Broken (Dying For Diamonds Book 1)

by Kiley Beckett

  “You don’t have to tell me,” she said, her hands smoothing over his chest.

  “The CIA...well, private contractors, technically—gave these Taliban men gifts. In exchange for two things. Free passage for mineral exploration and opium.”

  She was quiet, watching his mouth as he spoke. Listening and nodding. He said, “They gave frequent gifts, kept them fed, kept the palms greased...you know how it works.” She nodded. “Mostly viagra and guns and bullets. But there was a tribal dispute. A shakeup in the clan and the new provincial regime took hostages. Didn’t harm them, but they were high value targets, executives, and...well, the corporations, they...they paid the ransom. I was there. Operating in Badakhshan. My unit got ourselves right up close to the base, watching, waiting. Ready to rescue the hostages if we got the call.” He hesitated here, this was where it got tricky. “Once the ransom was paid the Chief kept his end of the bargain. The hostages were handed over to the military. We were told to stay in position. The military, regular forces took the hostages and then we did get a call...”

  “You killed them,” she said. A lifetime with the Nero family did teach her how it worked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “We took care of them. Big business, the government, the mob...they all work the same.”

  She inhaled, eyes watching her own hands on him as they tickled through his chest hair.

  “You got a medal?”

  “Ah, I don’t talk about medals you little snoop,” he said and he grabbed her by her arms and kissed her. He didn’t talk about medals and he wouldn’t talk about diamonds and fortunes either. Not til it was real. She laughed around his mouth, her chuckles making brisk flatulent sounds on their wet skin that got them both laughing. He lay her back in the bath, her face peeking out of the hot water. He kissed her and fell in love all over again with the soft slippery feel of her little mouth. She used her hand to stroke him fully hard again. They made love in the bath on all fours like he took her in the kitchen bent over the chair. Went slow and steady this time and concentrated on the feel of her moving back against his body as they worked together. They both came. Joked about never getting to eat her food and got back in the shower to rinse off, fingers turning to prunes now.

  They went downstairs and Daniella showed him how sexy she looked in just his flannel shirt. She fried the involtini, served the salad and they drank two bottles of Primitivo. It made him dream of a life like this. A life like he had never known. A life without sharp edges, a life with no danger. One filled with happiness and love and sunshine. He could picture it. Picture it like the tale Daniella had spun that day in the interstate hotel. He’d watched the cracks in the ceiling and had dared to dream. Maybe there were second chances in life. Maybe there were do-overs. They could go away. Try it one more time. Live a life like they were living right now, holed up hiding from killers. Do it for real, out in the open. Somewhere warm, just him and Daniella like right now. Eating and fucking and loving. Maybe they would have a family.

  They went to bed and stripped down. They writhed with one another, feeling and kissing and exploring. He got hard again and while he wanted to fuck they both had more fun touching each other all over and sometime after midnight she fell asleep in his arms.

  13

  Cobalt

  daniella

  When Daniella woke up he was gone. Stretched her arm over to his side of the bed found nothing but cool absence. She jumped out, stood, whipping the bed sheet around her, stared in horror at his empty spot. Knew better than to panic but did anyway. She had a bad feeling. No reason, just a nameless dread that chilled her spine. Called his name and quick stepped out of the dining room and into the kitchen.

  “Rocco?”

  There was no response. She called again, this time quieter which was counter-intuitive if you were trying to find someone. Her voice felt very loud in the empty house. She cleared her throat. There was a tinge of panic she heard and she didn’t like it. She called again, this time a hoarse low whisper. Searching for him but adding some menace in case their hiding house had been discovered and there were intruders.

  Where had she left her gun? Shit.

  It was in the kitchen. She’d passed it.

  Turned in the hall that led to the garage, walked on quiet bare feet back to the kitchen. Saw her gun laying on the marble counter with all the evidence of last night’s evening. Dirty pots, dirty bowls, plates, empty wine bottles, empty wine glasses. If this were the Nero mansion someone would have tidied already but she was on her own now. Made it to the counter, revolver laying on its side where she’d left it, barrel pointing at the fridge. Softly put her finger through the trigger guard and eased her grip around the handle, hefted it, held it to her chest, still clutching the bed sheets around her naked body.

