by Shandi Boyes
“I gave your business proposal my utmost devotion the past week. The figures cited are impressive considering the lack of capital needed, and it appears as if you have infrastructure and clientele at the ready.” The faces of the men seated around me gleam with hope, optimistic I’m about to approve their baby-making facility. “But…” I wait to ensure they have plenty of time to absorb the snip of annoyance in my tone before continuing, “Operations like this don’t sit well with me. I want to drag my family’s name out of the mud, not smear it with more dirt.”
“But Dimitri, your father—”
“Lost the ability to make decisions for this sanction many moons ago,” I interrupt, equally frustrated and shocked someone had the gall to speak against me. The day you lose respect in this industry is the day you retire.
I don’t mean to an old folks home. I mean eternal retirement.
When my eyes stray to my contester, the reasoning behind his boldness becomes apparent. Cristo is one of my father’s longest-known associates. He practically ran this chapter of Italy before I arrived. He didn’t like handing over the reins, but he didn’t have much choice. Names open doors in this industry, not decades of service.
“I said no—”
My nostrils flare to suck in a quick breath when Cristo defies me for the second time. “Your father approved our tender. Today’s meeting is merely to tie up loose ends…” His arrogant words are gobbled up by a big swallow when I nudge my head an inch to the right, wordlessly demanding for Clover to move to his side of the room. Clover won’t kill him. He’ll just linger nearby in case he needs to muzzle his mouth. I’d hate for his throaty gargles to frighten his employees.
More times than not, a bullet to the head instantly kills you, but there are a handful of occasions where the bullet doesn’t traverse through the midsection of the brain, leaving the victim gurgling on their blood for a good three or so minutes. It’s rare but possible to survive a bullet wound to the head. I’ve seen it twice in my lifetime.
My lips twist when Cristo goes down without the slightest snivel. I wouldn’t have minded hearing him sob. He was an arrogant prick who should have been taken out with the trash decades ago.
With my gun still hot from being recently fired, I place it on the tabletop along with my palms before roaming my eyes over the group of men staring at me with an equal amount of fear and respect. “This chapter is being placed into involuntary administration. You either let it die quietly or take the exit Cristo just took. The choice is yours.”
Almost all of them hum out a collective agreement that I’ve made the right choice, but a handful aren’t as eager as the rest. They’re the ones I mentally jot down for execution, unforgiving that they could have wives and children relying on their ‘income’ to keep them feed.
Someone will hand their wives a few thousand at their funerals for food and expenses. By the time the money runs out, they’ll have a new ‘man’ taking care of them. That’s how fast things move in this industry.
“Luca, Davis, Porter, and Michel, you’re free to go. The rest of you, place dinner orders with Gia. You’re in for a long night.” A ghost of a smile touches my lips when I drift my eyes to Clover. “Perhaps you can show our unneeded guests the way out?”
The deadly gleam in Clover’s eyes reveals he understands what I’m asking—none of the four men named above will be breathing by the end of tonight—so I don’t need to mention the hearty swallow they do when Clover opens the boardroom door for them. A paid killer only opens the door for you when he’s planning to knife you in the back.
With Clover’s mood appearing as tense as mine, I don’t see the men’s deaths being handled quickly. If that’s the case, I might join him later. Excluding Cristo’s quick, unsatisfied kill mere seconds ago, I haven’t witnessed the weakening of a man’s pulse since I sentenced Eduardo Emanuel Cordova to death for his crimes.
Rocco and I took our time with Eduardo. His murder was more satisfying than Cristo’s, especially when he cried while begging for his life to be spared, but it could have been better. He could have pleaded for forgiveness for what he had done to Roxanne instead of begging for his own pathetic life. We might have gone a little easier on him if he had shown an ounce of remorse. Alas, even bottom-dwellers think their lives are worth more than their female counterparts.
That’s why my daughter was taken and my wife was killed, and it is the very reason I’m not leaving this boardroom until I find out exactly how deep my father’s ties are with already established baby-making facilities.
