Dirty Deeds

by Lauren Landish

  “You sure?” Nick, who doesn’t know the full story, asks. “I mean, this place—”

  “If you don’t have the balls, Nick, I suggest you leave,” Dom says, not turning his eyes from the door. “I’d rather go in with just Shane having my back than someone who doesn’t have balls.”

  Nick swallows but stands his ground. The door opens, and though the muscled man who answers doesn’t say it, his surprise is written clear as day on his face.

  Dominick doesn’t pause or look at all worried as he adjusts the cuffs on his perfectly tailored suit. In a tasteful black, of course, befitting the occasion. “Good afternoon. We’re here to pay our respects for the loss.”

  You can tell the goon wants to object, or at a minimum wants to pat us all down, but what’s the use when we’re all obviously carrying weapons at our sides? Instead, he steps to the side, giving a respectful nod. “Please come in, Mr. Angeline.”

  We enter as a group, both for security and to make sure that we can’t get separated. Inside, the wake is loud and boisterous, more of a party than the somber affair of a man who just lost his son unexpectedly and tragically. Actually, considering that I hear what seems to be Latin music playing, it sounds like a damn graduation party.

  Still, when Dominick enters the room, a hush falls over the gathering and eyes dart left and right, obviously confused about his appearance. The music stops, and the only sound is one kid who’s in the corner and obviously doesn’t quite understand what’s happening as he keeps doing some lame ass jig until someone pops him in the shoulder.

  Fortunately, no one pulls a weapon. From an armchair in the center of the room, a man with slicked back ebony hair and large thick-framed glasses stands up. I’ve never met him, but for the past year plus some, I’ve made sure I’m intimately aware of his face. He’s old enough to be Dominick’s father, and considerably larger, but there’s no mistaking who the real alpha male in the room is.

  Sal Rivaldi might try and push his way into East Robinsville, but Dominick isn’t going to let that happen with a breath in his body. Even in his thirties, Dominick is the king of this city and wears his invisible crown like a man with experience and the balls to back whatever play he has deemed correct.

  It matters not if the battle is physical or mental. I’d bet on Dominick to win every time.

  Looking as if he were standing in his own church instead of the wake of his biggest rival’s son, Dominick extends his hand toward the older man. “Don Rivaldi, I wish to extend my most sincere apologies on the loss of your son. Word of his character had spread throughout the city, and you must be devastated.”

  Damn, he is a slick son of a bitch. Not many men could make an expression of sympathy include a backhanded comment about what a shitstain your son was, while also letting it be known that nothing happens in your city without your knowledge. And the use of the term ‘Don’. Very smooth, in that it both gives Sal respect, while at the same time saying he’s behind the times. Dominick’s never insisted on being called Don. In fact, I’ve never heard anyone under the age of sixty use the term with him.

  Rivaldi dips his chin in acknowledgement but keeps his eyes on Dominick the whole time. “Please, we are past all these niceties. You can call me Sal.”

  I hide a smirk. Dad used to listen to an old song that sounded a lot like that. Dominick looks genuinely pleased, although probably because in the subtle game of mob bosses, he was just elevated in the Rivaldi family’s eyes. “Of course, Sal. And you may call me Dominick.”

  Everyone notices the infinitesimal put-down. Sal said that Dominick could use his casual name, while Dominick insisted on his full first name. Nearly, but not quite the same level, and Sal knows it. They eye each other for a moment, the tension in the room building, but Dominick stays cool as a cucumber, no tension in his body even though I know he could snap into asskicking mode in an instant. “Sal, the timing may be indelicate, but I wondered if we could speak?”

  Sal looks like he might start something but then relents. “Yes, of course.” He gestures to the chair next to the one he just vacated. Sal moves to a bar in the corner, lifting a decanter of what’s either scotch or something similar. “Drink?”

