by D. B. James
After I have them all tossed back into the boxes, I stack them together, grab ’em, and walk toward her.
“I’m gonna go. Like I said, I promise to come back. I’ll call soon. Thanks for dinner. I, uh…I love you.”
She moves aside to let me out of the bedroom but doesn’t make an attempt to follow me.
“I love you too, Rhys.”
When I walk out the front door, she’s still standing where I left her.
My alarm goes off promptly at six-thirty the next morning. Martinelli’s house is fifteen miles from my hotel, and in traffic it should take me about half an hour to get there. If I leave here an hour early, that’ll give me ample time. I’ll find a place nearby to wait so I don’t show up too early—he’d probably send Saul after me for arriving prematurely, and we all know he’ll send him if I’m late.
My nerves are getting the best of me, so I skip breakfast in case it makes me sick. One thing I will not be skipping today is a cup of coffee. The number one reason I chose this hotel? It has a ’Bucks in the lobby, and they have great products in the rooms, including in-room one-cup coffee machines. I’m in hotel coffee heaven.
As of late, it’s been a rare occurrence for me to be able to drink a full cup. I’m making up for it this morning. Shit, I made up for it last night when I got back from my parent’s place, which brings me back around to those letters.
I’m more conflicted now than ever.
Every single thing sent was addressed correctly, sent to my old apartment where I lived during college, and later to my house now. Every piece was stamped as undeliverable. Which makes it even more puzzling. Not one was addressed wrong. Some were sent by a delivery service and not the normal mail system.
It’s as if someone didn’t want me to receive them.
Putting that on the back burner, I focus on the meeting ahead. I’m not sure how I’m going to ask to be let go. Do I ask to be fired? I’ve never taken the oath to officially join the family, so it shouldn’t be that bad, right? Yeah, right. He’s going to lose his shit when I ask. I know family secrets, and no matter what promises I make, they’ll never be good enough for him. My word won’t be my bond. He’ll test me somehow. The question is, how?
By the time I’ve finished my second cup of coffee, it’s nearly seven. Quickly, I shower and dress in my best three-piece suit and tie—no jeans to go meet with Martinelli. Walking into the lobby, I make a quick stop at Starbucks to grab my third cup of the day, making up for lost coffee time.
The drive takes me less than twenty minutes, which means I now have forty minutes to wait around and do nothing. What I didn’t expect was for this area to be so…residential. Never having been to his home here, I wrongly assumed he’d live in one of the many downtown condo buildings. It’s open store hours back home, but I resist the urge to call Averill.
Thinking about her brings me back to my conversation with her last night. I never did figure out what she mumbled before she called me a dillweed. She’s planning something, but I don’t know what. My mother more than likely found out. Dammit, I should have asked her before I left, at least gotten some information out of her before I broke her heart and left. Thinking it over for a few minutes, I decide to call her instead. Maybe she’ll tell me what they talked about after all.
Grabbing my phone out of my pocket, I press call on a name I haven’t pressed in years. Waiting for her to answer is making me almost as nervous as this upcoming meeting.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mom.”
“What a pleasant surprise. Oh, Rhys, I’m incredibly happy you’ve called me.”
She obviously really is; I can hear the happiness in her voice. My heart cracks a little knowing how much my leaving last night hurt her. Her melodic voice rings with bliss.
“I had a few minutes before my business meeting, and well, I was thinking about Averill, which led me to you. I was curious as to what you ladies talked about last night. Did you get out of her what she mumbled?” Besides her attempt at a creative curse name. Dillweed—what the hell kind of insult is dillweed? Shaking my head, I laugh silently.
“Oh, she said something about the color blue and picking you up at the airport. It made no sense whatsoever to me, but she and I caught up a tiny bit. Is she as beautiful as she was as a teenager?”
Wait…what? Blue? She’s planning on taking my Mystique out? How?
“Are you positive she said blue?” She’s a dead woman.
“Quite certain, yes. Are you going to tell me what it means?”
