“It’s not what you think.”
Because he knew her mind went there conjuring a million scenarios where Harden killed someone he loved, the woman he loved. He loved someone enough to put a ring on her finger. Her stomach rolled. Who was this person? What did she do? How did she look?
“When did she die?”
His face screwed up as he thought. “Before he went to prison, around twenty-one, I think.”
Twenty-one and in love. “This night has been a revelation. Well, you’ve been seen. Now it’s time you go.”
He looked at his watch. “Yeah. I have more stops to make and the night is still young. Walk me out.”
No balanced on the tip of her tongue. She didn’t want to be anywhere near him. But if it helped Harden, somehow kept him safe, then… “Let’s go.”
She took the lead, but he stopped her with a hand to her shoulder. “I don’t want to see you hurt, and you will get hurt staying with Harden. One woman already did. I hate to see another one.”
“Thanks for the concern, but I’ll be just fine.”
“And your daughter, Allie, right? Will she be fine too?”
She yanked free and faced him. “Her name is to never be in your mouth, on your lips ever again. Understand?”
He sighed and his mouth twisted in a frown. “Can’t say I didn’t try.”
Leonid extended his hand. She didn’t want to, but she took it. Hand in hand, she followed him to the exit and even puckered up for PDA. It took everything she had not to wipe her mouth clean as she watched him leave.
“Wherever you are, Harden, you better be okay.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Harden, Bruno, and Nick turned into a skid row hotel that asked no questions and only took cash. Perfect. The four of them had slept in worse places. Several of his men were already there and had already completed the groundwork. Including the specialist he flew in a week ago just for the occasion and would be on a flight back to South America by nightfall, well before the festivities. The rest of the men were spread out all over town and in the neighboring suburbs, their arrivals staggered.
The rooms were a dump. The carpet stained, the bathroom moldy, initials scratched into the dresser. Altogether, a lovely establishment.
“I’m in here,” Bruno said and stalked through the door.
No one stopped Bruno from taking the single room with the king-size bed. The man snored like a diesel truck. Harden and Nick settled into the double suite. Was it a suite because it had a single, stained chair in the corner of the room?
Bruno checked in with the all the men scattered across the town. “We’re good to go,” he said after receiving text messages on the burner.
Propped on the bed with his shoes off, Harden made himself comfortable as Bruno opened his laptop and opened the layout of the house they planned on attacking. They went over the plans, both A and B, and any contingencies they brainstormed. They’d done this multiple times before leaving the penthouse and hitting the road.
A lot rode on this blitz attack, and he didn’t mean just their lives. It would be a lie to say he didn’t enjoy the scrabble to the top of the heap. Probably because he’d scrabbled his entire life. For ten years it was just his mother and him living on the Lower East Side in a tenement that should’ve been condemned in the seventies. Then his mother got caught in some crossfire. Wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong life.
He did four years hard time in foster care, then a man showed up. Claimed he was his father. Carrig Finn O’Rourke. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen him. There was a frayed picture of him and his mother in her wallet, and that time Harden woke late at night for a glass of water and heard the noise coming from her bedroom. A street kid knew things, knew what those panting, groaning sounds meant.
It wasn’t the first time he heard those noises coming from her bedroom. It didn’t happen often, but it happened enough with varying outcomes. Some left smelling of liquor and sex. Others got violent. Now he was old enough and big enough to do something about the violent ones. Carrig exited the bedroom, his suit looking freshly pressed as if his mother had done Carrig’s laundry instead of fucked him.
The man looked directly at him. Harden didn’t hide, not anymore. He waited in the tiny living room, in full view. He wanted the men to know his mother wasn’t alone. She had him. Carrig took his time buttoning his jacket, straightening his cuffs and his collar as he studied the son he hadn’t claimed. Then he left, without a single word, though they both knew what each man represented. Deadbeat dad and bastard son.
“Everything ready at the warehouse?”
Nick gave a thumbs up. “My man just called in. Just tell him when.”
“The caterers and prep staff arrive in three hours for the nuptials,” Bruno said. “And our men are in place.”
