Foretold (A Ghost Gifts Novel Book 2)

by Laura Spinella

  Jude stood and removed his suit jacket, hanging it over the back of the chair. “The atmosphere is always so damn oppressive in this state.” He sat again, offering no outward reaction. “I see where we are. We’ve reached our biannual negotiation.”

  “We’re not negotiating anything.”

  Jude tapped his fingers on the desktop, swinging the chair slightly to take in the party view. Father O’Laughlin patted Emerald on the head; Kieran dried off near the edge of the pool. “How about this?” Jude swiveled back around. “I understand your state of employment continues to be . . . fluid. By now you’ve learned that decent work for a grifter, even one with a surprisingly good résumé, is difficult. My guess is you might be open to opportunities. I have one. I’m even willing to up the ante. It comes with a title: vice president of land development—residential and commercial projects. Has a nice ring, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You’re not getting this. I’m done.” Zeke rose from the chair.

  “Hear me out for old times’ sake.” Jude pointed to the door, and Max shored up his shoulders, which ran nearly the width of the exit. Zeke begrudgingly sat again. “It’s an interesting endeavor. Serino Enterprises has a small but special casino project going. We’re calling it ‘the Eli.’ It’s part investment, part family honor. You have strong feelings about family, right, Zeke?”

  “Mine. Yes. But—”

  “Bruno’s wife, Suzanne, she spearheaded the idea.” Jude breathed deeply, as if the memory troubled him. “It’s yet another attempt to pay homage to their dead son. Terribly . . . terribly sad story, have you ever heard it?”

  “Bits and pieces. And I’m sorry for their loss, but it’s not going to—”

  “Years ago, the boy hung himself in the foyer of their Massachusetts home.” Zeke blinked at the blunt fact. “Could you imagine having to endure anything so awful?”

  “As a matter of fact, I—”

  Jude kept on talking. “While Eli’s death was more than a decade ago, I suppose it’s the kind of thing from which a parent never really recovers. I felt it important to show solidarity. My support means a great deal to Bruno.” He smiled at Zeke. “And keeps him guessing as to how deep my loyalty runs.” He sighed. “Sadly, Suzanne’s been in and out of mental health institutions since the boy’s suicide. She’s had the most difficult time keeping a grip on reality. Bruno’s tried—he’s gone as far as to purchase her a home in every community Serino Enterprises owns. Regretfully, a change of scenery hasn’t done much to dilute her demons.”

  “Maybe she’s earned them.”

  “A possibility, I’m sure.” Jude looked down at his tie, straightening it. “To be perfectly frank, Suzanne’s mental health is my lesser concern. A larger one is the price of indulgence, what Bruno’s appeasement has cost Serino Enterprises.” He brushed at the silky neckwear and refocused on Zeke. “To assuage Bruno and ease our development costs—God knows what he’ll build next to keep Suzanne’s feet planted in reality—I agreed to support the Eli project. Bruno and I have even made a ‘blood bond’ over it, so to speak.”

  “A what?” Zeke shook his head at the dizzying streak of information.

  “Not so much blood—that would be a bit Game of Thrones-ish, but a bond, nonetheless.” Jude unbuttoned his crisp shirtsleeve and hitched it up. On the inner part of his forearm was a tattoo, an emblem that appeared to be a dark brown swirling capital E. “If nothing else, it makes for a fine logo, interesting family pledge of body art. We’ve never had a crest. This seemed appropriate. The tattoo unifies the Eli project; in fact, we’d like everyone involved to get one. And just to deepen that well of loyalty to my brother, I’m paying a $5,000 bonus for takers. The Local 409 Cement and Plasterers Union signed right up.”

  “Uh-huh. If that’s your next play, Jude. But I don’t see what any of it has to do with me.”

  Jude bent his head, resting it on his fist. He made some notes on a piece of paper as he spoke. “While I initially hired you as part of our terms for repayment of Ian’s debt, I must admit your negotiating skills have impressed me.” He looked up. “You did a good job for us, Zeke. You added value to my side of the business.”

  Guilt and irony dug further into Zeke. Apparently, the only way he could achieve anything in life was by way of the family that had killed his. “Look, I—”

  The study door burst open and Kieran plowed through.