I’ve wondered for months if my family had anything to do with Audrey’s disappearance. Tonight I will find out. You can put your money on it.
Chapter Eleven
Roxanne
My race into the living room of the one-bedroom apartment I share with Estelle slows when I spot how she’s celebrating Thanksgiving holiday weekend with her new beau. Braydon has her pushed up against a wall our tiny television doesn’t come close to filling. Estelle’s dress is wrapped around her midsection, and Braydon’s hands are hidden in an area I’m going to act like I never saw.
They’re creating their own things to be grateful for, and I’m insanely jealous.
Who doesn’t want a hot, brooding man to pin them to the wall like they’re not slumming it in an apartment that would only look more authentic if it were in the Bronx? A mattress would make things better, but since the only one in this apartment belongs to me, I’d rather they keep their hip-thrusting to the living room. I can sterilize a wall with a little disinfectant. I can’t afford to steam clean an entire mattress.
“Wish me luck?”
When Estelle’s lips drag away from Braydon’s, mine pucker into an air kiss. I can’t get mad about her getting freaky in our living room. She lost the only room in our dingy apartment in a rigged game of rock paper scissors—she always picks rock, by the way—and although I would have the means to rent something fancier if I were willing to sell my grandparents’ ranch, Estelle has never once given me grief about that. As far as I’m concerned, that means Braydon could go down on her right now, and I wouldn’t bat an eyelid. Our friendship is solid, and I don’t see anything ever coming between it.
Despite Estelle being my rock, I’ve been in somewhat of a rut the last twelve months. I was the only witness to a murder, run over by my boyfriend, and accused of his murder. To say it’s been shit is an understatement, but that is all set to change today. I have a job interview—finally!
A year of online courses and many many hours of free labor has been reduced to this. A permanent part-time position at a company I’ve never heard about in a town forty miles from here.
It could be worse. I could have been shortlisted for the position at the old folks’ home. Even someone without a college degree knows that’s a last resort for any twenty-year-old. I understand if you can’t wipe your bottom anymore, someone has to do it for you. I’d just rather that someone not be me.
Estelle smiles a blistering grin when I whine, “I really hope Dimitri isn’t as old as dirt. Momma needs some new pretties, but graveyard ready isn’t the vibe I’m aiming for.”
“Even if he’s as fugly as Mr. Mugly, you’re gonna get down on your knees and peer up at him with your pretty green eyes out in full force. This is the opportunity you’ve been waiting for, and it’s offering thirty-five dollars an hour.” Estelle exhales with a pompous flare. “I’d fiddle with a shriveled-up chunk of shrimp for thirty-five dollars an hour!” After winking off Braydon’s stink-eye like it doesn’t hold any steam, she meets her eyes with mine. The humor glistening in them exposes her dramatic performance was more to ruffle Braydon’s feathers than mine, but it does little to hide her worry. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you? I can sell ice to an Eskimo, so a college dropout with a partial credit for a double business diploma will be a walk in the park.”
Although she can sell meat to a vegetarian, and I wholeheartedly appreciate her offer, I shake my head. “My inte
rview is in Hopeton, and you’re rostered on to work a double tonight. Our schedules are a no-go.”
“Hold up, go back,” Braydon interrupts, talking through his kiss-swollen lips. “You’re going to Hopeton for an interview with a man named Dimitri?”
Nodding, I snag my purse off the kitchen counter before joining them in the living room. Our apartment isn’t a loft. It just feels like one since it’s so tiny. “Have you heard of him?”
“Have I heard of him! My God, Roxie, did your mama drop you on your head?” He grunts like his words jab his heart instead of mine. Even if every word he speaks is true, being truly, madly, and deeply in love won’t stop Estelle from punishing him for talking down to me. Dropping me on my head would have been a kind thing for my mother to do to me. Estelle knows that, and now, so does Braydon.
After issuing his apologies to Estelle with only his eyes, Braydon shifts them to me. They’re riddled with unwarranted guilt. “I’ll come with you.”