“Oh, you bet your sweet ass I am.” Shit, I did not just say ‘sweet ass’ to my mother. “Wait, I take the sweet ass comment back. It’s weird.” Shuddering, I continue, “Mystique is my classic blue ’69 Chevelle. She sits in my garage and no one, I mean no one drives her but me. How Averill plans to get in to drive her the three hours to pick me up, I’ve no clue, but if she does, you should prepare yourself for a phone call telling you she’s a dead woman. She has signed her own death warrant.”
No, not seriously, but dammit, no one drives Mystique.
All I hear from the other end of the line is uncontrollable laughter. From the outside looking in, I can see the humor in it, but from my perspective, nope, it’s not funny at all.
“Mom, it’s not funny. Mystique is my most prized possession.”
“But, dear, it is funny. She’s always kept you on your toes. I love knowing she still does.”
She does have a point. This is something the Tiger Lily I grew up with would do, the one who convinced us to take the Humvee.
“Fine. Whatever. As long as Mystique gets to Chicago in one piece with no scratches, I guess Averill can live.” Glancing at the time, I see it’s a quarter to nine. “Listen Mom, I need to go. My meeting is at nine. I was just curious as to what you two talked about. Thanks for telling me. Love you.”
“Good luck at your meeting. Love you too.”
Not bothering to hang up, I toss the phone into a cup holder in the center console and drive toward Martinelli’s.
Here goes nothing.
Once I’m patted down and thoroughly checked for any concealed weapons, I’m escorted into what I can only guess is Martinelli’s home office. The walls are half covered in a dark wood paneling, half painted ivory. There’s a painting of his family over the fireplace mantel, and it must be a recent rendering because Vinny is absent. It’s the only personal thing I’ve laid eyes on since walking in the doors of the house.
In fact, if not for the painting, I’d say he didn’t own this house. I’d have gone as far as to say he rented it, but seeing the painting has changed my mind. I’m still staring at it when he comes in the room.
“Such a nice painting, don’t you think?” his gruff voice asks me from near the entryway.
“Whoever painted it has a nice eye.”
Turning around to face him, I’m greeted with a handshake. He’s never scared me looks-wise; it’s his tone of voice, the gruffness of it, and his actions, how cold and calculated they are, that scare me. The man standing before me? To look at him, I’d say he was harmless, which I’m sure works in his favor more often than not.
“Have a seat, Rhys. Why don’t we get down to business? What was important enough that you couldn’t wait a while to see me?”
Okay, it seems we’re not going to slowly build up to the subject. He’s shooting straight to the heart of the matter.
“I’d like to leave your employment, sir. I’m wanting to start a law firm for myself. Handle mostly cases for people who normally wouldn’t be able to afford proper representation. Help out the so-called little guys. I’ve taken all the steps necessary to do so, except I can’t move on while still employed by you. If you’d still like me to handle your legal matters by being your lawyer, I’d be more than happy to stay on, but um…the, ah…other matters, I’d like completely out of.”
Waiting for him to answer, I stand from my seat and start pacing back and forth in front of his immense desk.
Back and forth.
One foot in front of the other.
Over and over again.
Back and forth.
Back.
And.
Forth.
“I see.” Two words. It’s all he says.
Two fucking words.
“That’s it? I’m good?” That can’t be all. He’s not going to let me go this easily.
“No, I didn’t say you’re good. I said, I see. Quit your damn pacing and sit back down.”
When Martinelli tells you to do something, you do it—at least, normally I do, with yesterday being the exception. The lack of available flights was the only reason I told him no, and technically it was due to him that I told him no in the first place since I was coming to meet with him.
Taking a seat again, I wait for him to continue.
“The problem is, you know certain aspects a normal civilian shouldn’t know about my business dealings. When you agreed to work for me, you agreed to stay employed by me. Now before you start bitching and arguing your point, let me continue on. Yes, you’ve never taken the Omertà oath to my family, and yes, there are multiple dealings you’re left in the dark about.” He pauses for a few seconds to make sure he has my attention. Once I make eye contact with him, he continues on. “Since there’s no sworn oath, I’ll let you go on one condition.”
