Dirty Deeds

by Lauren Landish

  He’s ugly as sin too, with a bald head that gleams lightly in the dim light and squinty eyes. His left ear’s all types of screwed up, what I think some people call cauliflowered, like an alley cat that’s had one too many scraps over the garbage cans.

  I walk past him, hugging the wall and drawing myself in tight to seem as small and unimportant as possible, knowing that I’ll have to tell security to keep an eye on him. Even still, my back ripples in goosebumps as I slide by.

  This guy zings my red flags as a definite potential problem. I’m almost to the corner when I hear a fast ra-tat-tat sound, but it’s barely audible over the loud bass-thumping music on the main floor. My brain takes a split second to register the sound as gunfire, but it’s not until I hear Allie scream that I turn and run toward her. It’s stupid. I shouldn’t be running toward gunfire, but all my brain is telling me is that my best friend may have just been shot, and I have to help her.

  I see the guy in black running out the other end of the hallway as I stop in the doorway of Allie’s room. She’s crouched in the corner and covered in blood splatter but seems to be uninjured. She’s just frozen in shock, her eyes wide as she stares at what used to be a human being slumped on the couch.

  My brain seems to shift, taking all of this in, not in panic, but in still-frame shots like my eyes have turned into a camera. I see the scotch-drinking suit guy, obviously dead since he’s got three bullet holes in his chest, slumped over on the couch, blood pooling brightly across his white shirt.

  I see the other holes in the wall and can only assume that Allie’s alive because she was near the wall when the attack happened. Maybe she hadn’t fully gotten into her routine, or maybe she was getting ready to drop her bra. Whatever the case, there’s a bullet hole in the wall just about a foot from where she’s cowering, and it’s by luck or fate that she’s not wounded too.

  “Allie—” I start before Dominick blasts through the door that leads to his office, charging down the hall like a raging bull.

  “What happened?” he yells, his face taut. “Allie?”

  Dominick pushes me out of the way, rushing in the room and gathering Allie in his arms, blood and all, as he checks her over. I somehow find my voice, pointing down the hall. “He went that way. Big guy, in all black, black and cold eyes. Had a screwed-up ear.”

  As I speak, the security guys surround me, so fast and quiet I didn’t even realize. Nick turns, his voice hot with anger. “On it, Boss.”

  He races down the hallway, following the direction I pointed. Shane grabs me, turning my face to his chest, where I burrow in without hesitation, needing something solid to hang on to because this is all too surreal. “I’ve got Meghan.”

  Dominick never takes his eyes off Allie, but he talks over his shoulder to Logan, the last of the security guys. “Take care of that.”

  Logan nods, moving closer to the suit, and Allie flinches. Dominick picks Allie up, heading toward his office, and Shane moves me quickly and steadily to the dressing room, dragging me to my locker and pulling out my backpack.

  His voice is urgent but quiet in my ear. “What do you need outta your locker? Anything?”

  He’s shoving my wallet, my phone, my makeup, and clothes into my backpack. “What? What do you mean?”

  He glances back once but then returns his attention to my locker, giving it one last scan before closing the door. It’s nearly empty, except for maybe that chocolate chip muffin I brought in last week and had sort of forgotten until now.

  He slides the backpack onto one shoulder before turning and looking into my eyes. “Meg, we have to go. You can’t have seen what you just saw. They won’t allow it. We gotta go. Now.”

  Chapter 10

  Shane

  My heart’s hammering in my chest as I peek out the back door of the club, scanning the lot carefully. It’s nearly deserted. The soundproofing is good and nobody heard the shots. If it wasn’t for Dominick getting on the radio, nobody on security would have known.

  So there isn’t a panicked rush of customers running for their cars. Part of me wishes there was. It’d help cover what I’m about to do. Instead, I’m forced to lead Meghan across the parking lot by her arm in a quick walk, looking more like I’m escorting a drunk customer than helping her flee for her life.

  I aim for my truck. It’s closer than Meghan’s car, and a lot more secure. Hitting the unlock button on my remote, I shove her in the rear seat of the crew cab from the driver’s door, hopping in behind her and yanking my door closed. I’d like to be gentle, but right now isn’t the time for gentleness. It’s the time for action.

