by Heidi Lowe
“Is this good for you?” she murmured, knowing the vibrations would drive Willa wild.
“Yes, God yes!” Willa groaned, her body writhing against Olivia's mouth.
“Are you close, baby?” Her voice was silky-sweet, just the way Willa liked it. Any minute now...
Mere seconds later, Willa reached a loud and breathless climax all over Olivia's mouth. Her body flopped, completely spent. Olivia giggled to herself, dropping light kisses to Willa's inner thighs, loving the sound of her labored breathing.
“I really needed that,” Willa said tiredly. All of the energy had been sucked and licked from her body, and she'd never felt so good.
“Always happy to help.” Olivia grinned while plucking a fistful of tissues from a box and handing them to Willa, before taking a couple to wipe her own face.
“I bet you are,” Willa said, laughing and cleaning herself up.
“I guess there won't be many more nights like this,” Olivia said, once she'd helped Willa back into her panties and jeans. “I mean, you'll probably be too busy for me now.”
Willa frowned. “Why would you say something like that?”
She didn't respond.
Willa took her hand. “I can't think of anything in this world that could keep me from your body, Miss Honey Moon.” She smiled. “I'll never be too busy for that.”
Olivia let herself be kissed, allowed Willa's hand to snake between her legs. She let her sex be caressed and stroked over the fabric of her panties, felt her growing wetness cling to the silk. And when Willa's free hand fondled each of her breasts in turn, Olivia leaned back and allowed herself to be violated in the best way imaginable, forgetting momentarily that life as she knew it, their arrangement as she knew it, would undoubtedly be coming to an end.
“If anyone asks about my new role, tell them it was a baseless rumor, okay? Just for the time being,” Willa said, once it was all over. Olivia was still panting on the bench, one breast hanging over her bra top, wet around the nipple. She couldn't help feeling a bit like a whore, being left in that position while Willa got up to leave. She'd never felt like one before. Had the change already begun?
“Sure,” she said, fixing herself, trying not to let the hurt show on her face. “When will I see you again?”
“I don't know. I'll call you.” Willa kissed her on the forehead, not knowing that it was the most impersonal kiss she had ever given her, unaware that it broke Olivia's heart.
“See ya,” was all Olivia could say without breaking into tears. She never told her she loved her, that she had always loved her. There was no right time to confess something like that to someone like Willa. She knew she would never hear it back. Willa di Blasio didn't date, didn't fall in love. She loved women, the whole state of Florida knew that, and women loved her. But she was never in love with them. Olivia suspected that a declaration like that would have sent her running for the hills. Her worst fear, however, was that she simply wasn't enough to change Willa's mind, and that one day someone else would be.
TWO
“Jesus Christ! I'm glad I skipped breakfast this morning.” Detective Layke Owen covered her nose with her arm, turned away quickly, hoping to get the image out of her mind. But even when she looked away she could still see them. Her stomach turned.
“Nothing like the stench of decomposing bodies to start the day.” Her partner, Detective Len Corman, a man who'd been on the job thirty years, and had seen it all, spun her back round to see the carnage, a twisted smile on his face. “Better get used to this, detective. This is what your days will look like from here on out.”
Layke swallowed, pressed her arm even harder against her nose, but to no avail. The smell permeated the fabric of her blazer.
“I hope not.” She peered around the once abandoned warehouse, seeing body after body littering the ground; dried, congealed, blackened blood all around them. She'd never seen so much blood, so many bullet shells, so much evil all in one place. Six weeks on the job and they'd already thrown her in at the deep end, on a case like this.
All around the professionals worked tirelessly collecting evidence and trying to make sense of the scene.
“What do we know?” Len asked one of the uniformed officers.
“Couple of kids were playing in the area, smelled something funny, went inside to take a look.”
“So nobody heard anything? From the looks of it these guys have been here a while.” Len adjusted his belt a little, letting his thick stomach filled with thirty years of ale out some more, which allowed him to breathe better. He scratched his balding head. “I'd say four or five days. Maybe a week.”
“We didn't get any calls about the noise,” the officer said. “That ain't a surprise though. This place is half a mile away from civilization.”
Layke wandered off on her own, weaving through the bodies, studying them. All male and, though she didn't like to generalize or stereotype, they all seemed to have a Mediterranean look about them. Dark skin, dark hair. Mexicans? No, Italians. She was sure of it. With the exception of one. He was furthest from the others, closest to the exit. He didn't resemble them in any way.
“Hey, Corman, take a look at this.” She ushered her partner over, kneeling down beside the body of the outlier, the smell all but forgotten. She fished out a pair of rubber gloves from her pocket and felt around the body for what, she didn't know.
“What did you find?” Corman said, joining her.
She pointed to two of the gunshot wounds. “I'm no expert, but I think those two are exit wounds. So he was shot twice in the back.”
Corman nodded. “Looks that way.”
“And notice anything different about this guy?”
Corman grinned down at her. “What, like he isn't an Italian? Yeah, we got that, Owen.”
Of course they already knew that. Her embarrassment and feelings of stupidity showed themselves in a blush that covered her cheeks and neck.