This condition is going to be what ruins me, what will forever change me as a man, the one thing keeping me from becoming a total monster. It’s why I’ve never taken the oath to him, because to take the oath is to take a life. The only way I can prove myself to him, the condition he’ll agree to, the only way he’ll truly ever let me go is for him to have something to forever hold over my head. If I ever talked and turned him in, he’d need to have this ace up his sleeve.
Closing my eyes, I say the words I’ve been having nightmares about for the past few months.
“You want me to kill someone?” I ask it, because it’s not a statement. I’d never offer to kill anyone, not anyone, including Smith.
“What?” he exclaims from his side of the desk. The shock in his voice is enough to make me open my eyes. Why is he shocked?
“What do you mean, what? Isn’t that what you want me to do?”
“Heavens no, boy. I may be a criminal in most ways, but I don’t kill people unnecessarily. Besides, if I had someone who needed to be dealt with in that capacity, I know you don’t have the balls to do such a thing. My condition is that you train Mikey or one of the underlings how to break bones the way you do. If you ever do break my trust in you, I will send Saul after you.”
Placing my hands over my eyes, I rub them before dragging my hands down my face. What did he think I thought of him? Why wouldn’t I have thought he’d want me to kill someone? He’s a mob boss for fuck’s sake.
Sighing, I nod my head up and down. I know he needs a vocal answer, but it’ll take me a minute to recover from this colossal mistake on my part. I’m letting his words sink in for a moment longer before I reply vocally.
“Sounds good to me. I can start showing Mikey right away, as long as I don’t need to work any more jobs. I can give him a few lessons, or give a few to whomever. I’ll go into Chicago to show them how. It’s not hard, honestly. I’ve never been a big fan of guns. It’s why I never extended my tour after my four years in the army. Hand-to-hand combat was more my style.”
I’ve never been more relieved than I am in this moment. What I stayed up all night fearing, I have no idea. I can use the excuse of reading the letters all I want, but we all know it was my fear of today’s meeting that truly kept me up. I’ve barely had an hour of sleep, hence why I had three cups of coffee.
“Did, uh, Mikey fill you in on what all happened with Smith?” I ask. I’m actually checking to see if Mikey broke my newfound trust in him.
“No, he said you’d have the full report today, actually. Would you like to go over it all? What did the slimy fuck want help with?”
Slimy is a good word for him, but it’s not a strong enough word for what he is. Evil is more like it.
“I ended up taking Smith down, sir.” Pausing for a moment to gauge his reaction, I see a fleeting look of relief pass through his eyes. Huh, surprising. “He had this warehouse turned into a torture chamber, about a dozen rooms. He claimed to need help with a man who was two breaths from dying, a man whose wife Smith had already raped for information. Mikey helped me by holding him, and I broke Smith apart, left him chained in one of his own rooms with the keys to the chains in his sight. I left him alive, but it’s more than he deserved. The man who was dying we dropped off at a local hospital. Now normally I would have been okay-ish with helping out an associate of yours, but not a murderer, and I’m sorry to say it, but Smith is a cold-blooded murderer.”
“Hm. This proves to be some interesting information indeed. I had known he was an odd fellow, but I wouldn’t have guessed a killer.” He rises from his seat, walks over to what looks like a normal liquor cabinet, opens one of the doors, and proceeds to pour himself a cup of coffee. He has coffee stocked in a liquor cabinet, a man after my own heart. “Would you like some coffee, Rhys?”
“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”
“Irish or normal?” Ah, that explains why he has it in the liquor cabinet.
“Normal coffee for me. I had enough liquor last night when I visited with family. I should turn the coffee down since I’ve already had three cups this morning, but I’m addicted.” And certainly finding lots of words for a man who has always inspired fear in me—until now, I guess. Like I said, it’s not his looks that terrify, but his actions.
