But he had no such powerful need of their company that he would cater to whim or fancy, and he would not, ever, be dragged into the ‘if you don’t know I’m not going to tell you’ bullshit that women, in his experience, seemed to favor as a means of manipulation and control. Or the hotter kind of war his parents had often engaged in.
He would not tolerate pouting, and he most certainly would not reward it. If Vanessa was pouting, then they were over.
For the best, really. He’d been feeling her hands on him, grasping, for weeks now—since his father’s death, in fact. She’d wanted to comfort him, and he had not wanted her comfort. The only comfort he’d wanted or needed was revenge, which he had wrought. But his distance then, he thought now, had made her feel how tenuous her hold on him was. It was nonexistent. He enjoyed her; he didn’t love her. He desired her; he didn’t need her.
He was forty-five. The pressure from Uncle Ben to marry, heavy in the years since he’d been made capo, had become constant since his father’s death. The pressure from his mother, who wanted grandchildren, had been heavy for his entire adult life. He’d always resisted, even ignored it. But he was beginning to wonder if he really did want to live his life as he was spending this night. Alone, unattached, unbonded.
He looked around his apartment—tasteful and comfortable—and tried to imagine the touch of a woman on his things. His taste in color was earthy and neutral: browns, greys, blacks. The designer who’d done the work had persuaded him to add orange to the living room for ‘punch.’ Nick looked over the counter peninsula at his living room and tried to picture some flouncy cushion, or a vase full of cut flowers, in the space—or fucking magenta paint, like his neighbor had done on the wall they’d put her sofa against. Magenta. On the wall. Just the one wall, but still.
He shuddered and drank down his scotch, refilling the glass immediately. No. He simply could not imagine sharing his life. He was sorry not to give his mother grandchildren, especially now, when she was alone in that house, but she’d just have to spend more time with his cousins’ kids.
As he put his refilled glass to his lips, Jimmy rapped on the door with his distinctive knock, and Nick set the glass down and glanced at the clock on the range. Nine—Jimmy was checking out. He went to the door and checked the peephole, which was filled by his guard and driver’s chest. Not bothering this time with his gun, he opened the door.
“You out, Jimmy?”
“Yeah, boss. Nose is on. Unless you need me?”
As a rule, Nick had not spent his life being guarded around the clock. As a rule, the Pagano Brothers’ business had been mainly calm and well-ordered. But the rules didn’t apply these days. Even before his father’s murder, security had been increased since Church had started thumping his chest. Now it was practically Secret Service level.
“No, Jim. I’m good. Tell Nose I’m in for the night.”
Jimmy nodded his massive head and turned toward the elevator. A sound down the hallway made him turn back suspiciously. Nick looked, too, and saw his neighbor, she of the bright smile, rogue furniture, and magenta wall, coming toward them, a six-pack of something or other in her hands. Jimmy made himself broad—and at six-nine and three-sixty, his breadth was considerable.
Nick almost laughed. “It’s okay, Jimmy.”
The neighbor—Evelyn? Was her name Evelyn?—faltered at Jimmy’s glower, stopping about six feet from Nick’s door. “Um, hi.”
“Jimmy, go on. Give Tina my regards.”
Nick’s most constant companion hesitated one more second and then nodded. “I will. G’night, boss.” He finally headed for the elevator, and Nick turned to his neighbor.
“Having another furniture disaster?”
She smiled—it was an amazing smile, as if it actually had light. Her eyes were good, too. He’d not really noticed before the depths of their blue. She was dressed simply, in jeans and a black, v-neck t-shirt. The shirt showed just enough of her excellent cleavage to get his attention.
“No. I just couldn’t stand not thanking you better for rescuing us tonight. If it weren’t for you, we’d probably still be jammed up right here.”
“Blocking me in. I’d say I rescued myself more than anything.”
That made her laugh; the sound was pleasing and gentle. “Maybe so. Anyway, I thought I’d bring this down, at least.” She lifted the six-pack as an offer, and he noticed that one bottle was missing.
“Part of a six-pack?”
Now she was blushing. He liked that, and his interest interested him. “Yeah, well, um…Chris didn’t like it. It’s IPA, whatever that means.”
“India Pale Ale. So you brought me your boyfriend’s rejects, then. As a thank you.”
She blushed so hard at that, her face lit up like a warning beacon. She was really glowing now. He’d been teasing, so he let up and smiled. His expression eased hers, cooled her cheeks and widened her eyes, and she made that gentle chuckle again. “When you say it like that, it doesn’t sound all that grateful, huh? I guess I didn’t think it through. He’s not my boyfriend, but he is apparently pickier about beer than I thought. Okay, then. I’ll just slink back to my door in shame.”
Nick wasn’t sure what had piqued his interest, but it was piqued—at least, he wasn’t quite done with their little banter. His eyes kept returning to her mouth. “I’m not sure I remember your name. Is it Evelyn?”
“Beverly. Everybody calls me Bev.”