  “Hey, kid!” Max said. “You can’t just—” He took a menacing step toward the boy.

  Jude held up a hand. “Max. Don’t be absurd. This is Kieran’s home. I should think he can burst in wherever he likes.” Clutched in the boy’s hand was a remote-control helicopter. It went with the train set Uncle Jude arrived with that day. “Kieran, did you have a good swim? Come around here and see me.” With the gift in hand, the boy obeyed, Zeke fighting the urge to scoop him up as he darted past. Damp bathing suit and all, Jude pulled the boy to him.

  “You said we could fly it! Can we, Uncle Jude?”

  “Of course we can. I just need to finish up a chat with Uncle Zeke—you know he works for me.”

  “Used to,” Zeke said.

  Either way, the boy shrugged, spinning the copter blades with his finger.

  “Back to our initial conversation and my point. After a stretch of unemployment and some reality, would a prominent position and title sway you?”

  “You’re not getting this, Jude. I can’t give you any more winning predictions because I don’t have any. It’s over. They’re gone.”

  “Gone?” Jude rolled his dark eyes. “Really? Then at least do me the courtesy of explaining why a sure thing has suddenly gone south. Whatever your formula or system . . . I’m to believe it’s magically come to an end?”

  “It’s not a system. It’s not a formula or insider information.”

  “Then what is it?” Jude huffed, tolerating what surely he deemed a stall tactic.

  Zeke began a reply, opened his mouth, and closed it. “What the fuck,” he muttered.

  “Uncle Zeke!” Kieran’s fair eyes peeled wide.

  “Sorry, Kieran. Unfortunately, cursing is at the low end of the things I’m going to owe for.” Zeke hesitated, and let the truth fly. “It’s a box, Jude. An old letter box full of paper scraps. Anyone who didn’t know better wouldn’t look twice at it, would label it junk and throw it out. But the crazy truth is that it’s filled with foretelling promises. Predictions, none of which ever belonged to me. The winnings you’ve benefited from . . . and other more ominous foretellings.”

  “Ominous foretellings?” he said, as if listening to a fable.

  “Most prognostications are about accidents and crimes, catastrophes and horrible events. Others weren’t. Years ago, when Nora and I were homeless teenagers, I took one of the positive predictions. I shouldn’t have. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be sitting here now while you try and bribe me, after blackmailing me for years.” Zeke’s gaze drifted to their nephew. “Or are we back to that? No matter what gifts you arrived with, I can see it. Are Kieran . . . Emerald, next in your game of threats?”

  Jude was quiet, his wide brow tightening. Then he laughed, hugging their nephew harder. It was a great, Santa-like belly laugh, laced with a touch of insanity, and it had Kieran laughing too. Jude pointed a finger at Zeke. “You almost had me. I mean, it’s as good an explanation as any for such innate knowledge.”

  A humorless Zeke stared back. The boy squirted from his uncle’s grasp, fiddling with the helicopter at the edge of the desk.

  “Fine. All right. I’ll play.” Jude folded his arms and settled in for a story. “If that’s the case, tell me more. Who did the predictions belong to, and how did this . . . soothsayer arrive at both such ominous and profitable conclusions?”

  Zeke’s expression went blank; he guffawed. “Sure. If you really want to know, they’re ghost gifts.”

  “Ghost . . . ?”

  “Gifts,” he said. “An unexplainable psychic phenomenon, passed from the spirit world to a man in t
his one. Why or how, I couldn’t begin to explain. They belonged to Peter Ellis. He’s dead now—a long time. So good luck tracking him down, squeezing him for any more prognostications.”

  Jude shook his head. “What a ghoulishly delicious tale, but I don’t follow the specifics.”

  Zeke thought for a moment. What further harm could come from the truth? “Peter Ellis had a psychic gift. I never met the man—I know his mother and his daughter.”

  “Aubrey Ellis.”

  Hearing Jude speak Aubrey’s name, Zeke startled. On second thought, maybe honesty wasn’t the best route.

  “I never forget a name, Zeke. Especially if it belongs to the woman a man in my employ happens to be in love with.” Jude grinned at the fact Zeke did not want him to touch. “We spoke about her years ago, when you first came to work for me. Don’t you remember? We were exchanging love stories about loss. I told you of my Tilda.”

