by Alex Elliott
“No problem,” he replies.
I smile at both of them, then focus on Jon. “So, are you up for leaving?”
“More than ready.” He grins over at his new friend. “Mitch, what about you?”
I try to catch Jon’s eye, and nonverbally ask if Mitch is coming with us. But he’s so hung up on the blond hunk in front of him, he ignores my intense stare.
“Need a lift back to the city?” I ask Mitch, taking the bull by the horns.
Jon slants my way and whispers, “I’m riding back with him. He has a plane.”
“You aren’t seri—”
He jerks my arm, squeezing, and I want to laugh and ask him if he’s bonkers. Is he really contemplating hooking up with a married man? But he gives me an I’ll-kill-you-in-your-sleep stare to silence my unwelcomed imitation of a dumbbell. Stiffening, I feel a tendril of something foreign tighten around my throat—and wonder what’s come over me? I don’t want him to leave with Mitch.
Am I jealous of Jon? Of the blond hunk? Of them together… In a bed?
Uhh, yep, I think I am. The realization has the distinct unsettling impression that takes up residence in my core.
Jon gestures to Mitch. “I’m ready to call it a night, if you are.”
Mitch’s smile widens. “Good idea. It’s been great, but looks like storm clouds are rolling in.”
“We’ll walk you to your car,” Jon says to me.
They both set their drinks down, and we start to trek toward the front of the house. I want to bolt and I hate feeling like this. I bypass leaving through the gargantuan downstairs hall, intersecting where I’m sure Gran is holding court. I brake and head around a corner. Past the airy living room filled with antiques, guests, and insipid conversation. I patter onto the side walkway, one thought and it’s to get away.
“Wait up, Phoenix,” Jon calls and I realize that I’m practically fleeing like my feet are on fire.
I slow my gallop, stepping off the walkway and onto the grass. Taking a breath, I glance over my shoulder to Jon, and our eyes meet. I force a smile to my lips for his benefit when he and his friend catch up.
“X, what’s the hurry?” Jon’s eyes are wide with concern.
My stomach pitches. I’m acting selfishly. “You know how it is. Seeing the exit, I can’t leave fast enough.”
“Yeah, then call Nora. It’s all set. She’s waiting to hear from you,” he whispers, canting close to me. Our gazes fuse and he asks, “Okay?”
I inhale, peering into his dark eyes. “I promised, didn’t I?”
He gives me an abridged nod, before he steps back next to Mitch. Together, we all resume walking around the side of Gran’s home, toward the garden entrance in silence. We stride over the pavers, in between the manicured lawn, and neatly trimmed hedges. I head our team as Jon and Mitch whisper. Flanked by their low chatter and secret laughs, I feel alone and wrap my arms around my middle.
I follow the lit walk until we come to the circular drive, trying not to eavesdrop on their conversation but all the while, I can’t wait to escape being the third wheel. Once outside and facing the winding row of cars down the driveway, I shrug. “Hey, I’m going to go get my car. The queue is too long.”
There are several other couples waiting along the front steps for the two valets huffing it back and forth.
Jon places his hand on my shoulder. “Are you good to drive?”
My cheeks feel numb as I try to keep up the pretense of smiling. I assess my level of intoxication—not too bad. “Yep, I’m fine, just hot. Pop was right about the heat.”
Jon’s brow creases. “I can always ride back with—”
“No,” I whisper stubbornly as his awesome wingwoman. “Go have some fun. Lots and lots of screaming, hair-pulling fun. You deserve it. No excuses. Call me tomorrow.”
Both men wear surprised expressions as if their connection is covert.
“Catch you tomorrow. We’ll talk strategy on getting you intimately hooked up in D.C.,” Jon says with a wink. We hug, kiss, trade another bye.
Alone, I walk to my car, scanning the night sky and wonder if this is my doorway to change. As I approach my car, I glance back over my shoulder. Jon laughing again with his new friend—new connection. That’s a lesson worth learning. New connection. New possibilities.
I level my shoulders and think, yeah. Maybe a little Hill climbing in D.C. is just the ticket. Tomorrow, I’m going to call Nora and see what’s the deal with Senator Atticus Stone and his unforgettable persona.