  My training says to never, ever accept a drink from an enemy. Especially alcohol. It’s too easy to hide shit in there. But Dom operates by his own rules and instead nods easily, confident that Sal wouldn’t be stupid enough to try something. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

  Dominick takes the amber liquid from Sal and swirls it in the glass before resting it on the arm of the chair. Sal sits, the excitement obvious in his eyes. He thinks he’s gotten one over, that he’s actually going to take over the city from a man clearly his better in every way.

  I’m reminded of the saying, ‘Pride goeth before the fall.’ because Sal has no idea the precipice he’s standing on. I take station behind Dominick, while Nick stands a few feet away, his eyes scanning the rest of the group as quiet, tense conversation begins anew.

  “I wanted to discuss some things with you,” Dominick leads off, still swirling his drink as he looks Sal in the eye. “Some rather troubling things I’ve heard about your organization.”

  Sal doesn’t move, but the light in his eyes turns more suspicious and the tension in the room pulls even tighter. The room is silent, with only an occasional whispered comment as everyone keeps their eyes on the two bosses. I scan, noting the guy to my left who just unbuttoned his jacket, a sure sign he’s getting twitchy.

  “What things have you heard?” Sal asks, sipping his drink. Dominick, though, keeps his glass swirling, almost maddeningly. The liquid never stops moving and Dom’s gaze never wavers. Motion and stillness, attack and patience . . . both Dominick’s strong suits, and something everyone in the room is well aware of.

  “Word on the street is that you’d like to expand your stronghold, which I can, of course, understand,” Dominick says casually, as if he’s discussing the weather. “I can even appreciate your ambition. But you forget your position of power is in my city simply because I allow it to be. And your growth, or lack thereof, is also at my discretion.”

  Sal sneers, his fingers tightening on his glass. “I’m sure you’d like to think that, wouldn’t you? But I own parts of this city because I work them when you don’t. The people there fear me, not you. They need my drugs, my protection, not yours.”

  Dominick nods, still unruffled. “Perhaps. But that is because I’ve let you have the scraps from my table, the areas that are too troublesome for the meager dollars I could wring out of them. Do not think that I’ve not kept my fingers on the pulse of those areas, nor that I could not cut off that pulse with a single twitch of my fingers if I wished. I haven’t concerned myself with your actions. Until now.”

  Sal feigns a look of surprise, trying to regain his balance. “My actions? I’ve done nothing but continue my business as usual. Yet, here we are, mourning my son. Dead in your club, let us not forget.”

  Sal is playing up the sympathy card with the audience.

  Dominick chuckles, playing to the audience as well as he turns away from Sal to look around the room, speaking to those watching. “Ah, yes, Carlos Rivaldi. The bastard son who shows up out of the blue, full of ego and demanding his birthright. Must have put you in an uncomfortable position, not able to deny your blood-son, but he was just so . . .” Dominick pauses dramatically before locking eyes with Sal, “weak. And ungrateful for the scraps you gave him. I dare say, he was much like his father. And how did you handle this?”

  Sal stammers, his voice quaking with rage and an undercurrent of worry that tells me he’s scared of what Dominick might say. “I gave him every chance, and then he gets killed on a simple mission.”

  Dominick smirks, knowing he’s totally in control of the conversation and where it’s heading. “No, I don’t think you gave him every chance. You knew he was weak, ungrateful, and power-hungry, so you had him killed. On my territory. Such disrespect and ugliness. Especially the part where you
’ve been blaming me for his death to anyone who’d listen.”

  The reaction to Dominick’s revelation is instant, the crowd of men all murmuring and looking at one another. Sal rears up, finding indignation in Dominick’s accusation. “I would never! He was my son!”

  “Perhaps so,” Dominick says before dropping the bomb I know he’s had planned this whole time. “In which case you should know that I am also hunting the hitman who conducted his business on my grounds. I will have revenge for that insult, and it will be slow and painful. I’ll make sure that he tells me everything I wish to know. But beyond that, I would say that having a son who is such a disappointment, who even in a sacrificial death was not able to serve your ends, is punishment enough. Although his mother’s Colombian family may not feel the same way.” Dominick locks eyes with the dark-haired man we all know is the Colombian’s representative at the wake.

