His Brother's Wife

by Mia Ford

  I thought about it, trying to think like Richie. I thought he’d want as few witnesses as possible, as few potential problems as possible. He wanted this to be a slam-dunk. He’d want his first foray into the world of luxury commodities to be a rousing success. Richie Silvestri, the man who can get things done.

  “I don’t think he’ll detour. I think the heist will be arranged for a neighborhood, possibly at a community gate or a private one.”

  “I agree. Have any questions for me?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then enjoy your pizza and thanks for calling Dominos.”

  The line went dead. I had one more call to make before calling it a day, and Pops knew immediately why I was calling.

  “Is the shit about to hit the fan?” he asked.

  “Yeah, Pops. Just wanted to let you know because in a few minutes, this phone will be permanently dead.”

  My dad hesitated for a minute. He always got quiet right before I made a bust. I couldn’t really imagine what went through his head, and he never told me, but my guess was his thoughts were never all that good.

  “When we talk next, it will be over Sunday dinner,” he said, trying, and failing, to sound cheerful. “You’ve got this, Danny. Just be careful.”

  “Always, Pops.”

  “Night, kid. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  He clicked off first. I always let him do that.

  I pulled the SIM card from the phone, tore it in half, and flushed it down the toilet. I stomped on the phone with my boot and tossed the pieces in the trash.

  Then I sat down and tried to think of everything that could possibly go wrong tomorrow.

  This was always the loneliest moment in any assignment.

  It was going to be a very long night.

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Hannah

  The four goons had all come in a few minutes before and headed to Richie’s office. Butch had gotten off the stool and lumbered to the back as well.

  I continued to do my job, fixing drinks, running food for the girls, and chatting with my customers, but my mind was unfocused. I did all of my tasks by rote. I knew this was the day, and I was well aware that, by the end of the day, things would be changing around here—one way or another.

  Just when I’d tried to put everything out of my mind, Danny sauntered into the club, his smile bright. He looked so good that my mouth watered, his dark hair shining, the white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, hugging his wide chest. I ached to run my hands over his firm muscles and tight abs. I ached even more to slip my hand into his pants and wrap my fingers around his cock. I wanted to grind against him, rub my clit over the hard bulge, and find some release from the tension coiled in my body.

  He stopped for a minute to talk to Jonell and then gave a wave to Tiffany as she shimmied on the stage. After that, his gaze locked on mine, and he strolled to the bar. I met him at the pass-through. The cacophony of the music and conversations seemed to die away, and a peace slipped over me.

  “Hey, girlfriend,” he said.

  “Hey yourself, but I’m not your girlfriend.” I couldn’t help smiling. I was happy to see him, but still, his appearance bothered me. I knew Richie wouldn’t like him being here at this time of the day, for being so bold and making a move in public like this.

  He snagged my hand and twined our fingers together. I tried to pull away, but he kept a tight hold. “How about a real date?”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why? Because Richie wouldn’t like it?”

  “You know he wouldn’t,” I said softly.

  “I don’t give a flying fuck what Richie wants,” he said lightly. “What do you want?”

  That was a question I’d asked myself so many times. I’d never had an answer until lately. Now I knew I wanted a real career—one I’d carved for myself—a happy, safe life, and a man who could share all that with me.

  I wanted Danny to be that man.

  He lifted my hand and kissed it the way he had at our first meeting. Once again, fire flashed through my veins, hot enough to melt all my resolve.

  “I’d like to go on a date.”

  One of the guys at the bar said, “Lucky bastard.”

  “Good. I’ll take you to the Navy Pier. Are you a Jimmy Buffett fan, Miss Hannah?”

  I laughed as “Rock You Like a Hurricane” thumped in the background. “I think liking Jimmy Buffett is against company policy.”

  “We could go to Margaritaville. Have a cheeseburger in paradise.” He wiggled his brows. “Then we’ll come back here and find our own paradise.”