Chapter 13
Atticus Stone~ The Road to Hell
AS MY UNCLE’S counselor or Consigliere, the position is more substantial in title than actual weight. Meritless, I’m allocated to the same sludge as everyone else, and frankly being outside the Saint’s little inner circle is fine by me. The less face time interaction we have, the better. I make zero waves, not even acknowledging that it affords my uncle an air of prestige in requiring such a position. Typically, I’m called to do collections or act as an intermediator. Or like today: wear both hats.
Pulling into a Queens’ driveway, I tap the horn and expect to be stopped at least once if not twice on my way to The Saint. From a folding chair and wearing an ear-to-ear grin, Peter launches upward, waving his arm and resembling a lanky Jack-in-the-box.
Vince doesn’t do more than affix his eyes straight forward. He and Pete don’t get along. They’re adults and if they can’t stand the sight of each other, not my problem to fix.
“Hey, Tuck. Where’s ya Rolls?” he says as gregariously as the first time he crafted the gibe in his Jersey accent that gets heavier when he’s on the frontline, doing street duty.
“You tell me, you big palooka,” I return and we bump fists.
“I adjusted the timing belt and she purrs. Runs great. Angie is all over it with the kids when I ain’t covering Zio. Wanna take her out for a spin?” He jerks his thumb back toward the house where my first armor-plated car is parked. A silver Rolls-Royce Ghost and even the undercarriage is explosive proof. “Word is you’re meeting with Bratva mojos,” he says in a low voice, his brow tight.
That’s what I suspected. If my uncle could get away with three-word texts, he’d use two words out of principle. The man pockets any and all perceived excess. Whether in money or messages. The Saint leaves it up to someone else to ask for clarification or not. It’s his game. He profits from mistakes. Life or death is a win-win for him.
“Figures,” I supply. “What else is shaking?”
“Besides Joey’s second birthday and Angie’s callin’ every fifteen, gotta do a full check. No major. Everything is quiet.” Pete’s my cousin unlike the muscle hired to protect our uncle.
I dig out my money clip and mutter, “Where does the time go?” After peeling off a grand, I slip him the bills. “For my nephew. And tell Angie, I miss her pecan pie.”
His wife is from Georgia as well; a Savannah peach. As a retired beauty pageant winner, I’m sure she understands what’s going down, and the necessity of turning a blind-eye. Living out in the burbs, Peter and she are the typical over-involved parents of three rambunctious boys. And why I practically gave the Rolls to my cousin to protect his fast growing clan. Aside from Santo, he’s the only other blood relative I’ve seen around. Hard to miss Pete with his bright red shock of hair, freckles, and light eyes.
“Tell ‘er yourself. Come to the party. It’s just toddlers and a clown. Bouncy house. Ponies. Your mom is there. My mom. Angie’s got a friend. A real looker. Recently divorced.”
Vince laughs darkly.
Ignoring him, I tip my head against the backrest and exhale, “Wish I could. But I’ve got to be up north this evening.” Another blind date attempt. Doubtless, my mother has a hand in it.
“Burning the candle at both ends,” Peter says.
“Not my doing,” I answer.
As if considering that he frowns, motioning to roll down the backseat window and I comply. He scans t
he interior. It’s clean. There’s the crunch of gravel under his footsteps as he walks to the rear of the rental.
“Pop the trunk,” he calls out.
I press the button. Ahead, I see the other guards rustle into action further up the driveway. Under the circumstances, two men serving midpoint security is conservative, even if one is holding a German shepherd on a short leash.
Pete shuts the trunk and pounds his hand on the roof of the car. “Take it easy, Atti,” he offers me his hand.
“You too,” I say in kind, giving his hand a double shake.
When we meet up on Santo’s account, he’s never mentioned my being in politics and I’ve never mentioned him being a city cop. We both are doing are part to work off a debt to our uncle for his so-called investment in our futures when our fathers were killed in the line of duty.
At the next stop, it’s the body-pat-down routine as the dog sniffs the car for explosives. Then on to parking in front of the main walkway leading to the front door.
“You coming in?” I ask Vince.
“Nah,” he drawls with a toothpick between his teeth. “Why ruin the Saint’s Sunday?”
Two more guards stand watch on the porch. This close to the house they’re lackluster, silent and staring as we trade nods.
