Double Down

by Torre, Alessandra

  Hawk stepped forward, and Dario imagined killing him. Would he cry for mercy? Groan out an apology? A curse? Whatever it would be, Dario would show no mercy and ignore any apology.

  He should have killed him years ago. He’d brought it up on dozens of occasions, all rebuked by Gwen, her stern admonishments making him swear to leave the man alone. Now, her blood still fresh in his memory, he regretted every promise. On their wedding night, he should have looked into his eyes, sliced the throat of the bastard, and watched the devil die.

  Now, it was too late and Gwen was the one who had taken the punishment. The only one, among the three of them, that was innocent. He didn’t know if it was more cruel to let her father suffer in guilt or kill him now. From the mad look on his face, it was impossible to tell if the guilt had hit. The man seemed immune to blaming himself for anything.

  Hawk watched as they crushed the recorder, then passed it to him. Tossing it in the general direction of the desk, he turned back to Dario. “Doesn’t seem like you, Capece.”

  Dario shrugged. “Maybe I record all of my conversations with you.”

  The man laughed, genuinely amused by the comment. “Now, where is the Hartley girl?”

  Dario shook his head. “I haven’t found her yet. She ran.”

  “I find that hard to believe. That little wisp of a girl? Running away all by herself?” His face calmed, his emotions clamping under control, and he’d never been so chilling. “Surely, she had some help.”

  Dario stared him down and wondered what the old man planned to do. Maybe he’d have Dario taken away and torture him for information on Bell’s location. The man would take out all of his anger and guilt on Dario, with little concern or fear of the consequences.

  Or maybe… he watched Hawk lift a heavy bronze Remington sculpture from the desk, hefting it between his hands as if testing the weight. Turning back to Dario, he raised his hands, the bronze horse straining the cords in his thin forearm.

  Dario stared into Hawk’s hate-filled eyes and regretted never killing this asshole. Regretted playing along with his games, and letting him dictate every year of his marriage. Without him, Gwen could have married someone for love and not protection. She would still be alive. He and Bell could have been happy. And Dario could have—

  Hawk raised the horse above his head. He lunged forward and Dario yanked one arm free and twisted to the side, grappling with the two men as Hawk swung the sculpture down, the sharp tip of the horse’s tail aimed at Dario’s head.

  Four

  DARIO

  Dario slammed his foot into the knee of the goon behind him and the sculpture swung by, close enough that he felt the wind of its wake, and Hawk’s arm brushed against his chest.

  “Hold him, Goddamn you!” Spittle flew from Hawk’s mouth, and he lifted the small statue a second time. His movement froze at the loud and distinct sound of the front door knocker. There was a second rat-a-tat-tat that was quickly followed by a pound against wood.

  One of his men appeared in the doorway. “It’s the cops.”

  Hawk’s eyes flipped to the wire, then snapped back to Dario. “You rat.”

  Dario allowed himself a breath, a moment of hope, and spoke evenly. “They’re probably here to tell you about Gwen.”

  A flash of pain showed on Hawk’s face, a fleeting peek at the human that must exist somewhere underneath all of the evil.

  “Drop him.” He pointed to Dario. “Keep your fucking mouth shut.”

  Hawk looked down at the bronze horse, still hanging by his side and stepped to the desk. Carefully setting it down, he pulled his suit into place and ran a hand through his hair. “Let them in.”

  * * *

  BELL

  “You too skinny.” Laurent stuck a forkful of food in his mouth, and I looked over in annoyance.

  “I’m not too skinny.”

  “You are. Come and eat. You’ll like it.” He was standing in front of a plate and working through the contents with the efficiency of a competitive eater.

  “I’m not hungry.” I walked around a saggy recliner and went to the window, trying to see through a year’s worth of grime.

  “Who you looking for?”

  I didn’t even know. It wasn’t as if Dario was going to show up here. I reached back and touched the cell phone in my pocket, reassuring myself of its existence. It hadn’t made a sound so far, no texts or calls, no indicators of Dario’s actions. What was he doing? Did the police still think I was dead?

  “You got too many thoughts going in that head of yours. Come here.” He pointed to the opposite side of the kitchen counter. “I’ll fix you some jambalaya.”

  I shook my head. “I’m good. I’m just tired.”

  “You slept all morning. It’s noon. Time to eat.”

  I’d flown through the night. You’d think the man would cut me some slack, but he was acting as if I was the laziest person alive. “I only got four or five hours of sleep.”

  He clicked his tongue. “Pauve ti bite. Poor little thing.”