  Down the hall again, gun at the ready, slipping silently along the tile floor, feeling its warmth under her, wondering if the floor was heated. Got to the garage door and eased it open, looked inside as the cold air from that stone space breathed its chill on her. Rocco’s truck was gone.

  She felt at once safer and yet more in danger than ever. He was gone, but it wasn’t likely then that there were intruders in the house. Didn’t seem like he’d left under duress and she’d managed to sleep through it.

  No, it seemed like that day four years ago when she’d gone to his apartment after he never showed at the airport. He was just gone without a trace. No note, no message, no text. Just gone. He’d slipped from her life again, vanished like a ghost. She felt her shoulders slump.

  Four years ago there had been no indication he would abandon her. Just like now. They’d had a wonderful—fucking amazing—evening. Four years ago it was the same. They’d had a wonderful evening...they had their plans to be together forever. Then that son of a bitch gave up on her—on them—and disappeared. Was anything different? Had she fallen for it yet again? Spread her legs for that macho asshole, let him fondle her delicate heart in his iron grip. Once again he’d crushed it. Callous or clumsy or just fucking uncaring.

  “Fuck,” she said, quiet, but it was carried with some of the venom she felt. “Fuck,” she said again. Gun still at the ready, but not walking crouched anymore, she made her way back through the kitchen, went downstairs. The basement was finished but empty. Wondered who had lived here before. It must be a rental. It wasn’t fully furnished. Some chairs, a bed that Rocco had dragged down the stairs so he could sleep on the main floor. If you were planning a hit, you’d need a center of operations, she figured. This was where Rocco had been staying when he’d come back to Chicago. From sunny fucking California. Burrowed in this sparse mansion, plotting the death of another man. She was in love with a killer. Sure he was her killer, but his was a dangerous world. One didn’t just live on the outskirts of Danger Town. It was a walled city, Rocco was trapped inside. She was too. And now, without her father, she was finding that it was a very, very dangerous place indeed. It was so easy to kill her. Someone who knew her had made a call and asked for it to be big and grand. A dramatic three act play that was to send the others the message that they were all powerful.

  It was strange though. The grand gesture not like any of the men in the family. The most flamboyant was Saturn. Even he didn’t seem like the type to make such bold gestures. It was so much money. Half a million to end her life? The men she knew would pay five grand and hire some drifter to cut her throat in Sedona. They’d known she would be there. What was the big deal with the showmanship? She set her pistol down on the top of the washing machine, kept her finger on the trigger. She frowned. She thought. It was little man thinking. Little dick thinking.

  When her father groomed her, in the years since Rocco left, she prepared herself. Steeled herself. But she hadn’t anticipated such venom. Rejection? Sure, okay, she could work with that. Kill her? ...Could this really be what her father had wanted for her? He’d groomed her, sure, taught her how to be strong, how to lead. He’d never once put his arm over her shoulders and held her close like he used to, w
hispered, Oh, and baby Daniella, watch your fucking back.

  She grabbed her things from the dryer, held them in a bunch at her hip, still naked under her sheet, headed back up the stairs to the main floor. She threw her things down on the bed. Looked at the place she’d been living for these last crazy hours.

  “Where did you go, Rocco?” she whispered to the room.

  Went upstairs then, gun in hand, sheets sweeping the stairs behind her like a wedding dress. The upstairs was empty. One bedroom up there with a bed frame from which her Rocco had liberated the boxspring and mattress. Went to the window and looked up and down the street. This time she was careful to conceal herself. Wondered where this neighborhood was. Where was she in the city? She was still in the Gold Coast, she was convinced, but all she could see were the houses across the street. Figured she may be facing north.