He’d been close. A name from the past. “Not many young women with that name, I’d guess.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve never known another one personally, old or young.” She fidgeted, shifting the box in her hands, and Nick made a decision and stepped back out of his doorway, into his apartment. He’d lived here five years without getting to know a neighbor personally, but this one charmed him a little.
“Well, come in, and let’s try some of your boyfriend’s rejects.” He’d heard her correct him about the ‘boyfriend,’ and he’d repeated it intentionally to see if she’d correct him again.
“Are you sure? I’m happy to just give them to you. I wasn’t angling for an invite.” She got a look in her eye—it flashed quickly and was gone—and added, “Maybe your girlfriend would like it.” Nick read that she had not expected to be invited in, but now that she was, she was digging a little into his availability. He’d make sure to control that line of interest before it got going.
“I never say anything unless I’m sure, Beverly.” He stretched his arm out toward the interior of his home, and she walked through the doorway.
As she came in, she headed straight for the counter that divided the kitchen from the living room. “Well, I won’t say I’m not glad, because I didn’t want to be a loser and drink all alone.” She set the six-pack on the counter and then stared at his single glass of scotch. When she looked up, her blue eyes were wide.
Nick was enjoying this. She was so easy to read, she wasn’t just an open book, she was an IMAX movie in 3D. In most of his life, people tried to hide things from him. Even his friends and associates controlled their feelings. He found it refreshing to talk with someone this open.
“If you need an opener, it’s in the drawer next to the fridge.” He walked down the hallway into his bedroom and grabbed a clean t-shirt out of a drawer, then returned to the kitchen as he pulled it on. In the space of those few seconds, she had opened two bottles and was putting the remaining three in his refrigerator. As she closed the door, she looked at his chest, now covered with a t-shirt, and he saw her disappointment. He chuckled to himself as he picked up one of the open bottles from the counter and took a swig. The Pagano Brothers were investors in the Quiet Cove Brewery, so he’d had their IPA before. It was decent.
“So…what do you do, Nick?”
He turned and leaned against the counter, surprised and disappointed by her question. People knew him. They at least knew his last name, and considering that he normally got around in a blacked-out SUV with a huge cumpà for a driver, people
made assumptions. Correct assumptions, in his case. So the question was stupid, for a lot of reasons.
“I work.” Wanting to turn the conversation over, he thought of the morning before, watching her on the beach. “You’re a yoga instructor.”
“Yes…that’s a thing I do.” Her smile around those words was wry. She was being coy with him, too. She had another job as well, but she was holding it back, retaliating for his vague answer to her question. Sassy. He liked it. He’d even forgive her for asking the stupid question in the first place.
He’d think through his interest in this woman later; for now, he decided to poke at her a little and take her measure. “I’ve seen you on the beach doing your thing. I’m surprised.”
“Why?” She took a long drink from her bottle. She hadn’t fussed about needing a glass.
“You’re not a skinny vegan type.”
She didn’t take offense at all. She lifted her eyebrows in surprise, but again he could read her clearly, and she wasn’t one of those women who collapsed into a puddle of needy insecurity at any kind of comment that wasn’t an affirmation of their perfection.
Her answer was clear and confident. “Health and strength isn’t about being thin. It took me a long time to believe that, but now I more than believe it. I know it’s true. So, no, I’m not skinny. I’m a hundred times healthier now than when I was skinny. Or when I was fat. I’m strong and fit.” She gave him a smirk—more sass. “Limber, too.”
It was a good answer. And she wasn’t fat. She was—he didn’t know how to describe it. He’d say ‘average,’ but that didn’t feel right. Her shape was somehow better than average in a way he could see but not explain. She fit her clothes really well—that was as close as he could get.
He had an impulse to take hold of her ass. He could get there, too. But he wouldn’t.
When he cocked his head at her, conceding her point, she misread him and thought he was humoring her. “What, you want to arm wrestle?” She made a fist and flexed her bicep. Her muscle tone was obvious. And she had a tattoo on the inside of her right wrist—two feathers, light and delicate.
“No need.” He finished his ale. “I believe you.”
“Good.” She walked past him, around the dividing counter, and into his living room. “Your place is nice. Bigger than mine.” She gestured with her half-empty bottle toward the interior wall of glass, separating the living room from his office. “I like that—did you take the wall down, or was it an option when you bought?”
It was one thing to chat as a means to get a read on someone, but Nick had no use for purposeless chatter, and it seemed to him now that she was simply stalling. She wore her interest in him like a flashing red sign over her head. He was attracted, too, surprisingly so. He had two choices here: exploit that and fuck her, or send her on her way.
Though he wanted to get his hands on those tits, that ass, he hadn’t cut ties with Vanessa yet, and cheating was some messy bullshit that he did not need in his life. He’d cleaned up many a mess for Pagano Brothers men whose wives and comares had crashed together. He had only a mistress, no wife, but he didn’t need the drama. And Beverly lived across the hall. That was drama with a bonus package.