  “And you’ll rock me like a hurricane?” I blushed and gave him a smile, suddenly feeling shy. This was new territory for me. I hadn’t had a real date in a long time.

  “A hurricane, a typhoon, a tornado, and any other weather phenomenon you can conjure in your wildest fantasies.”

  “It sounds fun.” This was what I wanted. This might be the beginning of my future.

  The door to the hallway slammed open, and Butch filled the space. His stare moved from Danny to me. He frowned, his brows drawing down so far they cast shadows across his eyes.

  “Stop dicking around, O’Shea,” he said. “Get your ass back here.”

  “Fuck off,” Danny said, “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Butch disappeared, and everything in my body seemed to liquefy. I had to hold myself up on the pass-through. I slowly brought my gaze back to Danny. His smile had vanished, those dark eyes filled with a bit of shame.

  “Oh, no, Danny…” I gripped his hand. “Don’t do this.”

  “I’ll be okay.” He squeezed my fingers. “You just pick out a pretty dress and think about sunshine and soft breezes and tropical drinks. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  He leaned over the pass-through, grabbed my shoulders, and practically yanked me off my feet. His mouth covered mine in a hard, brutal kiss that caused images of soldiers going off to war to flicker through my head. When I dropped back to the floor, my head reeling, he gave me a smile, and then he, too, disappeared through the hallway.

  I grabbed a bottle of vodka, splashed several inches into a glass, and downed it in one swallow.

  “Hey, Hannah,” Charity called from a table. “I need another bucket of Bud.”

  I got back to work.

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Danny

  When the vehicle pulled in the alleyway behind the club, I managed to school my features, but the impact of this hit me like a sledgehammer.

  “Jesus, boss, how’d you pull this off?” Butch asked.

  Richie walked around the armored car, checking out the reinforced cab and shell and the bulletproof windows. The logo of Armor Security blazed in red across the back panel of the white truck.

  “Friends in high places, Butch,” Richie said.

  The four professionals stood silently, but I could see they were impressed. Hell, I was impressed, but this was not going to go down the way I’d anticipated. I hoped the commander would think fast on his feet.

  “I thought we were hitting an armored car, not riding in one,” I said.

  Richie tapped his forehead like he’d figured out the secrets to the universe. “What better way to get the upper hand?”

  The driver of the vehicle, dressed in a pair of dark pants and a jacket, got out. He stripped off the jacket, threw his cap into the truck cab, and tossed the keys to Richie. He pulled out a hoodie and shrugged into it. “Uniforms in back. I’m out of here.” He strode down the alley.

  Richie turned to the group.

  “The pickup is happening right now. I’ve been in contact with my partner, and they’re scheduled to leave the Field Museum within the hour. The armored car is making a drop-off on the Gold Coast then heading to Burling Street and Orchard Street, both in Lincoln Park.”

  “Where’s the hit?” I asked.

  “Sure as shit not the Gold Coast,” Butch muttered.

  “No,” Richie said, “not the Gold Coast. We’re wi
lling to forego that small parcel for a bit more…privacy. This works best without a lot of witnesses, and this time of day a lot of houses in Lincoln Park will be empty while all those yuppies are downtown in their offices. But since the dipshits are so eco-friendly”—said with the biggest sneer I’d seen on his face— “the street could still be packed with cars.”

  “Could be a problem,” one of the other men said.

  “You just make sure it isn’t,” Richie said with a glare. “You’ll hit them on Burling Street.”

  “Which fuckin’ part?” another man asked. “That street is more chopped up than ground beef.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Richie muttered and rattled off the address. “It’s in the section between Armitage and Willow.”

  “Got it,” the guy said and then tilted his big head. “That’s one-way.”

  Richie sighed. “Yes, it’s one-way, but you’ll only be going one way.”

  “Only one way out,” Butch said.