  “Buckle up,” I instruct her, and thank fuck, she listens and sits up, reaching for the belt as I start the truck. It takes all of my willpower to pull out of the lot calmly and not put the pedal to the floorboard and peel out. I know that Nick’s still out here somewhere, and Logan might be around too. I can’t take the risk that two guys, one of whom I trained, might react.

  Right now, eyes on us is the last thing we want. The parking lot cameras are bad enough. I know Dominick’s going to check the tapes when he notices that Meghan and I are gone, but hopefully, he’ll be so distracted with Allie that we’re far away before he does.

  It’s not that I don’t care about Allie. She’s a nice girl who I hope is fine, but I know Dom cares about her. He’d never touch a hair on her head. Meghan, though . . . I have to protect her.

  Meghan is quiet, curled in on herself, with her feet in the seat and knees hugged tightly, obviously in shock as we hit the highway.

  As my truck growls its way up to eighty, chewing up pavement and spitting out miles and minutes between us and what she saw, she finally settles. I watch her out of the corner of my eye, never taking my awareness off the road in front of us or the cars behind us to make sure we’re not being followed. Can’t be too safe.

  I can see Meghan willing her mind to focus, taking deep breaths that she holds for a two-count before letting them out slowly. Still, after five miles, her body is still shaking, her hands trembling as she reaches up to adjust where the shoulder belt is rubbing against her bare neck. And when I meet her eyes in the rearview mirror, they’re wide, but with a turn of my head, I can see that they’re at least clear as she starts processing things. “What are we doing? Where are we going?”

  I nod, shifting my eyes back to the road. “Those are great questions. And I promise to answer them, but what you really need to know right now is that I’ll keep you safe. I’m taking you somewhere secure until all this blows over.”

  She opens her mouth to ask more questions, always inquisitive, but right now, we don’t have time for her to be curious. I hold up my right hand, silencing her. “Angel, I promise. Just give me a minute to get us where we need to be.”

  The nickname subdues her, even as her eyebrows perk up. She’s so smart. Her mind ticks along in a way that’s impressed me since I first met her. But she closes her mouth, looking around as I exit the highway and head to a deserted lot on the outskirts of town, just before we get to the truck stops that mark the way west.

  I pull in next to a covered car, knowing that underneath is a four-door sedan that looks like a million others on the road. That’s the point. I want us to look like any other car that might be out right now, and as ‘un-Shane-like’ as I can get.

  Grabbing her backpack from the floor, I rifle through and grab her cellphone, leaning forward to drop it to the floorboard. I do the same with mine and then grab a duffle bag from behind the seat. “Okay, when I say go, open your door calmly, get out, and get in the car next to you. I’m doing the same.”

  “What about our phones?” she asks, reaching forward. “Why did you put them in the floorboard? I need that.”

  I place a hand on her forearm, the touch electric as I feel the tremble of her muscles underneath my fingertips. “Nope. They’re traceable, like my truck, and we’ve got to be ghosts until we figure out what’s going on.”

  She sputters, looking at me with rene
wed fear in her eyes. “Traceable? Ghosts? What the heck are you talking about?”

  “Go,” I order. “There’s time for answers later. I promise you that, but for now . . . go.”

  I open my door, snatching the corner of the dust cover on the sedan and pulling it back, revealing a ten-year-old Ford before grabbing the spare key from the magnetic box hidden in the rear wheel well and climbing into the driver’s seat. I hit the unlock button, relieved when Meghan opens her door and buckles up, her eyes full of questions, but she keeps her silence as I start up the Ford.

  Thank fuck.

  With a turn of the key, we’re back on the road, heading way out of East Robinsville. As we drive, the reality of the situation hits me.

  Fuck. This has gone so damn sideways.

  How much do I tell Meghan? There are secrets piled on top of secrets around her, and the layers go so deep that sometimes even I don’t quite remember which way is up.

  How much does she already know? It’s common knowledge not to cross Dominick, but just how much does she understand?