  Dominick lets that sink in for a moment, silently watching Sal’s face for any response as he realizes that his plan is backfiring in his face. With shaking fingers, he downs the rest of his drink, the ice in the tumbler chattering when he sets it down. “So you’re not here to discuss war.”

  Dominick looks amused again and chuckles lightly. “I’m merely here to extend my apologies for your son, and perhaps to share some advice with a fellow businessman.”

  “Oh, and what’s that?”

  Dominick stops his swirling scotch and tosses it back in one practiced movement, not reacting at all as it burns its way down his throat to explode in his stomach. He sets the empty glass on the table in front of him pointedly, commanding every eye in the room with his presence. “When you are being allowed to scurry and play like mice, it is best to not draw the attention of the cat. Because once the cat has set his sights on you, it’s difficult to circumvent his instincts. His instincts to hunt, to destroy, to own. In the scheme of life, the cat worries not about the mice. They are inconsequential until they become a nuisance. Then, the cat takes delight in playing with them, until eventually, he kills them.”

  Sal looks a bit flushed, the tip of his olive nose and cheeks ruddy with fury, and maybe alcohol, but he manages to keep it together, trying to save face with the room full of his men who are now looking at him with new eyes. “Excellent advice, I’m sure. Thank you.”

  Dominick rises, indicating the conversation is over. As he nears the door, Nick and I still shadowing him, he turns around. “Oh, Sal. I was discussing the shooting with my team when a curious thing occurred to me.”

  Sal, who’s whispering furiously to an underling, looks up. “Oh?”

  “In watching the security feeds, it seems the hitman never entered the club through the front door,” Dominick reveals. “In fact, it seems he entered through a back door and completed the hit during an irregular blip in our surveillance. Most unusual, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Sal nods, a smarmy smile crossing his face. “Yes, must’ve been his lucky day.”

  Bad move, and Dom just won the war without even firing a single shot. With his words, Sal just unintentionally confirmed Dominick’s version of events in front of his entire crew. The men look angry . . . at Sal.

  Dominick nods, letting things play out with just one more nudge in the right direction to let Sal destroy himself. “I don’t particularly believe in luck myself. I believe in planning and strategy. And I asked myself, what would be my plan for a job like this? It took me a moment to come to terms with my answer, admittedly because I wanted to refuse the truth, but truth is apathetic, neither caring whether we want it or not. It simply is . . . true.”

  In a lightning-fast move that I can barely follow, Dominick turns and punches Nick square in the jaw, sending him crashing to the floor. I drop my foot back to steady my stance, keeping my eyes on everyone but Dominick, knowing he can handle himself with Nick on the floor. Everyone in the room is frozen, on high alert, but not getting involved . . . yet.

  “An inside man. That’s what he needed to get in and out undetected,” Dominick growls, bending down to grab a handful of Nick’s hair and slamming his face to the floor. “Someone in the club had to let him in the back door and mess with the security feed.”

  Dominick slams a heel on Nick’s knee, the crack audible even as Nick cries out in agony. I see Rivaldi men tensing, but this isn’t a matter they can involve themselves in. Dom is beating the shit out of his own man. Besides, they know I’ve got the drop on the whole room, my pistol in my hand but not drawn yet.

  Dominick trusts that I’m watching the room, a huge move on his part, He ignores the gathered men, instead addressing Nick, his voice rising in anger. “Even once I admitted that someone in my organization had to have been in on it, I didn’t want it to be you. You were the good soldier, I thought. But it lined up. It was you. Did you even try to catch him when you pursued him? I doubt it.”

  Nick is trying to crawl away, but Dominick stomps on his right hand, twisting his heel to get every finger. The bones sound like twigs being broken, and Nick collapses, rolling onto his back and cradling his ruined hand to his chest. “Dom—”

  Dominick grabs Nick’s shirt, pulling him face to face. “I trusted you, Nick. And you repaid me with betrayal, working for the little mice and their hired gun. For what? Money? Power? You think they’ll trust you when you’ve already turned once?” Dominick sneers in disgust. His voice quiets, the amount of control scarier than if he was raging. “Not killing you today is a kindness for the years of service you did give me. But if I ever see you again, I will kill you.”