  “Do it right, and it won’t be a problem,” Richie snarled. “The house is on the right—if you’re going the right way.” He gave the man with the questions a pointed look. “They have a gated drive. You’ll wait in the parking lot on Armitage until you see the armored car turn onto Burling. Then you’ll go down Burling and do the job. Butch knows the plan, and you’ll follow his lead. Just make sure you get off that fucking street fast. Turn on Willow and get the fuck out.”

  “There’s a school on that street,” I said.

  Richie sneered and gave me a look. “Then I guess you better be sure the job’s done before school lets out.”

  He gave Butch a radio and then tossed me the keys. “You’re driving, O’Shea. Watch out for the kids.” The smile that flashed over his face made me want to plough my fist into his face, but that could wait.

  Driving was the first good news I’d heard. Then came the bad.

  Richie passed out weapons, and everyone got one but me.

  * * * *

  We sat on Armitage, dressed in our uniforms for Armor Security. The guy driving the delivery transport must have been legally blind because he drove right by us. Red flags went up. The vehicle turned down Burling, and I followed slowly past some nice homes. It was a great neighborhood, but I’d known it would be with millions of dollars in jewels on the line here.

  About half a block down, the truck signaled and pulled into the driveway in front of the gate to an imposing white brick mansion with large mullioned windows and a tree-lined courtyard. Turn of the century. Pretty as shit.

  “Stop here,” Butch said. “If things go the way they’re supposed to, you take this truck back to Armor Security.” He rattled off the address, but of course I already knew it. “If things go south, I don’t give a fuck what you do. Just get the hell out and disappear for a while. Do not come back to the club.”

  Butch dropped from the cab and walked toward the other armored car. The men in the back of my rig pushed open the rear doors and exited. They all followed Butch.

  Then the unheard of happened. The driver of the other armored car got out of the transport and met Butch. So many red flags went up I couldn’t even count them. An armored car driver never got out of his vehicle.

  The two men exchanged a few words, and the driver moved toward the side door. He lifted a radio and spoke to the man behind the armor—the one who would have a gun trained on anyone who approached.

  I leaned across the seat. “Fuck.”

  “Change of plans,” the driver said. I strained to hear the conversation as the man spoke into the radio, but with the dense bulletproof glass, it was hard to hear. I tried to rely on a bit of lip-reading, but couldn’t catch all of it. “High-security transport—the other side of the city—unscheduled delivery—switch trucks.”

  I read between the lines. The driver had been ordered to switch trucks with us. I wondered how much the man behind Armor Security would pay one of this employees for that. The other men in the truck would never have taken a job with a new driver without a serious damn reason, so this man was one of the regular crew.

  A garbled word squawked over the radio, but I figured it out.

  “I don’t ask why, Jackson.” The driver’s voice got louder. “Lower the weapon. I’m opening the door.”

  “Like fuck you are,” Jackson said, plain as day.

  While the two argued through the tiny glass slot, the driveway gate began to swing open. Men poured out of the house, taking up stations around the courtyard. Several moved down the driveway toward the gate.

  “Jesus jumping Christ,” Butch mouthed. He lifted his radio as he ducked behind the first armored car.

  The driver of the delivery transport dropped his radio and took off running.

  “Chicago P.D.,” someone shouted.

  When the driver failed to stop, the cop shot his leg out from under him, and he fell to the sidewalk. He rolled over and wrapped his hand around his calf to staunch the bleeding, but blood poured through his fingers and that shattered bone protruding from the wound didn’t look too good. He’d better hope this ended quickly and he got to a hospital.

  “Weapons down,” a cop shouted.

  “Like fuck,” screamed one of Richie’s men, and he opened fire, spraying the courtyard with a hail of bullets.

  Bark chips flew from trees, and leaves shredded and flurried around like green snowflakes. Chunks of concrete exploded from the gate columns, whizzing through the air to pepper everything in sight.