“No, Braydon, it’s fine. You’ve got… Estelle to take care of.” That was close. I almost reminded him he has nothing but a substantial inheritance to worry about. That wouldn’t have been very nice considering he’s not once shoved his money into my face.
I’ve reminded myself time and time again the past few months that he isn’t one of the rich snobs I tussled with when trying to have my scholarship reinstated after my ‘accident.’ He’s down-to-earth and kind, and on more than one occasion, he’s offered for me to be his personal assistant even with him having nothing for me to do.
If life were about money, I’d accept his offer in an instant. Alas, I wasn’t born fighting for no reason.
“Estelle has a double shift tonight, so I’d rather you ensure she gets home safely than worry about me. Hopeton is dangerous, but it’s safer than here.”
Confident I have Braydon’s worry honing in on another target, I snatch up my house key before hightailing it to the door.
“We’ll talk about this more tomorrow,” Estelle shouts through our rapidly closing front door.
By ‘this,’ she means me plopping her in the deep end without a life raft. It was deplorable for me to do, but what can I say? If an opportunity presents to shift the focus away from me, I’m happy to take it.
“The agreed price was forty-dollars.” I thrust my iPhone toward the Uber driver’s side of his car to show him our agreement. “We’re still miles from Hopeton.”
He shrugs like it isn’t a big deal he’s asking me to exit his car three miles out of town while wearing heels. It’s chilly, and since his heating is as shitty as his personality, my toes are on the verge of snapping off.
“I didn’t anticipate the traffic in Ravenshoe to be so thick.”
“How is that my fault?” I argue back, beyond annoyed.
I didn’t factor in traffic either since I’ve never driven through the town that was nothing but cornfields when I was a child. If I had, I would have scheduled for him to arrive an hour earlier. Not only am I late for my interview, if I’m forced to walk, the business I’m being interviewed at will be closed by the time I get there. The sun is already setting.
I fan the bangs I had cut specifically to hide the horrid scare on my forehead before issuing one final plea. “Please, Mr. Kind Driver Man. I’ll do anything you want if you’ll take me to my requested destination. I’ve got a few nickels in the bottom of my purse.” I yank out the Starbucks voucher I got for my birthday last year. “This gift card still has eight dollars on it. That’ll get you’re a super frothy mocha latte. And…” I search my almost empty purse for something more appetizing than year-old mints and lint balls. When I fail to find anything, I say, “We could grab that latte together? If you want?”
I instantly regret my decision when lust flares through the stranger’s dark eyes. I don’t know where he grew up—which I’m guessing took place over five decades ago with how gray his ear hairs are—but inviting someone for coffee means you’re only inviting them for coffee. This isn’t Vegas.
While throwing open his back passenger door with a grunt, I snarl, “Say goodbye to your five-star rating, Mister. I’m going to one star your ass all the way to Uber headquarters.”
I don’t know what he replies. I can barely hear anything over the skid of his tires when his foot gets friendly with the gas pedal not even two seconds after I stepped out onto the road surface.
“And to think I was going to share my nanna’s mints with you!”
I add a handful of expletives to my squeal before I commence my trek to Hopeton. I’ll never make it in time for my interview, but Hopeton’s bus station is closer than Ravenshoe’s. My nickels might not have been on the Uber driver’s radar, but I don’t see a bus driver being as fussy. If he’s lucky, I might even arrive on the scene with a super frothy latte for him.
Three painstaking miles later, I’m on the verge of deliriousness. My legs are quaking like they never have under any of my college boyfriends, and my mouth is bone-dry, but I’ve made it to my destination. Shockingly, the establishment my interview was to be conducted at is still open. It probably helps that it’s an Italian restaurant bursting at the seams with clientele eager to get something more than overcooked turkey in their bellies, and it has the same last name as the man seeking a personal assistant. Perfect!
After twisting the Celtic ring on my thumb, so it faces the front, I throw open the door of Petretti’s Italian Restaurant and make a beeline for the dining hostess. “Hi, my name is Roxanne Grace, and I’m here to see—”
“Booth or regular seating?”