Harden and company didn’t come for the festivities. That’s not what brought them to a mansion in the middle of nowhere New Jersey. The head of Alezandar’s American operations and all his lieutenants were gathering for the wedding, someone’s grandson marrying someone’s granddaughter. Useful cover-up for a meeting afterward.
Time to close their eyes for a few hours. When he woke, he dressed in the caterer’s uniform: black pants, dark blue shirt, black tie, short jacket. The wig and glasses took some time. It was perfect when it was done. He could’ve donned a wig, went from blond to brunette, hidden under a pair of glasses, but he had a point to make. He did slick his hair back and shave. It had been a while since anyone had seen him without whiskers. Nick chose full camouflage. He exited the bathroom as a blond. Bruno remained unchanged. The big boy was too distinctive to pass as a server. A heavyweight boxer moonlighting as a linebacker, yeah. A server… No.
“The couple arrived at the church. They’ll be there for thirty minutes, then pictures. It’s time to go to the house. Less security for the moment until the heads of the families arrive.” Bruno passed out the ID’s.
A quick scan outside and they piled into the ten-year-old Impala. They drove the speed limit through town, even drove past the church. It was a big wedding, lots of cars for the happy occasion. If things went well, it would remain that way.
Things weren’t going to go well. They all knew it. Today, people would die, directly by his hand and by other hands under his direction.
When did he develop a conscience? Truth was he always had one but managed to flip the off switch when necessary. Truth was, it was off a lot more than it was on.
He lived by a code, a fucked up one, yet still a code. First and foremost: Don’t fuck with me and I won’t fuck with you.
Second and last: Loyalty above all else. To friends. To family. To anyone loyal to you.
Two simple rules in his code. Men were going to die today because he brought them to a wedding and because they were loyal to him.
The three of them pulled into a cleared field a tenth of a mile away behind the mansion. Keep the help out of sight, invisible. Just the way he liked it, until he needed to be seen. He played the part he needed to play. He was behind the bar serving drinks, one after another as the guests arrived, followed by the happy couple an hour later.
Everyone was here, except the people he needed. Two were here. The grandfather-in-laws. Initially, he was insulted upon learning Maroni had offered his virgin granddaughter to Pagano instead of him. Why wasn’t he good enough? He had a pedigree. Leader of the New York syndicate should’ve had first dibs on the Maroni princess. He looked over at the bride.
She was a beauty. He still would’ve said no thanks, then arrange a meeting just to defile her, teach her a few neat tricks to show her groom on the honeymoon. He’d certainly live up to the bastard moniker.
But now he had Jentry.
Two more hours passed, and the party was in full swing. Not a single person recognized him because no one bothered to look. He hid in plain sight. Oh, the irony. His security would never be so lax. Tripler arrived through the side door. The three strongest players on the East Coast. They controll
ed everything…except New York City.
And they wanted it. Badly.
Maroni and Pagano could suck his left nut. Tripler, Harden was surprised he came all the way from Pennsylvania, but when a slice of the Big Apple is on the plate, the rats come running.
No one sliced up his apple, particularly when he’d just pieced everything together. All the parts ran smoothly like clockwork, all the parts working in harmony.
Until Alezandar Karpovilov decided he wanted to conquer not only Wall Street, but the street. Harden’s streets.
“Heads up. The Bratva just arrived.” Nick’s voice came through the earpiece.
Harden locked onto the three men strolling through the foyer and chuckled. Weddings and funerals, the rats and roaches couldn’t stay away. The big one was Grisha, former heavyweight boxer. The middle one was Anatoly, the sovietnik, counselor. The last one, Fedor, pakhan of the New Jersey Bratva, all underling to Karpovilov.
“Well, this is a surprise,” Nick murmured, picking up empty glasses scattered around the room.
“No shit. They weren’t expected,” Bruno snapped into the earpiece. “They brought a lot of muscle with them.”
“How many?” Nick asked.
“Eight. The bulk are remaining outside with Maroni’s men. They look thirsty.”