So there was only one choice, then. “It’s time for you to go.”
Surprise was clear in the way she spun back to him. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t mean to overstay.” She was blushing again, and Nick had a moment of regret for his plain speaking.
“Finish your beer first.”
She handed him the bottle. “It’s India Pale Ale, remember? And I don’t like it that much. Okay, well, I’ll see you in the hallway, then.” She went to the front door, and he didn’t follow her to see her out—it was only about fifteen feet. As she opened the door she turned back and smiled. Still beautiful, but the light was a bit dimmer than earlier. “Good night, Nick. Thanks again for the help.”
“Good night, Beverly. You’re welcome.”
She left, and he finished her IPA. Then he picked up his glass of scotch and continued his evening as he’d expected. Alone.
~oOo~
Early the next afternoon, Jimmy parked Nick’s SUV along a broken curb on a weedy street near the Providence Harbor. Most of the lots had been taken over by slapdash commercial interests; the few residences left were little more than squats. The Paganos kept one of the old houses for a certain kind of work. They had other locations for similar work—storage lockers, a seemingly abandoned warehouse, an old barn. Nick chose the location based upon the subject.
He used to choose the location. Now, because he had refused to offer up any name but Brian Notaro’s as his replacement, and Ben had cleaved to tradition and refused to promote a half-blooded Italian, J.J. Nicci, Julie’s son, was capo in charge of enforcement and information. Nick thought it was a bad fit, not least because J.J. had no interrogation experience. He was a knee-capper, with no finesse. But Julie had fought hard for his son, and he’d hit the right chord with Don Pagano.
Nick was keeping tabs, because he thought the don had made a mistake.
J.J. had brought the subject here, and that was stupid. They were only blocks from the guy’s own turf.
Jimmy got out, buttoning his jacket as he walked around the car and opened Nick’s door. It was a small thing, but this was a way that extra security rubbed at Nick—not even opening his own door. He felt the restraint as if it were an actual leash. No point in bitching about it, however; it was necessary, and this location was unstable. He got out and buttoned his jacket, appreciating the weight of his Beretta under his arm. Brian was already out and getting a kit from the back of the SUV.
They had parked near the building. Nick scanned the area. A primer-grey van was parked on the lawn behind the house; he could just see the back end. It looked as though it might have been there for a long time.
“They’re set up already?”
Seeing the van, Brian nodded. “Looks that way, boss.” Nick didn’t like hearing Brian call him ‘boss.’ From anyone else, he’d expect it, but he and Brian went far back, to second grade at Christ the King School. Still, he was the boss, and Brian was only a soldier.
“Okay. Let’s see what J.J.’s got.”
In the middle of what was left of the living room, a short, morbidly obese man was tied to a metal folding chair. First mistake. Folding chairs folded, and bindings gave more easily.
He was naked—that was good. A naked man was easier to intimidate, easier to hurt, and less likely to flee if the opportunity presented itself. Shame was a powerful inhibitor.
He was gagged with a rag tied around his face—rookie move. As evidenced by the wordless ruckus the guy was making, a gag like that made a man only incomprehensible, not truly quiet. And this was supposed to be an interrogation. They needed him to talk. There were other ways than gags to keep a man quiet.
He was sweating profusely but not bruised or bleeding, so J.J. had waited for him. Good. This would be his hands-on training—for him and his crew. Nick set aside his frustration at his uncle for the mistake of making J.J., thirty-five years old and only five years made, a capo, especially to replace him.
That new capo was staring steadily at him now, and Nick knew he was working hard to keep his face clear of the expression that suited the emotion rolling off him in waves—anger. He didn’t like being checked up on, and in front of his boys. But this was the first interrogation connected to business outside of the Church fight, and so the first one with J.J. on point.
“Tell me, J.J.”
“Boss. I just need to put some hurt on this fucker. I got it.”
“Tell me.”
J.J. sighed, walking the line between paying respect and taking a beating. “Got a guy buying up our notes. Paying off early, killing the vig. Can’t get a name, but this guy is one of his bagmen.” The bound man shook his head emphatically. Around the gag, he shouted “No!” J.J. stepped over and clocked him with the butt of his gun.
And now the guy was unconscious. Unconscious
men did not give up intel. Nick swiped a hand over his face. Fuck, he hoped J.J. wouldn’t go down as his uncle’s greatest mistake.
Making high-interest loans was one of the Pagano Brothers most lucrative enterprises. Somebody coming in and paying off debt on a wide scale could cripple them financially. And it made no fucking sense. “Why the fuck am I just hearing about this now?”
“Shylocks just started reporting it a week ago. We didn’t know what was going on until we caught this guy coming out of Tanner’s last night.”
“We?”
“My da—Julie and Dom are seeing it, too.”
“And nobody said shit to me or the don.”
Deep (The Pagano Family Book 4) Page 4