I stray my eyes over the blonde’s teeny tiny uniform and popping blue eyes before replying, “Excuse me?”
“Booth or regular seating?” she says again while dragging her eyes down my body in the same manner I just did hers. “Even if you’re eating alone, I’d still suggest the booth. It’ll save the clientele getting depressed when they see you eating by yourself on Thanksgiving weekend.”
Ouch.
“I’m not here to eat.”
She cocks a faultless brow. “Then why are you here? This is a restaurant.”
Her pitied glare doubles my annoyance. “I’m aware it’s a restaurant. I can read.” Unlike you. “I’m here for an interview.” I dig out the piece of paper I jotted my interview details on this morning before thrusting it the blonde’s way. “I’m supposed to ask for Dimitri.”
“You’re here for Dimitri?” When I nod, her humored gaze extends to her collagen-filled lips. “Trust me, honey, excluding your hair coloring, you’re not his type. One sideways glance, and he’ll kick you to the curb. Save the bruise, leave now.” She ushers me away from her podium with a wave of her hand like I’m worthless.
I’m not backing down this time. It’s been a hard and long twelve months for me, and this blonde is about to be hit with the brunt of my annoyance. “I don’t care if I’m not Dimitri’s type.” I air quote my last word an inch from her face, issuing her the same snap-snap dismissal her nails did when she waved me off. “I’m here to be interviewed for a position on his team, so I’m not leaving until Dimitri himself tells me to leave.”
I fold my arms in front of my chest to hide the shake of my hands when the blonde says, “Okay.” I hadn’t expected her to give in so easily. “Dimitri’s office is at the back of the restaurant. You need to go down the side alley and take the third door on the left.”
“Side alley, third door on the left?” I repeat like I’m suddenly stupid.
When she purses her lips with an agreeing nod, I say, “Okay. Thank you.”
I won’t lie, I strut like Catwoman under Batman’s watch while following the restaurant hostess’s directions. I’ll never be picked as the demurest woman in a room, but for how many times my ass has been kicked the past year, I’m taking tonight’s triumph as a win. Even if I don’t get the job, I’ll feed off the adrenaline of my victory for weeks to come.
The quickest flashback of a pair of golden-brown eyes flashes before my eyes when I�
�m partway down the dark alleyway. The food scraps on the ground make it obvious the restaurant receives most of its deliveries here, but because of the late hour and the early closure of businesses due to Thanksgiving, it seems shadier and more obsolete.
“Third door on the right,” I mumble to myself when I stop in front of one that has ‘Distribution’ etched on the door.
Believing there will be a less-shady entrance past the graffiti-coated door, I push it open with only the slightest creak. The décor isn’t any more inviting on the inside. There’s nothing but scary shadows dancing across the faces of four middle-aged men.
The scene grows more confronting when I notice who their attention is fixed on. They’re honing in on a smaller, more timid-looking man huddled against an outer wall. His face is bleeding, and his hands are held out in front of himself in a non-defensive manner. He’s clearly scared.
My throat dries when a lone soldier breaks away from the pack of hungry wolves. He speaks to the frightened man in a heavy accent, his tone both demoralizing and angry. “The service you ordered was delivered as specified, so not only am I refusing your request for a refund, I’m anticipating a subsequent payment for your insolence.”
Even with my business diploma unfinished, I’m not so stupid to believe this is a distribution disagreement. I’ve heard rumors about a mob mentality in Hopeton, but I’ve previously brushed them off as hearsay. I can’t do that this time around. My potential employer is getting fleeced—fleeced of money that could possibly come from my thirty-five dollar an hour salary.
With my veins still hot with adrenaline from my clash with the restaurant hostess, I conjure up a ruse that will see both Mr. Petretti and me leave this room uninjured. I should be scared, but seriously, what’s the worst that could happen? The men I’m about to confront are pushing sixty, if not seventy. I survived being run over by a car, so I can most certainly handle a mobility scooter.