by Skyla Madi
…if my father was alive, he’d kill me.
***
My BPM monitor vibrates every twenty seconds as my heart races in my chest.
Embargo. The club was a gift from Marco to Christiano on his twenty-first birthday. Many thought he’d run it into the ground, but he turned it into one of Sydney’s most lucrative gentlemen’s club.
Christiano and the rest of the gang spend most of their time here, in a private backroom, harassing women and talking business. The usual shit.
I sit back against the driver’s seat of the car I picked up just for tonight. It matches the other black cars the Russos have in their fleet. It has a divider too, shielding me from sight.
I rest my elbow against the window. I must admit, Embargo is a classy joint. The exterior is clean and shimmering with a million tiny lights that flicker across the black walls, like diamonds reflecting the sun.
I hear the girls that work there are unlike any others, goddesses among mortals, but I’ve never felt compelled to see for myself. Besides, I don’t think I’m welcome in any Russo establishment. Not since I betrayed Marco Russo and murdered his eldest son and his brothers.
I called Moretti thirty minutes ago to let him know that we are approaching lockout time. Once the club closes its doors, not letting any newcomers in for the night, Tony will leave. That’s his usual routine, according to Torres. Normally, I’d do my own research and gather my own information, but I don’t have the time. I need to give Moretti something before he decides to kill me and hire someone else. Not to mention…I need to get back to Cammie. I forgot to show her the antibiotics she needs to take. I hope she hasn’t tried leaving again…my dogs will rip her apart. On second thought, I hope that crazy woman hasn’t killed my dogs. She did throw herself out the window of her high rise apartment, after all.
She’s fearless, I’ll give her that. Maybe that’s why I like her so much. Cammie is tightly coiled, but she has this fire in her eyes that just intrigues me.
I glance at the clock on my centre console and, right on time, as one-fifty-nine a.m. ticks over to two, the dazzling lights on the club’s walls cease to shimmer. Lock out has begun.
I shift my hips and pull my cell out of my back pocket. According to Torres, we have twelve minutes until Tony leaves the club. I wonder if he’s managed to take Tony’s car from the valet yet? He fucking better have. My whole plan is riding on getting Tony into the back of my car.
I dial Torres’s number and press the phone to my ear.
“Yeah,” he answers with a gruff snap. “I’m moving it now.”
I slide my teeth together. “Cutting it a little close, don’t you think?”
“I got distracted.”
“Of course you did. You’re an idiot.”
“Who are you calling a—”
I hang up and slip the phone back into my pocket. I am sick of Moretti’s men. Some of them know what they’re doing, but the rest are clowns with guns, tagging along for the fun of it. In this line of work, frauds are the worst. You can’t depend on them and you certainly can’t trust them. I would never put my faith in a man that didn’t have the same upbringing as me. To grow up associated with mobs, to be an integral part of the criminal underworld, is a special kind of knowledge that can’t be taught to someone who grew up behind a white picket fence and one day decided to ditch college to walk on the dark side.
College wasn’t an option for a kid like me.
I was born to be a killer, like my father, like my father’s father. From the moment I could roll, I was expected to sit. When I finally sat, I was begged to crawl. When I crawled, I was forced to walk. I was never guided. I was pushed.
I dissolved my first body at the age of eleven. My father killed a man, ordered by Ross Hughes, the leader of a huge cartel in California. Dad brought the bulbous, middle-aged shopkeeper to our temporary “home” where I would have the bathtub prepped with the exact amounts of sodium hydroxide and whatever else Dad required to efficiently dissolve a human body.
The shit I saw was enough to put me off soup for the rest of my life.
He loved to dissolve people, my father. That was his thing. Me? I’m more of a shoot ’em and leave ’em kind of guy. Unless getting rid of the body is absolutely imperative to my anonymity. Take the guy who jumped Cammie in the parking lot of the hospital, for example. I scrubbed down the scene—it’s a wonder I didn’t get caught, really. Then I burned his body, smashed what was left of his bones into tiny shards, and tossed them into the ocean. I didn’t want to do it, but it had to be done.