Nick pointed to one of the servers, one of his men, and sent them outside with a tray of laced drinks.
“Everyone’s here. I think.” Nick returned, his tray empty.
“You think,” Bruno shouted. Any higher and dogs a mile away would hear him.
“The bride and groom just arrived at their private jet and the reception is winding down.”
Not unusual after the cake had been cut and devoured. After the bouquet toss, the couple had fled. They headed to the airport and their private jet. However, they wouldn’t be taking off any time soon. Their Italian honeymoon would wait a bit longer.
“I noticed. Everyone in place?”
“There’s too many. Pull the plug on this thing and get out of there,” Bruno said, his background noise had changed from the silent car interior to wind whipping past. He was outside and running, bringing the calvary as if Harden needed rescuing. The man would make a great helicopter mom.
Nick scanned the room and nodded. They had ten men in the house, another five waiting to storm the property, and the element of surprise. It could work. Would work. If only they had invited him to the wedding, he thought as Maroni and Pagano greeted Tripler and led the way to Maroni’s library.
“Secure the bride and groom and tell the specialist it’s a go.”
Nick shot a text to the specialist, setting off the chain of dominos. Once started, they couldn’t be stopped. Right now, two of Maroni’s processing plants were imploding while two of his cash houses were exploding, scattering burning money all over the blighted neighborhoods hidden within them. While Maroni stole from him and then burned Harden’s warehouse down, Harden wouldn’t do the same. Everything Maroni had would burn.
But not his granddaughter. At the airport, the pilot, a last-minute replacement due to sudden illness of their regular guy, would seal the Maroni’s airplane and release a gas that would make them go night night within seconds. The men outside wouldn’t be so lucky. Stun guns and rubber bullets—if possible. He didn’t want a bloodbath but wouldn’t hesitate to drown everyone—if necessary.
Maroni’s underboss came rushing out of the library. He motioned to ten men and they took off in three cars, leaving behind eight men, three of whom were inside the library with the heads of the families. That left five men guarding the house and another five roaming the property. Bruno and his men would take care of those outside.
From a duffle bag beneath the bar sink, Harden retrieved a 9mm for himself and proceeded to arm his men every time they returned to the bar for refills while every man who didn’t belong to the syndicate wobbled on their feet.
“What did you give them again?” Harden asked Nick.
“Ketamine cocktail. They’ll be out for hours.”
By twos and threes, Maroni’s and the Bratva’s men dropped with Harden’s men close by to tie them up and drag them away. Bruno was at his side; he ran the entire way. For a man who hated running, his feet knew how to fly.
“The property’s secure.”
“Any of ours dead?”
Bruno shook his head. “Injured and survivable.”
Time for the big reveal, and how Harden enjoyed every second he strolled through the house to the library. Bruno and Nick at his back. He paused at the closed double doors to eavesdrop on the argument inside. They had no idea what transpired on the other side of the doors while they played Game of Thrones. Through the thick doors he heard his name shouted. Ah, how sweet. He was the center of attention.
Harden pulled his father’s ring out of his pocket and shoved it back on the fourth finger of his right hand.
Time to play spoiler.
He opened the double doors and crossed the threshold.
Maroni was on the phone, screaming, “That goddamn Harden Gage. He did this. The fucker is dead. Whaddya mean my money’s in the street on fire!” Apoplectic, he looked up at Harden with no recognition of the danger he was in. “No one’s to disturb us! Remove them.” He slammed his fist on his desk. One of his men peeled himself off the wall to do his boss’s bidding only to have Bruno knock him unconscious and relieve him of his weapon. Nick took care of the other guard.
Maroni and company leaped to their feet, not one of them holding a weapon. That’s because they weren’t armed. In a sign of good faith, they entered Maroni’s home defenseless, relying on the host to protect them under the white flag of a truce. Fucking morons.
“Do you know who I am? Do you know who you’re fucking with!” Maroni blubbered, his eyes bugging out of his head.