“Consigliere,” the taller of the two says, holding open the door while at the same time dropping his gaze. An indoctrinated sign of respect. Parts we both play.
I show up, doing my impression of grace under pressure, derived more from crime novels and movies like Wiseguy, Goodfellas, and The Godfather as yardsticks of mob dress and behavior. I give the expected short nod and grunt behind aviators, a leather jacket, dark jeans, and a pair of Dingos on my feet. The final checkpoint is a retinal scan. The scanner beeps, flashing a green light.
Crossing the threshold, I observe the changes The Saint has effected in transforming this place to mimic each of his other homes. It’s uncanny. An unfolding of a facsimile and I no longer wonder why he goes to the trouble. But rather what is he trying to relive.
Inside a sea of drop cloths spread across the hardwood floors, under ladders in the hallway as painters work silently without stopping. My footsteps are muffled. I walk by on my way to my appointment with The Saint and his lunacy.
“Damiano, you’re early. As usual,” he says when I enter a ground floor room I could find blindfolded.
His recently converted study. Filled to the brink with opulence minus a throne. Ox blood leather, velvet drapes, books, artwork, cigar smoke and a sharp ammonia undertone. The stench is cloying. He’s seated behind a wide polished mahogany desk. An exact replica of all the others. His pitiless eyes track my moves, deciphering my tells. Next to him sits a woman, buffing one of his fingernails as if she’s polishing a precious gem. Binding us together, Verdi’s La Traviata plays in the background from a vintage stereo and LP.
She stops and he inspects her work. Wordlessly he nods, then with the wave of his hand he dismisses her. Being around my uncle, it’s like entering a vault where time has stood still. The pretense of emulating the past, whether it’s so ingrained he can’t roll with the times, or he’s asserting his ego and refuses to try—either way, I use it to my advantage.
Over the newly installed silk Persian area rug, rather than sit or commit a ‘facecrime,’ I pace awaiting his instructions. The door shuts behind the woman and I take five paces, then turn and confront my uncle.
“Grazie.” He motions to the flip top retro cell I sent him.
One of a dozen I supply him with as throwaways. Harder than hell to find and update; of course I have my reasons. “What are the details?” I ask Santo.
“Ru-Ma. Due.” He holds up two fingers and uses one of the abbreviations he’s fashioned. Ru-Ma for Russkaya mafiya. With an ornate brass letter opener, he draws the tip across his fingers, conveying his directions to off my contacts.
“Inteso.” I give him an abbreviated nod of understanding, not that I agree with this wet work. More blood on my hands.
As if reading me, Santo grunts out a hoarse laugh. He opens the desk drawer to his left and removes a crinkled brown bag. This is typical of what he does with his frontline muscle, only today he’s got me on a short leash. I can’t outright refuse. Nor can I offer advice with workers around. We’re both aware that no one can be trusted.
Same drill, different day. I take the bag without opening it. Inside is a snub nose handgun he expects me to use. Probably hasn’t been cleaned or checked, and was carried by a gorilla with an IQ in the range of 92. I’ll toss the gun along with the Glock 19 that I’ll actually use. The one Vince obtained minus a registration.
Santo asks little where he is concerned. After I’d cited that blood was thicker than a paycheck, my uncle quasi accepts Vin as my personal security. He’s unaware that I carry a federal license, not that it’s legit. Nothing related to Vin is, but it cost enough to pass close inspection given I’m a congressman and can explain my way out of why I don’t have a state carry permit. If something goes wrong, I have an escape route already mapped out. Cash, guns, fake IDs, and cars are stashed as my own liability insurance.
Thanks to Pete and his father, years ago I’d unwittingly prepped in mastering weaponry skills on a firing range during the summers we spent at their family lakeside cabin in the Catskills. Our mothers are sisters who’ve married Americans. A plan that Santo had put into action probably when they were girls. Pete is kidding himself if he believes working for The Saint will exclude his offspring from duty. Everyone is a mark to our uncle; everyone has to pay a price for his ‘help.’
I’m on the verge of asking Santo about Bloomberg, but I don’t. He hasn’t mentioned the death of one of his closest allies. He’s starting to hide shit. Like now, he’s laying low after the Gulf Cartel is assessing the intel on who leaked the whereabouts of a lucrative drop location. A smokescreen. The Saint is on the move. This is a ploy to pull rank, and feign I’m needed. Something up ahead is lying in wait and it had better not get me killed.
