our own out here, Del?”

  He grabs for my hair again, fondling. And I immediately recoil. I stand to my feet.

  “For fuck’s sake,” I exhale, turning back up the empty steps. “Good night, Chuck.”

  His hand clamps over my wrist, and suddenly the light caresses aren’t light anymore, and his fingers squeeze in a bruising grip, pinching my skin, compressing with enough pressure to break bone. I wince but nothing comes out of my mouth. My throat is too dry. The quiet cry I hear in my head dies the moment it hits my lips and soon the subconscious scream is replaced by Chucky’s mouth which presses down onto mine. Hard. The Frankenstein freak of a football player plants frantic kisses all over my face, and I fight for breath in a frenzy, my lungs desperate to take in any air that isn’t alcohol-soaked.

  He stinks of liquor and desperation.

  I push at him, slapping at bits of his bare skin, my hand stinging with each hit. “No,” I finally manage to get out. “No, Chuck. Fucking stop it.” I breathe heavily, alarm gripping my esophagus. “Stop right now. I fucking mean it.”

  But it’s as if he doesn’t hear me. His hands move willfully, purposefully—unmercifully over my body. Poking. Prodding. Pressing at any piece of me they can find.

  And as fresh tears start to well in my eyes, my frustration and fear building to breaking points, I notice a man come from behind Chuck suddenly, seeming out of the shadows. The hair on his head is dark, his countenance deeper still, and he grabs towards the body of the high school sports star with one hand, his stare menacing, his presence as hot as the early summer air.

  And it happens so fast if I blink I would miss it.

  Mr. Shadows grabs Chucky’s fingers, twisting. I hear a decisive snap and Chuck nearly buckles at the knee, his pained grunt muffles as the stranger covers Chuck’s mouth with his other hand.

  The smell of the alcohol is gone, the heat of Chucky’s close body dissipated, and the two men face each other, almost appearing as if they are in the middle of a tango, wrapped together in the most grotesque of ways… with one man trapped painfully beneath another’s crushing grip.

  I want to scream, but can’t. I don’t even know what I would say if I could.

  Would I cry out to Chucky? Would I urge them to stop? Or would I call for the unknown man that’s appeared, the stranger? The sinister-looking figure who was essentially saving me from him?

  I’m too confused for words. So I say none.

  I watch in gaping horror, marveling at how in the midst of the other drunken patrons, our little scene goes completely unseen.

  Nobody seems to notice. Or care. I doubt they can even tell what is happening. They all laugh, drink and cavort. Chuck and the Man from the Shadows, to the outsider, might just appear to be having a conversation.

  A very, very close one.

  Only I can tell what’s going down… and with who. The infamous high school running back. Crouching in agony, his sturdy stature shrunken beneath the hovering figure of the tall and broad intruder. I can’t help but stare at him. The mysterious tall built man too hidden in the dark to make out.

  God, he seems so damned familiar…

  I gasp, as he leans in, speaking into Chucky’s reddened ear. There’s tension in his muscular neck. A vein pulses there, and as Mr. Shadows continues talking to Chuck, his stance serious, his body strained, I find myself wanting to say something—anything.

  What the hell is going on? I feel the need to know what he’s saying. Is he saying anything at all…? And why was Chucky ever so slightly shaking from it?

  My intrigue gets the best of me, and just as I move in, to my complete surprise, Chuck moves away, hobbling, his face twisted into a grimace. Not facing me, he turns towards the far corner of the backyard, never looking back. He disappears among the crowd, head down, his quick steps swallowed by the sea of music and laughter that close around him completely, cutting him off from me.

  I don’t know whether to follow or fret.

  Chuck was leaving me alone with Mr. Shadows, the mystery savior. The bold new moon overhead now soaks him in a silver and blue light as he comes farther into sight, and when his green-ish teal eyes fix on me, his tall frame seemingly formed from stone, and I glare at him, unsure, watching the grin in his eyes sweep my uncertainty out the door.

  He looks right at me. And I grab his hand, whispering.

  “My hero.”

  And suddenly, I stir to life, waking up from where I slept all night, my neck crooked, my body taut.

  I haven’t awoken this early in months. The forest has a different life in the dawn, a sort of sleepy awakening. Back at my Aunt Reba’s house, the dreams and memories shift to fit my environment and even in the small cabin that sits several miles off the highway, the atmosphere sings of vitality, the birds outside chirping the coming of great beginnings.

  I only wish those beginnings were my own.

  Melanie is still asleep. I can feel it. The house is quiet amidst these Southern Jersey backwoods, and even still under the cover of last night’s dwindling moonlight, I know I’ve made the right decision.

  No one will find us here. Not even Javi. Not now, at least…

  Hiding out from the world was my best bet to save me and Melanie—the only part of my world that truly matters anymore, and still with three nights behind me since Senator Fletcher’s dinner and with Javier Mondello in Manhattan, I feel the icy breath of fear on the back of my neck at all times, trickling down my spine while I sleep, pricking at my skin when I’m awake.

  Even now.

  The dream world has reached into my reality, and I clamp a hand around my dry mouth, a raspy cough caught in my thirst-ridden throat. The hardwo
od floor barely creaks as I creep up off the couch. Swinging my feet off the scratchy blanket covering Aunt Reba’s ancient sofa, I pad my bare feet over the living room floor, hugging myself in my small t-shirt and shorts as I walk towards the pink, ruddy dawn just outside the kitchen windows.

  I open the screen door leading to the back porch with a swing, careful not to slam. I inhale the crisp morning air. Dew squishes between my bare toes. And the sounds of the busy surrounding forest, the scent of the green grass and the moisture of an overnight rain almost numb me from the Déjà vu I feel as soon as I cross that familiar wooden porch, my mind pushing away the past.

  It’s a chilled, wet, silent day already and as I walk to Aunt Reba’s tomato garden, preparing to pluck a few ripe ones for breakfast, I almost swear I hear a soft sound coming from not too far away.

  I shrug it off, glancing at the nearby squirrels.

  I open my arms to the air, letting the sunshine burn out last night’s doubt. I find a renewed resolve in this barely there daylight that I couldn’t quite discover late last night, and I dismiss my misgivings from the last three nights, vowing to keep my mouth shut, my eye on the prize, and my mind off Javier Mondello.

  I don’t know what good it would do to say anything now, anyway. What’s done is done. Why rock an already unstable boat?

  I smile to myself sadly, extracting more of the red-orange fruit from the vine with a push and a pull. I’m almost finished filling the small buckets I’ve brought when another soft noise catches my ear, making my heart beat harder. I grab the heavy, filled pails and turn.

  Find You

  JAVI

  The thud my heart gives is loud enough for her to hear. I’m sure of it.

  The traitorous organ knocks out loud, and now it is beating with a rhythm that I’m sure doesn’t occur in nature, pulsing with a pace that would put me into an emergency room when it realizes that the person now walking towards me across the overgrown “yard” is none other than Del herself.