  He did his best to recover, to protect Aubrey. “Aubrey has nothing to do with her father’s gift—not that it matters, because like I said, he’s dead, and the winning names and numbers are gone.”

  Jude studied Zeke with a long, leering gaze. “How incredibly convenient.”

  “It’s not convenient. It’s the truth.”

  “It’s the most farcical explanation I’ve ever heard.” Jude huffed at him. “From liberals to grifters, people will say anything to keep capitalists from benefiting.”

  “Uncle Jude, can we go now?” Kieran said, the child having exhausted his patience.

  “We’ll go when we’re through here!”

  The boy gulped, inching closer to Zeke.

  “Kieran, go see if your mom knows where the batteries are. I think that helicopter’s going to need a handful.” Zeke gave him a nudge toward the door, which Max opened, and the boy sprinted through.

  “I don’t want to hear any more absurdity about ghost gifts, Zeke, or boxes brimming with foretellings of the future. I came here today bearing more than an olive branch. I brought you a fucking tree.” He blinked hard, his expression grim. “Be smart and plant it. I’ve never asked for a specific prediction, but I need one now. I need the winner of the Lopez-Wilder fight. In return, I’m offering you an executive-level position. It’s beyond fair. Why the fuck are you being so stubborn?” On his arm, a vein wound through the decorative E tattoo; it pulsed, casting an eerie effect on the body art.

  “Why do you need it?” Zeke countered. “Why is it so important? So you can unfairly win a prize fight that in the Serino world amounts to chump change? For a cheap thrill and an excuse to smoke one of your fucking eighty-dollar cigars—buffer the memory of the dead love of your life? I don’t get it. Smoke the fucking cigar anyway. And like I said before, your Tilda’s better off without you.”

  From the look on Jude’s face, Zeke guessed the last remark went too far. But what the fuck, he’d already said it.

  “You’re incredibly naïve, Zeke. Do you really think this is about an expensive cigar, or even a distraction from my memories of Tilda?” A laptop sat on the desk. Zeke hadn’t realized it belonged to Jude. He opened it and spun it toward Zeke. On the screen was a spreadsheet. It was similar to ones that tracked Serino real estate profits and losses. The amounts escalated, well into hundreds of thousands of dollars, dozens of entries. Zeke furrowed his brow. But this wasn’t Serino Enterprises accounting. Zeke had heard these names over the years, people attached to Jude’s conversations. Most had reputations more unsavory than Jude’s. Then it crystallized, the ways in which Jude had expanded upon and profited from Peter Ellis’s ghost gifts.

  “Understand, Zeke—these aren’t just my wins. You’re a fool if you think I’m the only one who’s benefited. My ability to be the crown prince of gaming—whether it’s lottery wins or a myriad of sporting events—has turned many heads. Over time, people who wield a great deal of power, in return for a sure thing, have provided me with substantial leverage in business dealings, as well as a percentage of their earnings.” He picked up the helicopter, which Kieran had left on the desk. “Take a look.” He motioned to the screen. “It’s kept me a step ahead of Bruno, and it’s far more than chump change.”

  In reply, Zeke banged an index finger against the screen. “That’s your doing, Jude. Your mess.” Zeke leaned back in his chair. “I told you, I can’t help you.”

  “I wish your regrets were that easy. A simple request, followed by an artless decline. But the fact is I have no intention of disappointing my investors. I can’t, Zeke. Not because you’ve grown some balls, found a backbone.”

  “I can’t give you what I don’t have.”

  Jude nodded fervently. “Hardball it is.”

  Zeke glanced over his shoulder at Max. He tightened his jaw, wondering how badly it would hurt when it came unhinged. But Jude wasn’t giving his gorilla a command; he was shoving papers in front of Zeke.

  “What?” He half looked at the thick packet of pages. “Has Ian imploded another Serino business, or have you just gone full tilt and rigged his complete financial ruin?”

  “No, I feel we’ve run the course with Ian, don’t you? Besides, I don’t have any janitorial positions to offer him. That said, you’re remarkably close.” Jude’s dark gaze met Zeke’s. “I haven’t rigged Ian’s financial ruin. I’ve rigged yours.”