  I flopped down on his sofa, and it shifted from the impact. I stared up at his ceiling and noticed the dust on his ceiling-fan blades. The guy needed to learn how to use a paper towel and some 409. He thought I was lazy? I had opened his fridge last night and saw milk that expired two weeks ago.

  “You starve to death, Dario’s going to be real mad at me.”

  “I’m not going to starve to death.” I turned my head and looked at him. “Is there a plan? How long am I supposed to be here?”

  He shrugged as if unconcerned, but he couldn’t be pleased to have a sudden and sullen houseguest. I kicked my foot up on the arm of the ancient leather sofa and noticed I was still wearing his socks—mine had gotten wet when I stepped into a puddle between Laurent’s truck and his house—a wool pair that was way too big for me, the heels of them bulging out from my ankle in an odd fashion.

  I tugged on the bottom of my shirt, the same one from last night. I could have died in this shirt. “Do you have any clothes I can borrow? Or can we go buy some?”

  He looked up, eyeing me as if gauging my size. “My sistah is too big, but she could loan you something.”

  His sister. I tried to imagine the sister to this huge and hulking behemoth. I glanced around the room. “Don’t you have a girlfriend or ex? Someone who’s left clothes here at some point?”

  He looked at me as if I was crazy, as if we didn’t leave clothes behind like property markers claiming territories.

  “I don’t have a girlfriend. And you asked ‘bout a plan.” He brought over a plate of steaming jambalaya and set it down on the coffee table. I sat up, my stomach growling out of habit. “The plan is, we wait for the boss man to tell us what da plan is.”

  That sounded like a stupid plan. In movies, that sort of plan always caused the sitting ducks to be killed. I voiced my opinion and he chuckled.

  “Nobody being kilt on my watch. I keep Dario alive for twenty-five years in that crazy city of his. You on Benoit land here. Nobody going to come o’er here and kill you. Trust me on dat.”

  I did trust him. It seemed reasonable to feel safe in the middle of the swamp with a man who seemed capable of breaking an alligator in two.

  He pushed the plate toward me. “Here. Eat. After that, we can get you some clothes.”

  I eyed the plate for a long moment, then reluctantly picked up a fork and began to eat.

  Five

  DARIO

  The study, which had felt crowded with Hawk and his two men—was now quickly filled with police officers. “Mr. Capece, if you could come with us.” One of the policemen stepped forward and put a hand on Dario’s shoulder before cuffing his hands behind him.

  Robert Hawk straightened to his full height. “Why are you arresting him?”

  “May we speak to you in private, Mr. Hawk? I’m afraid we have some news to share with you.”

  Hawk’s gaze popped from Dario to the detective, and indecision broke the rigidity of his features.

>   “It’s about your daughter.”

  The knot in the middle of Hawk’s throat bobbed, and Dario watched as he ran both hands over the top of his hair, smoothing down the thick silver strands. “Go on.”

  “Mr. Capece?” The second uniform gestured to the door, and Dario flexed his hands, not appreciating the feel of the handcuffs, biting into the muscle of his wrists. It had been a long time since he had been in handcuffs. The last time had been twenty years ago, when he had been caught crawling in Mandi Breitlen’s bedroom window. Her father had chosen to call the authorities rather than face the fact that his daughter wasn’t the angel he thought she was.

  “Let’s go. We’ll read you your rights outside.”

  Dario followed the man through the door. He stepped out of the house, his eyes drifting over the trio of police cars. They’d certainly cut things close. Another thirty seconds, and he’d be dead. He was brought to a stop next to one of Hawk’s men.

  “Dario Capece, you are being arrested for the murder of Gwen Capece. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can…”

  He stared at the pebbled drive, tuning out the Miranda warning, and prayed like hell all of this would work.

  * * *

  BELL

  I was only a dead woman for a short time.

  I hugged my knees to my chest and watched the small box television, watching as Dario was led through a crowd of reporters and into the jail. Even in handcuffs, he was powerful. Those broad shoulders straight, his head high, his stride confident. But in his face, I saw the strain. In those fierce features, the scowl across those delicious lips… his eyes looked weary. He looked away from the cameras, and I noticed the rough mess of his hair, the limp crease of his expensive collar.

  “He looks bad.” The comment came from Laurent’s sister, a six-foot-tall Amazon with wild curly hair and green eyes that matched her brother’s. Septime had all but barreled into the house several hours ago, shoved me aside on the couch, and gave me a look that screamed to toughen the hell up.