Movement by the side of the club catches my attention as Tony stumbles into the alley with a slim blonde on his arm. I know it’s him. That large aquiline nose of his is almost iconic.
I flick on my headlights and roll the car forward as they drunkenly dance their way out of the alley and onto the sidewalk. I manage to slip into traffic and drive toward them as the couple exchange sloppy kisses. Eventually, Tony peers up and down the road, looking for his car. That’s when I indicate and smoothly pull the car alongside the curb. I tighten my gloved hands around the steering wheel as he pulls open the back door and ushers the scantily dressed female in. Her sugary giggle penetrates the divider and chills me to the bone. I’ve never heard a giggle so irritating. Then again, I don’t spend much time around women, especially women half my age.
When I need to, when the desire to fuck rears its head, I don’t go to sleazy bars or grungy concerts. I pick up women from fundraisers and elegant bars. I go home with the kind of women who strut around, flaunting the diamonds their husbands, ex-husbands, and dead husbands bought them. They don’t talk unless it’s important, and can quietly down a bottle of champagne. After they fuck, they don’t hang around either, and are more than happy to never see you again.
The back door slams shut. More giggles. I wait, patiently, glaring into the rearview mirror, awaiting my order.
“Take us to my place, Ray,” Tony shouts, kicking my seat. “Fucking pronto!”
I pull out into traffic. Tony is one of only a few of Russos’ men who live on the other side of the city. It was once a Moretti-owned area, a bustling shopping district where they made the bulk of their money, but once the Russos ratted out their racket, the crooked cops swooped in and forced them out, making room for the Russos to creep in. Tony lives in the area to keep up the presence. He’s in charge of weekly collections from the businesses too. A few months ago, I watched him and Christiano beat up an old Asian man for a few measly dollars. Don’t get me wrong, Moretti is a real piece of shit too, but at least he has respect for his elders. Even I can admire that.
I drive in the exact direction of Tony’s house for three quarters of the way before taking a right at an intersection instead of a left. I expect Tony to object, but he’s too distracted with the girl to even notice. I thought it’d be difficult, getting him to Moretti, but it’s easier than I expected.
The idiot did it to himself. What kind of high profile criminal gets so drunk he can’t tell the car he climbed into is one model older than the one he usually drives? It baffles me.
I’m the complete opposite to Tony. I don’t trust anyone and I notice everything. I don’t drink outside of my home unless I absolutely have to and when I do, I don’t accept open drinks, only ones that come with a factory sealed lid.
I don’t take risks…unless those risks involve a certain caramel-haired doctor, apparently.
Giggles and moans are all I hear right up until I pull into an abandoned warehouse by the Port of Sydney. Only when the car stops does Tony finally speak up.
“Where the fuck are we?” he asks as I turn off the car and open my door.
“Tony…” the girl whines. “What’s going on?”
“Hey! Ray? Where are we, mate?”
I slip from the car and grab the back handle. The look on Tony’s face when I open his door and stare him straight in his drunken face is priceless.
I got you. Fucker.
Chapter Elev
en
“Was that so hard?” Moretti laughs, holding Tony’s index finger between the prongs of his pliers.
Tony hangs his head, covered in blood, sobbing like a child. I’d relish in it if it weren’t for the screech of the female behind me. I whirl around to Torres, who pins her against his monstrous torso as she thrashes about, damaging her vocal chords and every ear in the damn room. Her black mini-skirt is hiked up, her blue tank top ripped. We make eye-contact and there’s enough light in here for me to see her pupils dilate in fear. She squeals. I wince as the sound bounces off of the rickety tin walls, over and over. My brain inflates against my skull because of it.
“Will you shut her up?” I snap and Moretti turns around too, waving Tony’s displaced index finger.
