by A. J. Lape
Edmond jotted down the particulars and started rehashing a laundry list of today’s deals-gone-wrong. Pinching the space between my nose, the boredom felt debilitating. I needed a diversion, one that would finally stick. My cell phone vibrated, and I recognized Iggy’s Cincinnati prefix. Icy dread worked its way up my legs and cinched my heart like a vice. Monday evenings weren’t our scheduled time to talk, and a deal had either gone way south or he had information on...
“I’ll call you back Edmond,” I said disconnecting. “What?” I barked, hitting the “talk” button.
“We’re in trouble,” he mumbled.
“You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“Bonnano was in town to send Lincoln Taylor a message.”
“Bonnano from LA?” Of course, it was Bonnano from Los Angeles, but for some reason, I wanted things spelled out definitively.
“Yeah,” Iggy muttered, “and you know how Bonnano always screws things up. Well, he took out four people.”
My voice went robotic. If I even remotely thought that today was bad, this just shot the rest of my life into the oh-shit zone. Lincoln wasn’t someone to be messed with; the main reason I wanted to be one step ahead. He reminded me of my father, and my father and I never saw eye-to-eye on anything except that we despised the other. “Lincoln’s son?” I clarified, feeling a knot growing in my stomach.
Iggy blew out a breath of scared-as-hell air. “Grandson.”
Silence. Both of us standing there considering the repercussions. “You’re sure?” I murmured even more robotic.
Iggy sounded like he’d been beaten. “Boss, don’t you think I know what dead looks like?”
“Lincoln’s grandson is dead?” I verified.
“Oh, God, I don’t know,” he said frustrated. “If he’s not dead, then he’s going to wish he were. There was too much blood, and they needed three ambulances to treat everybody. It was four teenagers, boss. I just know he was a big kid.”
That could mean anything to Iggy. He was only of medium height and build, but by God, this was not the time for the man to be vague. If true, Lincoln would kill somebody, and I’d lay money he operated his life in the same fashion that I did. He’d shakedown everyone that hated him until someone was weak enough to squeal. Then he’d send his own brand of payback.
I rubbed my aching forehead. “Tell me about the other kids.”
“Two other teenaged boys, one blonde-headed girl lying on the pavement. Boss, it was horrible. We do some crazy stuff, but we don’t mess with kids.”
“Blonde-headed?” I echoed.
“Yeah, from what I could tell she was a beauty.”
My breath caught in my chest as I took my hand and swiped it across the kitchen counter. Bills, an empty glass tumbler, and my car keys took flight and pinged on the travertine tile. Calm down, Grizzly, I told myself. Nothing’s ever accomplished when you lose your temper. That’s how you’ve stayed alive this long, playing the games that you do. First thing was to find out who Cardoza was working for. Was Cardoza personally behind this, or did the Bonnano family have their own axe to grind? But I swear, if they’ve killed Jester, I’ll rip them all apart with my own bare hands.
I heard the familiar hum then ding of the elevator door opening, and the hair on the back of my neck suddenly stood on end. No one visited me without an invitation, and before I could locate my gun, the front door splintered with a beastly force, and two men stood in the middle of my Great Room. The larger one immediately launched at my head, thundering, “You mother—”
Fists struck so hard and fast I couldn’t even defend myself. I was thrown back onto the edge of the bar, my head striking the granite, causing it to instantly split open. Before I could take a breath, I was body-slammed to the floor where I was met with another series of punches like none I’d ever experienced. I thought my father hit hard—this felt like my father times a million and somebody on frigging bath salts.
Abruptly my assailant stopped and laughed, towering over me like the Grim Reaper. “Not fair enough for you?” he laughed evilly. “Then have at it, Walter. Come and get me.”
I knew that voice, and by God, he didn’t have to ask twice.
I lunged at him like a rattlesnake that had been pissed off. I got in four quick blows, but he absorbed them all, then turned the tables and started striking me like a nail gun on high.
He bellowed, “Could’ve been…” pound-pound-pound. “Better be…” punch-punch-punch.
My nose fractured, and my lips instantly split spilling blood into my mouth. Raising a hand to shield my face, through swollen eyes, the last memory I had was an angry left fist sending me to lights-out.
I wakened with a slap.
Pain seared the backs of my eyeballs as I attempted to focus. I shook my head twice when realization slowly dawned on me what had just happened. I’d been beaten, but I was still in my penthouse, now sitting in one of my own chairs that overlooked the terrace. A large man stood out there with his back to me, his arms crossed over his chest. In dark clothing, it was impossible to make out his features, but my body instantly tensed, alerting me that he’d been the attacker. Many nights I’d stood in his exact location and thought, This is all mine. His stance said the keys to the kingdom had been transferred.
He was mine.
When I made one slow movement to stand, I was met with another heavy slap out of nowhere, and the laser-beam stare of a redheaded male.
“Hawareya, Grizzly?” he laughed humorlessly. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Patrick O’Leary. The man who just saved your bollix from Lincoln Taylor. You now work for me.”
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
Thank you for reading No Brainer, and I hope you will follow Darcy in her next adventure, 100 Proof Stud, due in the fall of 2013!
In the meantime, you can follow her exploits on Twitter @darcywalker13. If you would like to receive emails of upcoming releases and promotions, please sign up for my distribution list by visiting my homepage at http://www.ajlape.com and clicking the “contact” tab.
If you read the Darcy Walker Series and enjoyed it, I’d be honored if you’d consider leaving a review at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or Goodreads. Thank you!
DARCYSPEAK
Dylantopia: Dylan’s particular POV.
Fastard: a fastard, in Darcyspeak, are boys that move fast—they meet you one time, tell you they love you, then set up your next date only for you to find out the fastard has a steady on the sly. Substitute a “b” if you’re the cursing type and that should clear up everything.
Habaneros: a girl’s chest region.
Happies: a boy’s southern region.
I-Don’t-Care Look: consists of a wet ponytail, little or no cosmetics, and glasses.
Iniquity Engineer: those that lead you down the path to destruction. Unfortunately, if you open an encyclopedia on sin, my picture might be in the footnotes.
IRMS Episode: insurance-related mood swing.
NCIP: no crap in particular. The way I refer to my day when nothing exciting happens. Hey, it happens to the best of us.
Shama lama, ding-dong: for all those naughty words I don’t know the meaning of, in the words of Otis Day, I assigned the term shama lamma, ding-dong.
Vinnietown: Vinnie’s particular POV.
Voodoo cream: Puerto Rican cream I apply by the light of the Crescent Moon hoping to give me an ample bosom. Side effects are hot flashes and the occasional chest hair.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A. J. lives in Cincinnati with her husband, two feministic daughters, an ADD dog, a spoiled hamster, and an unapologetic and unrepentant addiction to Coca-Cola. When she’s not writing, she’s reading, watching too much cable TV, or cheering like a banshee at hometown sporting events.
If you would like to receive emails of upcoming releases, please sign up for her distribution list by visiting her homepage at http://www.ajlape.com and clicking the “contact” tab.
Find A. J. Lape Online:
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