~
SWEAT GLOSSES my palms within a pair of extra-large black Italian leather gloves. During a heatwave, I was lucky to find a pair when I picked up two custom made suits and half a dozen shirts for my upcoming D.C. stint. Thanks to my idiot idea of sending my Hill team packing, in lieu of a staffer dealing with the minutia of my life, I’m dodging other Sunday shoppers on a crowded Fifth Avenue sidewalk while ticking off items from my CYA list. Vince lumbers at my side, making these slurping noises as he finishes off a protein shake with an extra spike a creatine. Ducking into the garage, we locate the rental and load suit bags and boxes into the trunk. I hit the locks and Vince slips into the back.
After five miles on NY A9, I merge onto the interstate, ignoring the directions from the backseat driver. Lost in thought, I exit the highway, and troll down Forest Hill Road. Going a steady fifty-five miles per hour, I squirrel past street after street, and finally the GPS alerts me to take the next corner. By the end of the block, it’s apparent this is a shithole. Entering into an overgrown deserted neighborhood, I’m fortified by La Fille Aux Cheveaux De Lin. One of my favorites from Debussy.
“This music sucks,” Vince says. “Is this how you get pumped for a job?”
“They were out of Low Rider,” I reply dryly.
He chuckles and I respond by flipping him off.
Queued from a CD I’d happened to spy while paying my clothing bill at Barneys. A sacrifice, attesting to what I’ll get rid of in an act of expunging this double-execution. How I compartmentalize and self-regulate wet work. No lingering guilt when I employ sophisticated self-hypnosis, binding this job to the song in play. A trick to pass a polygraph. I’ll toss the guns and the tune into the bay, and never think of any of them again. If I’m required to see this debauchery to the end, I’ll do it on my own terms.
“Looks like this meeting is typical Bratva Neo-Cold War mentality,” I mutter. Derelict warehouse or factory, jail or school—today
on my shtick, it’s an abandoned children’s hospital on Staten Island. A shiny SUV is parked within the rusting chain link fence. The sun reflected in the windshield prevents me from getting a clear view of the occupants within the front seat.
“Anything that moves faster than a century upsets the Federation,” Vince replies.
“Explain the new car.”
“It’s a mirage.”
“I can only imagine what that makes us.” Operating on auto pilot, I sink within the confines of hard-wired habit. Drilled into me over twenty-six years, muscle memory requires little conscious thought.
This won’t take long. They’re here to drop off payment and do not suspect that they’re settling an account in blood. And this is a direct invitation to their boss Anton Ginsberg. A why don’t you defend your flanks by ordering your warriors to lay down retribution. But Ginsberg would have to emerge from hiding and piece together that this hit isn’t from the cartel. The same serious as fuck Gulf outfit Santo has set up, marauded, and backstabbed.
I glance over at Vin about to ask if he’s ready, and can’t believe my eyes. He’s reading a comic book.
“Do you mind?”
“Is it time?”
From under the seat, I draw out the Glock, thumbing off the safety. I weigh if I should take the comic book. Instead I grab the keys and give him a pointed glare.
Climbing out of the car, I keep my arm down, the gun snug to my thigh, my trigger finger poised. My grip tightens as I concentrate on maintaining a rhythmic inhale and exhale. Focused, I walk a line to the boyevik seated behind the wheel of his captain’s spotless SUV. Compact in size, it’s the epitome of a Vor on his way up the Bratva ladder. A newly made brigadier, hope you enjoyed the ride.
As expected, my reflection in the tinted window disappears as the glass smoothly rolls down. From years of choreographed practice, I simultaneously meet the face of the driver and raise my arm. Shooting is as natural as breathing and I squeeze off a round, then another to the brigadier riding shotgun.
The stereophonic scream piercing my eardrum from the backseat is not what I’d expected. Pivoting, it’s two steps, and I yank open the door. This isn’t a mirage. Twin sets of horrorstricken eyes stare back. This level of shit I needed like an STD. Dressed in cheap revealing clothing splattered in blood, the two women have enough sense to shut their mouths.