  For the next half hour, he listened to Jude’s well-drawn plot, which by comparison did make Zeke’s murderous revenge look like a stick-figure sketch. With salivating energy, Jude explained that along with his own wins and the wins of his investors, he’d been doubling down on his bets and winning for Zeke as well. “Honestly, it just didn’t strike me as fair,” Jude lamented, “that myself and others should be the only ones profiting from your brilliant predictions. But as you’ll see, according to these statements from the IRS, the government has caught up with your unreported earnings.”

  “My unreported earnings?”

  “Why yes.” He pointed to a paper that referenced Zeke’s Serino Enterprises W-2 and a shitload of wins Zeke linked to bets he did not place or profit from. “Naturally, as your former employer, the IRS began their inquiry with me and my knowledge.”

  Zeke gulped at the setup—more like the tip-off Jude had supplied to them.

  Jude paused his plot to extract a signature cigar from his suit jacket and went about the process of cutting the tip. “So here’s the deal, Zeke.” Jude never took his eyes off the pricey smoke. “Your decision today will greatly influence what I decide to tell the bookkeepers at the IRS. This is your call.” He examined the cigar and the precise cut he made. “Those papers could be nothing more than a simple mix-up—I have contacts at the IRS. There are as many employees willing to . . . look the other way as there are bloodhounds for the cause.” He glanced at Zeke and back at his cigar. “However, with no assistance from me . . .” Jude produced a lighter, toasting the foot. The air filled with the acrid scent of rolled tobacco. “I suspect it’s the bloodhounds that will have your name. Even worse, they might have my cooperation regarding your ill-gotten gains.” He pointed the cigar at the paperwork. “Among the details, you’ll find a large-print notation citing the potential forty-year prison sentence regarding tax evasion of this magnitude.”

  Slow realization sank in. By way of Peter Ellis’s stolen ghost gifts, Zeke had become Jude Serino’s mark. He thudded into the leather chair, wishing he’d brought his gun to the First Communion. In this moment, he would have guiltlessly splattered Jude’s blood and brains all over the Montagues’ homey backyard view.

  “Naturally,” Jude said, interrupting Zeke’s mental collision with reality. “I appreciate how upsetting a situation like this is. I wouldn’t want your cooperation without reward, so here’s what I’m willing to do. I’ll keep that leafy tree I offered extended. You’re welcome to return to my end of Serino Enterprises. All I ask is you bring your assets and that we don’t have this conversation again. In return, I’ll almost guarantee—”

  “Almost?” Zeke said.

  W
ith a practiced turn, Jude rolled the cigar between his lips, letting the flame lap at the end. He removed the cigar, staring at Zeke. “Surely you can agree. What good would an instant correction to your life do me? I believe that’s the basis of a persuasive argument.” Jude glanced around the desktop. “Damn. I don’t believe the Montagues own any ashtrays.” He dumped the pens from the pencil holder of the leather desk set, repurposing it. “The Lopez-Wilder fight is months away. Whatever your method, that’s plenty of time for you to come up with the winner. Pedestrian predictions are heavy.” He puffed on the cigar, the red tip burning steadily in Zeke’s face. “The right bet, the right winner, and I’m claiming a heavy purse, along with my many investors.” Zeke opened his mouth and closed it. “Do the smart thing, Zeke. Come up with that winning name.”

  The leather squeaked as Zeke pressed into the chair, cigar smells weaving tightly through the study and his lungs. His stomach lurched on the potent scent and promised future. Zeke stared at the hot red glow; it looked like hell. Without a ghost gift to be had, Zeke could see Jude’s point. A cigar was the least of what was about to get burned.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Surrey, Massachusetts

  Present Day

  Aubrey wasn’t exactly sure how they ended up in her bedroom. When Zeke arrived, the impromptu visit began on the porch swing, but cloud cover and a chilly wind had driven them indoors. She’d gotten further behind on chores: general decluttering, unloading the dishwasher, watering plants. Necessity drove the tasks as a soothing back-and-forth exchange accompanied Aubrey, fluffing sofa pillows and sweeping dust bunnies out from beneath the dining room table.