  Back downstairs, she went to the bed and sat on it. Threw her gun on the pillows, thought of the phone hiding underneath her. It had value, but yet was of no use. She couldn’t call home. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t call Rocco. He didn’t have a number. She’d love to call him. Hey, where are you? You fucking leave me again? He used burners yesterday. Why didn’t he think to bring some home? They could call each other. She could call him right now. Where? Where had he gone? Off again. Running away. Off to the army? Back to L.A.? To his fucking chef? She would murder that bitch. She reached back, squeezed the gun. Shoot her in her face.

  Those were ghost feelings. Vestiges reaching up like ghoul's fingers from a buried coffin, trying to pull her down. Her painful past trying to ruin her present. Rocco was different. He was Rocco how she knew him, but she could feel something from him. A depth. Always confident, always in control, even four years ago. But now... Less angry? Was that it? He was just as scary, just as deadly. Maybe more so with four years of jumping out of planes and using high grade weaponry to ace motherfuckers. A lot more weaponry at his disposal than when he ran Dad’s crew here in Chicago. Rocco had been tempered, forged. What the Romans had aspired to. Gravitas.

  Calm. Daniella. Calm. Picture Sedona. That hippy who had the hair. Leif. The ringlets and thinning pate. Smelled like patchouli. Always talked like he was switched on, like he had figured it all out. What would he do? What would he say? The week he’d led the painting workshop she’d been awed by his zen... Or whatever you would call it.

  But she was no hippy. She had tiger’s blood. She was a Nero. When she got mad she showed it. They could stuff that New Age bullshit. Peace in Sedona was a break from reality but it wasn’t reality. Reality was contract killers and murderers, men who rose from the dead and made love to you. That fucking hippy would shit his cargo shorts if he had to live her life.

  “Raah,” she roared and stood, left her sheets and gun behind and stalked the kitchen like a naked tiger. She rested her hands on the counter, fingers curled like claws. Breathe in, breathe out. Looked up, saw the things that had been left in the hall. Pictured herself last night and smiled. Naked, whipped cream on the parts she wanted her Rocco to suckle. He’d come in and set his things down. Then in the tub he told her he’d brought her a gift. The tiger slept. She padded over to them, set herself on her knees.

  There was a wooden briefcase. Polished maple with two brass hasps keeping it closed. In the center a looped leather handle. Propped against the stone wall, behind the case, was a roll of untreated canvas. She set the briefcase flat on the floor, popped the hasps, eased the case to open. She knew when she smelled the contents... The smell soothed her, took her to her place where she was most happy. The tiger purred. Inside, the case was divided in four sections, lined with red satin, each section held related items. There were tubes of paint, bottles of cold-pressed linseed and walnut oils, there were brushes. Fine brushes, sable and hog bristle, in fans and points and flats. She took all the pieces out and held them.

  Think Daniella. Think. He’s not lying. He’s here for good. She knew it. Felt it in her bones.

  “Damn you, Rocco,” she laughed. “Damn you.” She held tubes of paint in her loose fists and she pressed them to her breasts, clamped them over her heart. “God, you’re beautiful, Rocco,” she sighed.

  Thrust them all back into the case, held it flat, the lid not closing with her haphazard storage. She took the case to the bedroom and she lay it on the floor. At the foot of the bed there was a blank wall. Not stone. Eggshell latex on drywall. No hung paintings, just a blank space lit by filtered daylight coming through the gauze of the curtains. Rocco’s canvas would have to be stretched and treated. This wall would be her canvas. This blank wall had been a big part of her life the last two days. The most consequential two days of her life.

  In the kitchen she found scraps of cardboard, empty boxes that had held pasta. She cut them with a knife on the kitchen counter. Made friskets, made palettes. Back in the bedroom she threw it all on the floor. Her heart was pumping. She was excited, she felt...something. Something was happening. Something in her that was hidden wanted out. What was blocked was no longer obscured. Whatever was going on inside her, a passage was being opened and whatever was hiding needed to be coaxed into the light. She needed to get down on her knees and encourage it to her. She painted. Rough at first. Like she was angry. Throwing down paint with a grunt, lips pursed tightly, her brow lowered. She watched the paint hit the wall. She watched what it did. She reacted to it. Saw what was there and waited for her heart to tell her what was next. She followed her whims, she followed her passion. Quinacridone, cadmium, cobalt; alchemy of color, science and ancient practices drawing out on a blank sheet of drywall. Something was happening. It came to life. She saw it spread out before her. It encouraged her. The splashes of color welcomed her. Told her it was right. Told her she was good. She painted more. Added and subtracted, sharp frisket edges; splashes wet with oil, hashed against the wall with wild purpose. She painted for an hour. Then she painted more. Totally naked, totally free. She was sweating, her face was flush. She knew who she was. She knew her shape, could discern it. Knew what she wanted now.