“I will say this: I am happy to hear you’ve left a man like Smith in such a state, but now I have to warn you—he doesn’t work alone. He never has. If he was alone that day, it was a rare occurrence. Someone will have found him by now. He’ll be looking for you, and the first place he’ll look is with me.”
Shit. He has my name. He knows where I’m from because Mikey told him where he picked me up. Combine the two and I’d be easy to find without using Martinelli. My name is odd enough, especially if he knows how to spell it. He could already be looking for me. He’ll be in the hospital for a while yet, but he could be looking up information online. Putting his plan together. Plotting against me. I may have silently pleaded for him to bring it on the other night, but I didn’t actually mean it.
I’m fucked.
Maybe I should go back home, pack up everything, and move. Leave the country, change my name—whatever it takes to get away from Smith, because I have a feeling I fucked with the wrong man.
“Maybe you should make mine an Irish coffee. The more I think about Smith, the more I need hard liquor.”
“Rhys, son, I already added it,” he says as he hands me my liquored-up coffee.
I’m in way over my head. I’ve messed with a killer, and now he’s going to come looking for me and what’s mine.
I’m well and truly fucked.
The next couple hours are spent with Vincent (he insisted I started calling him by his proper name), going over a few different strategies for when Smith attacks. It’s not a matter of if he’ll attack, but when.
By the time I leave for the airport to make my flight, we have a somewhat solid plan in place. It all depends on how quickly Smith heals. Vincent asked me to gauge how intense his wounds were, but I wasn’t able to give him a definitive answer. All I know is if it were me, I would’ve been begging for death to come for me. If the details are as Vincent warned and Smith doesn’t normally work alone, I’m praying to whoever will listen he wasn’t found quickly. Really I’m hoping he still hasn’t been found.
My main anxiety isn’t for my own safety; it’s for Averill’s. She came roaring back into my life at a time when I needed her, but now it seems to be the worst time imaginable. Smith will find out about her and use her against me. He’d kill her without a moment’s hesitation to get to me.
The only way I can protect her is to either push her away or bring her
in closer. I know which option I’m choosing—the most selfish one. It may not be the safest, but it will without a doubt give me the most peace of mind.
I’ll have to convince Averill to move in with me.
As insane as it sounds, I have to make it happen. The drive home from the airport is the perfect opportunity to bring up the subject of her safety, and I’m going to be completely honest with her. Starting tonight, there’ll be no secrets between us, at least not on my end. The only way I can get her to move in and protect her is by telling her the whole truth, and I’m going to need all the courage I can gather to bring up the subject.
Instead of thinking of her driving my precious baby the three hours to pick me up from the airport, I think about how to bring up my mafia connection, how to explain to her that I left her all hot, willing, and hungry for me to aid a monster and ended up mauling him instead.
At this point, I’ll forgive her anything if she agrees to move in at least temporarily. She could scratch my precious Mystique and I’d forgive her for it. I have the room at my house, and it’s not as if I’d be asking her to share the same bed. I’m not saying I’d be against her doing so, but she’d be offered her own space.
The entire flight is spent thinking of ways to broach the subject. The guy seated next to me tries to start a conversation, so I stick my earbuds in, quickly silencing him. Since I know without a doubt she bribed Brant into giving her entrance to my house, thus giving her access to Mystique, I’m going to tell her she owes me. What does she owe me? The night spent in Chicago. Tessa can open her store in the morning. She can take the night and spend it with me in the city. It’ll give me the time I need to spill all my secrets.
The time spent thinking told me it wouldn’t be smart to bring up such a serious subject while driving back tonight, so a hotel room it is. I’ll take her to dinner, and if she doesn’t want to share a room with me, I’ll get her a separate one, but we will be having this conversation tonight.
With a plan in mind, I disembark the plane happier than when I entered. Maybe I shouldn’t be happy knowing a killer is going to eventually come for me and those I love, but right now, instead of wearing my sadness like a souvenir, I’m choosing happiness.