  And with the final threat, Dominick lands one last powerful punch to Nick’s nose and blood splatters. Dominick drops him, reaching into his pocket with his clean hand to retrieve his handkerchief and meticulously wiping the blood away.

  I reach down, taking Nick’s gun while Dominick finishes up, turning back to Sal and sounding like nothing’s happened. “I’ll leave this trash for you. Not sure he’ll be of any use to you with a bum knee, fucked trigger finger, and buyable loyalty. But he is your man after all. I trust there won’t be a repeat of this issue.”

  Sal looks from Dominick’s stone-cold eyes to Nick, groaning in agony on the floor, and seems to realize that he’d severely underestimated just how smart and how batshit-crazy Dominick really is. “No, Mr. Angeline.”

  Satisfied, Dominick walks out the door, stepping over Nick dismissively. I wish I could do the same, but the anger in me is too much to bear. Nick is part of the machine that put my Angel in danger.

  I can’t do anything about Sal right now. I can’t get my hands on the hitman the way I’d like, but I trusted Nick and Maggie trusted Nick. He was the guy I thought was my most trusted coworker.

  So I give in, kicking him as hard as I can in the gut with my steel-toed boot. Nick screams, curling protectively into a fetal position. He probably deserves more of a beatdown, but I’m done.

  I follow Dominick out, getting behind the wheel to drive him back to Petals. Outside, we stay silent until we pull away. “Shane.”

  “Yes?” I ask, looking up into the rearview mirror. If he did want to kill me, this would be the best time. He could shoot me through the seat. He’s buckled in, and we’re not going that fast.

  Dom’s eyes meet mine in the mirror, icy grey and hard. “I wanted to handle that myself. It was necessary for an appearance of strength and knowledge,” he explains, finally answering the question I’d asked in his office when I checked in with him last night. The conversation had led to some rather unsightly conclusions after I reviewed the remaining security video and we’d talked through different possibilities of what happened. “The hitman on the other hand . . . if you would like, you may have your turn. Or I can take care of that as well. Your choice. For now though, let’s go back to the club.”

  Back to Maggie.

  Chapter 25

  Maggie

  I pace back and forth in the apartment, trying my best not to get freaked out. When Shane told me last night that he was going with Dominick on a mission to h
opefully prevent the war that could ruin the city, I begged him not to go. I was nearly paralyzed with terror that it was a setup by Dominick.

  But Shane said that he and Dominick talked things through, and he felt like he needed to back Dom’s play. He also promised he’d be safe before we made love and he left a few new souvenirs along my skin.

  But since they left, I’ve been jittery with nerves that I’ll never see him again. Knowing I need to keep busy, I give up pacing and decide to check in with my regular life . . . the one I had before everything went so haywire.

  I can’t believe that Dominick’s let me have access to a computer, but he did. After our first night here, I gave Allie my keys, and she went to my apartment, coming back with some clothes and my laptop. Dominick didn’t even ask to go through my files. “Maggie,” he said, “anything you have that you’ve already published can’t be pulled back, and anything you have in there that you could publish, I trust you won’t.” He said it kindly, but the threat was apparent in his simple words.

  A quick run through my email deletes most of the spam, but there are several from Jeanine at work. She’s left several voicemails on my phone that were forwarded to my email program too, but after two, I turn them off. It’s best to go straight to the source.

  I grab the burner phone Shane left me, dialing into the office and waiting for the receptionist to transfer me to Jeanine’s office line. I get lucky. I’m not left hanging on hold for long.

  “Jeanine Matthews.”

  “Hi, Jeanine. It’s Maggie. I wanted to call to—”

  Before I can even get my greeting out, Jeanine interrupts me, her voice crisp and hard. “You have some nerve calling in like this. You drop off the face of the Earth, don’t return my calls or meet deadlines for nearly a week, and now you just call in? You should’ve just stayed gone.”