  When she stood back finally, her chest was heaving. She was smudged with paint. She glistened. She was happy. She was crying but she was happy. She looked at the mess she made. It was chaos. In that chaos she saw order. She saw structure. Everything became clear. It was always in her. She always knew but she was afraid. Now it seemed like the simplest thing ever. She wasn’t destruction. She wasn’t death. She wasn’t an iron fist, even if it was in a velvet glove. She was life. She was creation. She was birth.

  Tears were wiped with oil stained hands and she laughed and laughed. Sat back on the bed. Looked at her work spread out before her. It was beautiful.

  The sun had streaked higher in the sky, the light changed, her shadow now stretching out the door and into the kitchen. She looked at the sliver of bright white hope beyond those slightly parted curtains. Where was he? Where was her Rocco?

  14

  Beginnings

  rocco

  Rocco’s mother, before she’d been raped and murdered at the tender age of twenty-nine, liked to garden. Mom had a heroin habit but he got the sense, in retrospect, that she’d had a happy childhood. Someone had taught her how to nurture plants, how to splice, how to fertilize. Maybe she’d had a kind mother. When he was young and very alone Rocco liked to think he might have a grandma out there somewhere, and she’d take him in and tuck him into bed, teach him how to garden, but it had never happened. He’d instead ended up in foster care.

  Mom grew flowers and she grew weed. For her personal consumption. One time his father had friends over and they got drunk and chopped up her young plant and tried to smoke it. Made them sick. She’d freaked out in the morning. Could picture it in his head like it had happened last week. Eating no-name Cheerios with water because they were out of milk. Mom cleaning the soil off the dirty linoleum floor, sweeping it onto a newspaper with her bare hand. Pop came down in his undershirt and sagging dirty briefs. He laughed at the mess, remembering his fine evening, and she’d gone aft
er him. Pop was scrawny from malnutrition, drugs, and booze but he had heavy hands. One hit, not much windup, a jab really, but he caught her right in her open mouth. Rocco could remember her words extinguished with that punch, could hear the wet smack of her lips against her teeth, her grunt. Pop split her lips, a vertical hack that went up the center of both her bottom lip and her top lip. One line of bright red watery blood had squirted up her cheek on a forty-five degree angle. She sat down. Rocco did nothing. It wasn’t the first time he’d witnessed his father hitting his mother. He was seven. He knew by seven not to cry. Sat and ate his cereal while his mother was on the floor, sobbing without making a sound, remembered her softly shaking shoulders and the red between her fingers clamped over her mouth. Pop turned his back to them and filled a dirty glass with water from the tap. Drank it, looking out the window over the colorless decaying neighborhood.

  Rocco stood under an overhanging sign that had been fixed to its brick wall since the fifties. Probably as big as him, held out from the brick by criss crossing angle iron, two-sided so you could read it from whichever end of the busy city street you were coming from. Written across the top in a brush script it read, Prima, and then in vertical all caps below it read, Flowers. Rocco remembered this sign from when he was a kid, passing through the nice part of town, some of his friends trying to gather the courage to swipe some rich lady’s purse.

  There was another thing Rocco remembered growing next to mom’s weed in the cheap plastic containers that lined the metal railings along the veranda. Yellow roses. It was a tiny memory, one gleaming jewel in a rubble of tragedy. Bright yellow roses that bloomed every two months. Mom put them on the porch when the weather was nice and had them in the window when it was cold. One time, when her addiction had eased its grip on her, she told him she liked yellow roses because they meant something to her. He said, What? She said, New beginnings.