  Instinctively I reached for my weapon, but then I remembered I had none. I was in the safest possible spot, so I watched as Butch yelled into his radio, trying to hear anything he said, and then a body falling caught my attention. Two down, four to go. The remaining professionals were all bent double, backing away, guns swinging left and right, toward my truck. A swarm of cops, dressed in SWAT gear, followed. One of Richie’s men jerked backward as a bullet caught him in the chest, and he collapsed in a heap.

  One of the goons pounded on the passenger window. I gave him the finger, and he growled through his teeth and ducked behind a parked car.

  An officer trained his gun on my vehicle.

  A voice rose over the noise of ricocheting shots, shouting, and bullets clipping cars and shattering windows.

  “Driver is Daniel Dutton, one of ours.” I recognized the voice, even in the chaos.

  My commander had taken stock of the scene and realized I was, logically, the person in the driver’s seat. He moved fast as lightning through the gate as several other cops covered his ass. A shot rang out, but my commander was a tough bastard. He crouched, sprang back up, and rounded the truck, his gun trained on Butch.

  “Weapon down.”

  Butch lowered his weapon and placed it on the ground, not willing to die for Richie. My commander waved his free hand, and I took that as a sign. He knew where I wanted to be.

  The sound of sirens wailed through the neighborhood, and I knew, in a few moments, the street would be blocked. Butch managed to yell a few more words into his radio before a cop ripped it from his hand and pushed him to the ground. The two men still on their feet must have realized they’d reached an impasse. Without access to either vehicle, and the wail of sirens coming from down the block—cops didn’t care about one-way signs—they ran back toward Armitage Street, where, I hoped, another team of cops waited. If not, I’d remember their ugly mugs.

  I didn’t wait around. I drove as fast as I dared down the residential drive toward Willow Street. I needed to get back to the South Side, where Richie was—where Hannah was.

  Richie was not going to be happy to see me, but the amount I cared about that would fit in his pencil cock with plenty of room left over. I just hoped I wasn’t bringing a knife to a gunfight.

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Hannah

  The door to the hallway opened with a bang, and Richie barreled through it like a raging bull. He flung up the pass-through, stormed behind the bar, and grabbed my arm so tightly I winced and tried to pull away, but he held on like
a pit bull.

  “What the hell, Richie?” Hank asked, rising from his stool.

  Richie gave him a look that would have cowered most men, but Hank moved toward us. Several of the other men looked concerned, but none of them would dare intervene in any of Richie’s activities, even if they involved me. Their welcome in this place was the only thing that got them through the day.

  “Sit the fuck down, Hank, or I’ll knock you down,” Richie growled.

  I held up my hand, and Hank sat reluctantly.

  “What’s wrong?” My mind raced with all sorts of possibilities. Surely the armored car hadn’t been intercepted? Something bad had happened, but still, I had no idea why Richie would think to take it out on me when Butch had been the one to fail him.

  The image of Danny flashed in my mind. Had Danny fucked up? Was Richie going to blame me?

  “Shut up. You’re coming with me.”

  “Richie.” My face snapped toward the deep voice. “You need to leave her alone.”

  “It’s okay, Jonell,” I said, trying desperately to keep Richie from harming anyone.

  “No, Hannah, it’s not okay.” Jonell started to move closer, and before anyone could move or help or stop him, Richie pulled a gun from his waistband and shot Jonell in the head.

  The man dropped to the floor, and the music died. Tiffany slowly slid to the bottom of the pole and burst into tears. Tears flowed from my eyes too.

  Richie waved the gun. “Everyone get the fuck out of here before I use all these bullets and reload.”

  Chairs squealed along the floor and fell as people lurched from tables. Several men grabbed the dancers and half carried them to the door. Others knocked against tables as they ran, and Spinner vaulted over his booth and bolted for the door.

  In the moment of quiet after the chaos, Richie turned to me and quietly said, “Get your goddamned keys.” He pointed the gun at me.

  I grabbed my purse, and he dragged me through the pass-through, and though I dug in my heels, he managed to get me through the door and to the stairwell.