“Yes. Get her the fuck out of here. I’ll deal with her when I’m ready.”
Does Torres want the cops to show up? Jesus Christ. Useless, I tell you. While Torres gags the woman and drags her from the room, I turn back to Tony. In total, he’s missing four fingers. I took his middle finger when he told me to go fuck myself. Moretti took the rest.
Franco Moretti has everything he needs now. He knows when the heroine shipment is coming into the port—twelve weeks from now—and he also knows that the plans to go international are on hold due to a falling out with Diego Renalto, the mob boss who was supposed to clear out California for them to move in.
I peer at Moretti, who watches Tony with a sick grin on his face. He’s waited a long time to get his hands on one of Russo’s made men, and he’s having a damn field day with it.
“You got what you wanted,” I say, bored. “Now what?”
I want to go home. Dawn is about to break and I’m in desperate need of sleep with a long drive still ahead of me. Moretti lifts the pliers, holding Tony’s finger to his face. He assesses it with a quirk in his lips before dropping it to the floor with the others. “Kill him.”
I pull the garrotte from my back pocket and saunter toward Tony, my shoes patting in small pools of blood the closer I get.
“He knows…” Tony groans, forcing his head up. He looks me dead in the eyes as best he can through his swollen slits. “He knows you have her, Valentino.”
He spits a mouthful of blood on the floor by my shoes as I circle his rickety, wooden chair. Gripping the back of his seat, I crane my head to his ear.
“I have her,” I agree. “And he is never getting her back.”
I wrap the thin steel wire of the garrotte around his throat and plant my foot on the back of his chair. Tony gargles and struggles as I pull as hard as I can…
Until he ceases to move. When I’m certain he’s dead, when I’m convinced my wire has sliced its way into his neck, I let the garrotte go and brush the palms of my leather-clad hands down the front of my slacks.
Good riddance. That’s once less cockroach I need to worry about.
“Good to see you’re not turning soft on me.”
Giorgio tosses Moretti a handtowel to wipe Tony’s blood off of his hands.
I glare at Moretti, slipping my leather gloves off. “Turning soft is the opposite of my problems.”
He quirks a brow. “You need a girl?”
I snort. Do I look like I need a girl? “No.”
“The night is still young. Let’s celebrate. I’ll call Belle and have her bring a few of her friends around to my place.”
The night is still young? Christ. What time zone is he living in? The sun is almost out. Besides, I hate the types of girls Belle brings. They’re self-absorbed, pretentious, over the top, and usually half my age.
“No. Thank you.”
He tosses the towel to the dirty concrete floor. “You’d be wise not to refuse me.”
I glance around the room. There’s eleven men in total, twelve if I count Torres, who waits outside with the girl. I’ve been at Moretti’s every beck and call since I left home this morning. Is it not enough? I got him what he wanted—answers. And Christiano’s right hand man. Now I want to go home and sleep for the next week and a half.
“Sure,” I simply say. “Who needs sleep?”
∞ Cammie Connors ∞
His dogs hear him arrive long before I do. Their ears prick up and they release desperate, high pitched sulks from the base of their throats. They probably need to use the bathroom, like I do.
I haven’t slept in the time Stefan has been gone. How could I? I have two terrifyingly hairy monsters with sharp teeth curled up on my bed with me and they smell like…well, dog.
I might have dozed off here and there, but I was jolted awake in paralysing fear every time they moved.
Twoooipht, Stefan whistles.
I squeak, lifting a pillow to shield my face as the dogs scramble in an excited panic and leap off of the bed. They sprint from the room, their nails scratching against the tiles at their feet.
Stefan’s low, rough voice echoes through the house as he talks to his dogs before letting them outside. Then it’s silent.
I lower my pillow and peer over the edge of it just as Stefan leans against the door frame, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his black slacks. He looks incredible, all tired and dishevelled after a hard day’s—and night’s—work.
“Did they give you any trouble?” he asks, his lips quirked in amusement.