Harden stood in the middle of the room. “Why, yes, I do know who I’m fucking with.” He started with the Bratva. “Larry, Curly, and Moe.” Then he pointed to Pagano and Tripler. “Asshole and meat suit.” Lastly, he turned to Maroni. “And a cocksucker, which is meant as an epitaph, not as a job description.”
“Who are you?” Tripler asked.
For the first time, Harden met Keith Tripler’s gaze. Five foot ten with a decent build, smooth dark skin, neat afro, he didn’t rule the Black Dragons by intimidation. Since Split-Tail, Harden had done some research on the MC club, and he liked everything he read and saw.
Harden glanced at the Bratva. They knew who stood in front of them. “I’m the fucking grim reaper.” Eyes glinting, hands grasping air instead of a weapon, the trio said nothing.
“I’m sorry for my bad manners.” Harden continued with his attention on the head of the Black Dragons. “You wouldn’t recognize me, being out of Pennsylvania and all.” He spun to square off with Maroni. “But you evoked my name, and didn’t know I was right here, in your house, under your nose, serving you drinks, all night long.” He leaned in and said loudly, “I could’ve killed you a thousand times.”
What little color Maroni had in his fleshy, florid jowls drained, leaving pasty white skin behind. “Gage,” he whispered.
Prayer or curse, Harden couldn’t quite tell, yet he was pleased. Maroni finally understood the gravity of his situation. “You, your men, your grandkid. I could’ve killed them all.” He smiled at the man, oozing reassurance.
“My granddaughter, where is she?”
Harden straightened and smoothed his hand down the front of the catering jacket, letting Maroni stew. “On her plane, departure delayed indefinitely depending on how this conversation goes. Beautiful woman. She was a lovely bride.”
“I told you we should’ve offered her to him,” the man next to Maroni grumbled.
The memory of Aida slammed into him. Her sweet innocent face full of fear, gutting him as she lay naked in his bed, waiting for him to take what her father had sold on the open market.
Harden shifted Pagano’s way. “Grandfather of the groom, right?” He received
a sharp nod. The Paganos were small-time, whose loyalty belonged to Maroni since the families left Italy in the forties. “You counseled your boss to gift wrap his granddaughter for me?” Another sharp nod. “Then what happened? Why aren’t I in a tuxedo?”
Harden already knew the two-part answer to the question. They were in bed with the Russians, which was better than being in bed with the half-Irish bastard.
“Is that what this is about?” Maroni snarled. “You pissing in the wind because I didn’t give you my Victoria?” He spat his granddaughter’s name like she was an object, something he owned, a car, a house, a random mismatched shoe. “You want her, you can have her. Annulments are a dime a dozen. That not good enough, I got a niece, she’s seventeen and trainable. That ain’t good enough, Lorenzo’s granddaughter just turned sixteen. You can have her.”
Maroni thumbed his finger at Pagano, who looked blue. The man hadn’t breathed since Maroni offered to hand over his newly wedded granddaughter without conferring with the grandfather of the groom, and his sixteen-year-old granddaughter.
“You okay with that, Pagano? In one breath he just sold his granddaughter and yours. I need your answer before I take him up on his offer and join this illustrious family. I don’t want any hard feeling as I’m raping his teenage niece or your teenage granddaughter.”
The man swallowed painfully, and his entire body vibrated. Harden knew what the answer should be. If someone came at him like this about his daughter, they would be dead, then he’d bring them back to life and kill them again. Allie’s sweet, innocent face seared his brain. Even though his blood didn’t flow through her veins, she was his.
“You want my Genevieve, you can have her.” Pagano broke and had to look away from his grinning boss.
Harden gripped his gun tighter, dangerously tempted to plug two holes in each man. “Marry in haste, repent in leisure.” He turned to Tripler. “What about you? You got an underaged granddaughter, daughter, or niece you want to make a sacrificial lamb, because make no mistake, I don’t do leftovers.” He snarled, waiting for the leader of the Black Dragons.
Plain Jane and Mr. Wrong (Plain Jane Series Book 4) Page 22