  She’s quiet in the seat next to me, scanning around us occasionally but mostly watching the scenery blur by, but I know her silence won’t last long. She’s just too curious.

  “Your truck?” she says after a bit, and I shrug. “What’s that mean?”

  “I mean that if it gets stolen, it gets stolen,” I reply. “That lot’s pretty out of the way. Decent chance it might be unnoticed.”

  “And this thing?”

  “Just an old car. I promise to explain. Just wait a bit longer.”

  My answer silences her for a bit, and it’s almost dawn when we pull over at a no-tell motel in the middle of nowhere. I know where half a dozen of these places are around the area, places that are desperate enough to take cash without too many questions but not so rundown as to become crack houses that’ll attract the attention of the police.

  I run inside and rent a room under a fake name, paying cash before parking and shepherding Meghan inside. Closing the door behind us, I lock it and peek out the window. We’re clear.

  But as I look back to see Meghan perched on the edge of the bed, so tiny but her eyes sparking with anger, I know the grace period of time I asked for is over. Hell, considering the worn-out carpet, dingy walls, and patched bed cover, I’d be pissed too, even if I was clueless about the rest.

  “Okay,” I start before she can say anything. “Where do we start?”

  Chapter 11

  Maggie

  I stare at Shane, who’s looking for the first time since I’ve met him less than a hundred percent sure of himself. If anything, he looks frightened, which scares the schnitzel out of me. “Okay, so we’re wherever this is,” I start.

  I look around us, my nose upturned at the dingy motel room, noting the large crawly thing underneath the table in the corner and reminding myself not to go to sleep without covering every pore of my skin. “And seemingly safe-ish, wildlife notwithstanding. Now what the frick is going on? Why aren’t we at the police station reporting a murder? Shane!”

  He sighs, running a hand through his hair, and steps away from the door to sit down on the edge of the bed, still watching me with those eyes of his. “No matter how I spin this, you’re likely to freak the fuck out, but you’re in the middle of it now, so I’ll dive in as delicately as I can.”

  I nod, just wanting him to tell me already. “Delicate, not delicate. Just get to the truth, Shane. I’m not following you one more step without it.”

  He nods and strokes his chin. “Deal. So, do you know who that was back at the club?”

  I shake my head, turning to face him and criss-cross applesauceing my legs between us, needing the space to keep a clear head for this conversation. “The suit or the shooter?”

  He eyes sharpen, and he sits forward, his voice immediately hardening. “Either.”

  I shrug, refusing to break his gaze as I stare back at his face, making sure he understands me clearly. “No idea. The suit was drinking Maclellan in my section for a bit, the expensive stuff, and he took Allie back for a lap dance. I took the scotch in and Allie was picking music in the corner. She gave me a thumbs-up, and I silently wished her luck.”

  “And the other guy?”

  I take a deep breath, hating the fact that I have to try and relive those few moments but somehow knowing that it’s important. “I saw him coming down the hallway. That guy chilled me just with this . . . I don’t know . . . aura. Next thing I know, big man was shooting up the place and Allie is screaming bloody murder. You were there for the rest.”

  He nods, letting that sink in. “Okay, the shooter is a hired gun. Hitman. Assassin. Maybe if you tell me more, I might be able to tell you who he was. The list of men with the skills and either the guts or insanity to make a hit inside Petals is pretty small. The suit was Carlos Rivaldi, bastard son of Sal Rivaldi. Names mean anything to you?”

  I shake my head, and he scoffs lightly, smiling a little. “So fucking innocent. Let’s rewind. Meghan, you know Petals is a money laundering front for the mob and Dominick is The Boss, right?”

  I squint, making sure I heard right. “Wait, Boss? Money laundering?”

  Shane nods. “Boss. As in, Boss of the Angeline family.”

  I shake my head vehemently, but after a moment, my brain whirls. I think back to some of the customers, the business meetings in Dominick’s office, and the large security team that has always made me feel safe. Petals is a small club. There should be no reason they always have three and sometimes four guys working security. I thought it was because of the clientele, a sense of fancy-schmancy to make the celebs feel like VIPs.