“You know who these people are?” she asked, feeling tricked.
“Sure do.” He nodded. “Italian mafia. Connected to the Ambrisi family, under Eddie Ambrisi.”
“Aren't they supposed to be on the other end of the guns?”
“Not in Miami they're not. They don't have that kind of power here.”
She gestured at the foreigner, who seemed to have collected fewer bullets than the other cadavers. “And this guy?”
“This guy's from the group who does have that kind of power.” When he realized that his coyness wasn't doing anything to assuage her confusion, he added, “I suppose I don't have to ask if you're familiar with the di Blasio family?”
“Who isn't?” Layke said. “So this was a fight between the Italian mafia and the di Blasios? Seeing as you seem to have all the answers already, you probably know what they were fighting about.” She ripped off her gloves and tucked them back into her blazer. She pushed a fallen strand of her auburn hair behind her ear, out of her face.
“What they're always fighting about: guns. If the di Blasios are involved, you better believe that weapons are involved too.”
Layke narrowed her eyes at him. Len Corman was a guy who smiled way too much for the type of job he did. Mostly it was a sarcastic smile, or a wicked smile. She didn't know what this one was about, however.
“What is it?” she questioned, feeling left out of some private joke her partner shared with himself.
“You hear about that container of military weaponry that went missing a couple months back? Four security guards were murdered. Now, until the ballistics report comes back we won't know for sure, but it looks a lot like the Italians were shot using them. We liked the di Blasios for that robbery. We couldn't pin it on them before – not enough evidence – but this might change things.”
Layke knew enough to know that nothing ever went that smoothly. Her partner's optimism surprised her. No one had ever been able to pin anything on the di Blasios before – at least nothing that stuck – so why would this time be any different? As much as she
wanted to be involved in the taking down of the most infamous family in Miami, she had to stay realistic.
“If the law doesn't get them, maybe the mafia will. I mean, you can't kill more than half a dozen men in cold blood and not expect blow-back,” she said.
Corman shook his head. “They don't have the kind of manpower needed to take down the di Blasios. Nope. If we want these bastards gone, we'll have to do it ourselves.” He whistled and ushered one of the uniformed officers over. “Has anyone contacted the di Blasios and told them we found one of their guys?”
“I don't think so.”
Corman's grin returned. “Looks like we'll have the pleasure of doing that,” he said, turning to Layke.
The officer's eyes shifted uncertainly from Corman to Layke and back again. “You don't mean right now, do you, detective?”
“Why not? No time like the present.”
“It's just that Maurice di Blasio is being buried today...” He glanced at his watch. “The funeral's probably happening as we speak.”
“I don't give a crap,” Corman said. “You gun down a bunch of people, you lose the right to be buried in peace.”
Layke, too, looked uncertain. “I don't know about this. Maybe we should at least wait until tomorrow to go poking bears. Especially without evidence.”
He slapped her on the back good-naturedly, and started off. “We're not trying to arrest anyone, Owen. We're simply bringing them some news.”
Layke sighed deeply but followed him out of the warehouse, sensing that her day was about to get even more awful.
“Can I just put it on record that I think this is a terrible idea?” Layke said as Corman pulled up to the cemetery and cut the engine.
“Duly noted,” he said in his cheerful way.
They were parked behind a long line of black town cars, all expensive, their windows tinted. The drivers stood by in their black suits, dabbing at their sweaty pink faces with handkerchiefs and pieces of tissue, the sun in a cloudless sky blasting down on them. There wasn't a tree close enough to provide shade.
“I wouldn't want their job,” Layke commented, undoing her blazer and one of the top buttons on her shirt, the heat also getting to her, even with her window wound right down. The weather had been a lot cooler when she'd left her apartment that morning. Deceptively cool. Now she regretted wearing the suit. After all, it was the badge that really counted. Anyone could have dressed the part; but without the badge you were nothing.
“Goddamn, you'd think this guy was the Dalai Lama! Looks like the whole of Miami came out to send him off,” Corman said, his gaze falling on the large horde of people about seventy yards away – a sea of black crowded around the graveside.
“There must be at least two hundred people. That's a bit excessive. Who would have thought the boss of a crime family would be so popular?” Layke said.
They watched in silence for a little while longer, as the priest made his speech and sobbing old women were comforted by their husbands or children. When the priest finished, Layke watched a lady step forward, take up her position beside him. She slipped her sunglasses onto her forehead, took out a piece of paper from her pocket and promptly began to read from it.
Layke sat up. “Who's that?” she asked her partner, hoping that he would stop tapping out his annoying tune on the steering wheel. “If she's reading at the big guy's funeral, she must be important.” She stared on as the woman read. Although she couldn't hear her, the confidence with which she spoke was visible even from where Layke was sitting. She held herself with such grace, suggesting an upbringing of the finest teaching in etiquette. Which was why she stood out among the crowd. The di Blasios were known for a lot of things, but being graceful wasn't one of them. She wore her black pant suit well, perfectly, in fact, managing to look ladylike with an edge. Her presence fascinated Layke.