I narrow my eyes. He’s not serious? Stefan flicks the light switch and I flinch at its brightness. He takes one look at me and his eyebrows smooth out. Dare I say he genuinely looks disappointed?
“You’re not happy with me?” he asks.
“You haven’t given me a reason to be happy with you,” I tell him. “I want to go home.”
“You want to go home?” He tilts his head. “To what, exactly? Your empty apartment? The hospital that works you like a donkey? Christiano?” He chuckles and it’s malicious, sending goosebumps over my skin. “It’s really quite pathetic, Cammie.”
Pathetic? I know exactly how other people see me, thank you very much. I don’t need someone like him rubbing it in my face. I sit up, tossing my pillow as anger ignites my blood and heat flares through me.
“I’m pathetic? Your house is just as empty as mine, you make a living off murdering people, and you’re all alone, Stefan.”
I square my shoulders, letting the silence fill in the rest. Who’s really the pathetic one here?
You.
With a gentle curve in his lips, Stefan turns on his heel and leaves the room. Good. I lean back against the headboard and close my eyes. I can’t think straight. I’m tired, I have a headache, and my bladder is screaming at me. Not to mention I’m covered in cuts and bruises. I just want…I just want…well, I don’t know what I want.
“Take these.”
I startle, opening my eyes as Stefan towers over me, his knees pressing against the side of the bed. He’s so quick, so quiet. I didn’t hear him re-enter the room. “What is that?”
Tipping the small, white plastic cup toward him, he peers inside. “Antibiotics. Painkillers. Sleep medication.”
He tilts it back in my direction and I look into it. “What kinds?”
“Different kinds.” He shakes the cup and the hard pills rattle around. “Nothing that will kill you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“At this point, I don’t care if it does kill me.”
I smell him then, as I reach out and take the cup, and I wrinkle my nose. The expensive cologne mixed with earth, whiskey and…a sweet feminine perfume? Of course he was with women. That’s what men like him do after a hard day’s work. They objectify women.
I open my mouth and tip the pills inside. I grimace as a few of the pills begin to dissolve on my tongue. Stefan extends a water bottle without its lid and I toss the empty cup on the floor and take it. He watches, patiently, as I pour the cold water into my mouth. My bladder expands at the thought of drinking a single drop of water. I wince as I swallow a mouthful and Stefan holds his hand out for the bottle.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
&nbs
p; I give him the bottle and shuffle forward slowly, ignoring the way my tired muscles ache. “I need to use the bathroom.”
I don’t tell him I haven’t moved from the bed since he left. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and lift myself onto my feet. I grit my teeth against the pain and wobble on my feet. Setting the bottle down, Stefan wraps his long, warm fingers around my bicep, holding me still. That sweet smell, the perfume mixing with his cologne, is unbearable. I wrinkle my nose and pull away from him.
“I can walk myself, thank you.”
He flashes me his palms in surrender. “Suit yourself.”
I turn away from him and hobble to the ensuite, closing the door behind me. Despite the pain, I manage to use the toilet without an issue. Everything takes me longer than it normally would, though, but going slow beats re-opening a wound.
At the sink, I splash water onto my face and dry it with the hand towel. I look worse every time I see myself, I swear. My hair is knotted beyond belief. My usual long, caramel locks are short and bunched, fuzzy like tumbleweed. I glance along the top of the counter, but there’s nothing to brush my hair with. Not even a comb.
I peer at the top drawer. Should I go in there? I’m not the kind of person that feels comfortable looking through drawers at someone else’s house…but does it count when you’re being kept against your will? I look at my reflection. Am I being kept against my will? If I’m being honest, the thought of going back to my life three days ago makes me uneasy. I can only imagine the grilling I’d get from Christiano. If he knew I was here with Stefan he’d probably kill me. If I lie and tell him I went away to think for a little while, he’d want to see proof. Then he’d probably kill me just for causing him unnecessary stress.