  I gasp, looking at Shane. I knew Dominick was a shrewd businessman, but the level of what I’ve walked into . . . did my former boss, Donnie, know when he came up with this idea for me to work undercover? Does Jeanine know? Do they even care that I’m covering stupid celeb gossip in a freaking mob club? Oh, my God, everything I’ve been doing suddenly seems so much more dangerous. My reporter senses felt like there was more to Petals, but something like this never even occurred to me. How could it have? It’s crazy. “Dominick is The Boss? Holy frack. But . . .” My words stutter, another thought jumping forward. “Oh, no! Allie!”

  Shane shakes his head. “Allie is fine. She’s Dominick’s. Well, she isn’t, but she might as well be by the way he looks at her and I suspect feels about her. He wouldn’t touch a hair on her head unless she directly betrayed him. That’s why I’m confused.”

  “Confused about what?” I ask, the reporter in my head pushing back the fear. It’s not hard. Right now, I’m pretty sure that information means life, and Shane’s about my only source of more information.

  “Dominick is the head of the Angeline family, who are basically mortal enemies of the Rivaldi family, even though there’s been peace for years. It’s been a Cold War in the area, two sides that posture and talk a lot of shit, but nobody’s been willing to actually draw blood. Still, it’s not like Carlos Rivaldi was welcome inside Petals. So why was Carlos in Dominick’s club? The Rivaldis have their own bars, their own club. So why would he be at Petals?”

  He looks to be thinking for a moment, but my mind has already begun rolling, considering angles and strategies and manipulations. It’s what’s given me my best stories, being able to see all the possible motivations and consequences of people’s actions. “Maybe he was a spy? Or you said he’s the bastard son. Maybe he’s pissed at that label and wanting to stir stuff up? Or maybe someone just invited him to come check out the show and have a drink? It could be anything.”

  Shane rubs his jaw, his words coming slowly as he considers my comment. “You’re right. Carlos could’ve been spying for his daddy, in which case Dominick would be pissed as fuck and could’ve hired the hit. There’s another option though.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, nodding when I understand a moment later. “Dominick invited Carlos.”

  Shane nods. “If he thought he could bring Carlos on boa
rd, it’d have changed the entire game in this part of the country. The Angelines are the big dogs by far, but it wasn’t always that way, and the Rivaldis do have some pockets of power. Sal Rivaldi’s getting up there in years. The issues between the two families started with Dom’s daddy. If Dom and Carlos thought they might be able to forge an undercover alliance and get Sal to retire quicker, either voluntarily or the hard way . . . Daddy Sal might have heard about it, and he’s not the kind to forgive treason, even from his own blood.”

  I swallow, feeling like I want to throw up. Down the rabbit hole, and I’m still not sure how deep I’ve gotten. “He’d kill his own son?”

  Shane nods once, chuckling darkly. “Carlos is his bastard son. He just found out about him a few years ago and there’s no love lost. Apparently, Sal had a one-night stand when he was trying to make inroads with the Colombians, and he left Carlos’s mom with a souvenir.”

  “And he never knew?” I ask, and Shane nods.

  “I don’t know the full story, but apparently, Carlos just showed up, wanting his birthright and being pretty fucking aggressive about it, from what I hear. Sal ran the DNA, but not much else he could do about it.”

  “So either Dominick killed his arch nemesis’s son, in which case, I’m guessing Sal will be pretty POed, even if he didn’t like the kid. Or someone, maybe even Sal himself, sent Carlos to his death on Dominick’s turf. It sounds like the beginning of a mob war,” I comment and shake my head. “And I got a look at the ugly mug who did it. Great.”

  Shane’s face pales as he looks at me. “You might be the only one who did, too. Allie was near the edge of the sofa, right? And she had blood on her chest and face, so she couldn’t have seen from that angle. She’d have been facing Carlos, her back to the door. But you saw the hitman face-to-face. Could you identify him?”

  I nod, biting my lip. “I feel like that’s a question you should automatically say no to when you’re talking mob hitmen, but yeah, I’d recognize him anywhere. That face, the squinty eyes and cauliflowered left ear . . . I could probably sketch him for you, if that’s helpful. I’m not an artist, but it’d be close enough.”