Corman squinted out of the window for a better look, then nodded. “If I'm not mistaken, I think that's di Blasio's kid. The elusive Willa di Blasio.”
Layke gawked at him. “He has a daughter? How did I not know that?”
“Not many people do. At least, they know, they just forget. Last time I saw her she was a teenager, had just graduated from high school. That was about ten years ago.”
Layke returned her gaze to Willa, now even more fascinated by her. She knew about the four sons, had done since she was a kid. But a daughter? And only four years younger than her? Maurice had certainly kept her a secret.
“Different mom?” Layke questioned, slightly dumbfounded. That was the only explanation, surely.
“Nope, same as the others.”
“She doesn't seem like a di Blasio...” Of course she had the general look – the dark hair and the same shaped face, from what she could make out. But everything else seemed alien.
Corman shot her a curious look, which she didn't see because she was too busy focusing on what was on the other side of the window. “Stunning, ain't she?” he said, laughter in his voice. Maybe that was it, because she certainly was. Even from Layke's distance she could see that.
“Got her mother's looks. You marry a Cuban model, odds are at least one of your offspring gets her looks,” Corman added.
“So what's her story?”
“She doesn't have one. Not one we need to worry about anyway. She keeps her nose clean, stays out of trouble. Not like her degenerate brothers and the rest of her vermin family.”
They watched Willa fold her paper, slip it into her pocket and return to her mother's side, to put a supportive arm around her, all the while remaining stoic in her posture. Moments later, Trent stepped forward and gave his own speech, minus the paper aid. He hadn't even bothered to shave for the occasion, his dark, thick beard and head of untamed hair scruffy, as though he'd just crawled out of bed.
“And that would be the heir to the criminal throne.” Corman's top lip curled up a little in disgust when he spoke. “Trent di Blasio. Kid's been groomed to take over since the day he was born.”
This was a name she was familiar with. In school, he was the guy kids would threaten other kids with, saying he would come for them. Much like Freddy Krueger. The tough guy you didn't want to meet on a bad day... or a good day, for that matter. Rumor had it that he was ruthless, didn't have a conscience, killed without blinking. Layke had to admit, though, that seeing the man behind the legend, merely seventy yards away, was a bit of an anticlimax. Just a scruffy, miserable-looking dude with too much hair. Muscular, she could see that. She didn't spend much time looking at him, however. Her attention went straight back to his sister. She couldn't explain why Willa intrigued her so, but she found it difficult taking her eyes off her.
“That's our cue,” Corman said after a while. The speeches were done, and individuals were throwing mud onto the coffin.
“I don't feel good about doing this,” Layke grumbled, stepping out of the car. “I would be pissed if cops turned up at my father's funeral with accusations, however covert.” An uneasy feeling settled in her stomach as she traipsed across the grass, walking in sync with her partner, both of them looking like TV cops on a mission. She couldn't tell whether her sweaty palms were caused by the sun's heat, or were a product of her nerves. The acceleration of her heartbeat, on the other hand, was wholly due to nervousness.
“That's because your father isn't the boss of an underground crime ring that's spanned four decades.”
People had already started to disperse as they approached. As soon as the three di Blasio brothers clocked eyes on the intruders, spotting the glistening badges clipped to their waists, they looked as though they would pounce.
“You two must be lost,” Trent snarled, squaring his shoulders and stepping forward, his expression menacing as he glared at Corman, paying hardly any attention to Layke.
“No, I think we're in the right place,” Corman responded confidently. “Just came to pay our respects.”
Several other family members crowded around, all wearing equally threatening looks.
; Trent spat on the grass, right at Corman's feet. “You're a brave man turning up here today. Brave... or really stupid.”
Layke prayed that no one could see her hand trembling. Did her partner have a death wish or something?
“Look, we don't want any trouble, all right,” she said, doing everything in her power to make her voice sound assured and balanced.
“Funny, 'cause trouble's exactly what it looks like you came for.” This came from Guy, who was taller than his older brother, though thinner in build, but much more clean shaven, better dressed, and not as vicious-looking. “Why else would you show up at our father's funeral?”
He must be the guy who does their negotiations, Layke thought, studying Guy briefly, noting the smooth way he spoke, and his general suave persona. A pretty boy; a pin up. Her sixteen-year-old self would have been swooning right now. Would have fallen for him, even joined a traveling show and run away with him if he'd asked. But she hadn't been sixteen in a long time, and now he was just like every other di Blasio – like every other criminal, no matter how good-looking he was.
“It's pretty disrespectful, don't you think?” he added.
Around them, insults were being hurled by the mourners. Layke wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole, feeling the chill from their glares reaching her bones. This was such a bad idea.
“What seems to be the problem here?”
If Layke thought she was tongue-tied before, it was nothing compared to how she became when Willa barged her way through to join them, having just left her sobbing mother in the care of a family member. The girl sounded impatient when she spoke. She lifted her shades on to her forehead, and a frustrated frown creased her brow.
“I sincerely hope you have a good reason for being here, today of all days,” she said, though in her tone it sounded much more like a demand. She spoke directly to Corman, and didn't appear to have even seen Layke standing beside him.