  We hadn’t, in the hours since, become any better friends. A headline appeared below Dario’s image, one that matched the broadcasters’ chatter.

  DARIO CAPECE CHARGED IN WIFE’S MURDER

  “You don’t think they’re going to bring up—” Septime’s words fell off abruptly, and I turned just in time to see a look passed between her and her brother. He shook his head minutely, and I straightened up off the couch.

  “What? You don’t think they’re going to bring up … what?”

  “Nothing.” Laurent’s sister leaned forward, watching the news, and didn’t look my way. I turned to Laurent, who met my gaze in the bored manner of a man with a secret. I sank back against the cushion and tried to control my anger. This wasn’t fair. They were arresting Dario who wasn’t—couldn’t be—guilty. I had been there. I had seen his reaction. And now, these two were keeping something from me. Everyone seemed to be keeping something from me.

  I crossed my arms tightly over my chest and watched as Dario stopped just before the door to the police station. He turned his head, the camera zooming in as his eyes connected with the lens.

  There.

  I was sure he was staring at me. I had to believe that there was a promise of security in those eyes. For us. I wanted to believe in that connection. He had told me to trust him. He had told me everything would be okay.

  It was a momentary moment, potentially an imagined promise, but I believed it.

  “He didn’t do it. You know that.”

  I ignored Septime’s comment, holding Dario’s gaze until a navy suit pushed at his shoulder, and Dario turned and passed through the door. Out of sight, but fully protected. Surely, he’d be safe in there. Surely, with all of the uniforms, the guns, the security … he wouldn’t get hurt.

  “Don’t you be worried ‘bout him.” Laurent heaved to his feet and reached for the remote, turning the television off. “Our boy has a plan. He always do.”

  If he’d had a plan, Gwen wouldn’t be dead, and I wouldn’t be in this dank shack in the middle of the swamp. I swallowed the thought and looked down at the hem of my new shirt, pulling at the cotton.

  A timer went off in the kitchen, and Septime lifted her head, pushing to her feet and moving toward the sound. I looked at Laurent, and he tilted his head toward the porch. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  * * *

  I hadn’t walked through the woods in years, not since I was a little girl exploring the forest on the edge of our trailer park. I mentioned this and Laurent laughed.

  “Not much else to do but explore. It’s probably why we all end up with so many kids.”

  I had to blush at the thought, though he and Septime were both, as far as I could tell, single. I said that and he shrugged, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

  “Yeah, well. We da picky ones.”

  He nodded toward a dirt path through the trees, one large enough for a car. Everything was wet from this morning’s rain and I pulled my hair into a knotted ponytail, the summer humidity thick in the air.

  “A girl died once. At Dario’s casino, over in Biloxi.” Laurent glanced sideways at me. “That’s what Septime was trying to bring up.”

  My heart fell at the same time that my body did, my foot sinking into a soft spot and causing me to tilt forward, my arms windmilling through the air as I attempted to stay upright. Laurent reached out, catching me, and I fell against his chest, my hands hooking into the fabric of his jacket as I sagged in his arms. “Shit.”

  “It’s okay, chere.”

  He lifted me clear off the ground and stepped to the side, eyeing the soft dirt, then set me down, watching as I tested my ankle. It wasn’t injured, but my tennis shoe was covered in dark mud. When I took a forward step, things squished around my sock. I made a face. “Crap. There’s mud in my shoe.”

  “That a problem?”

  A day ago, I wouldn’t have been able to understand him, but I picked through the Louisiana accent without trouble.

  “Let me just take it off.”

  I found a sturdy looking tree and leaned against it, working off my shoe and hitting it against the trunk, wet mud splattering off it.

  Laurent made a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh. “Water will do a betta job.”

  I broke a stick off the closest branch and tried to scrape a clump out of the sole.

  “I’ll just carry you.”

  “No, I’m—” I grunted when he lifted me, fireman style, and flung me over his shoulder. “STOP.” I pushed at his shoulder. “Put me down!”

  “Hold onto ya britches. I’m just taking you to the creek.”

  I struggled another moment, then gave up, hanging like a limp rag over his massive shoulders, my arms bouncing against him. I held the muddy shoe in one hand and watched the muddy path sway before me. A girl died once. At Dario’s casino, over in Biloxi. Had there always been so much death everywhere? Or did it just follow Dario? I spoke to him over his shoulder. “How did the girl die?”

  He veered to the right, moving off the road and down a trail. He didn’t slow, and I watched his steps, my upside-down angle giving me a front-row view of the carnage his boots made across the fallen leaves.

  “She jumped outta the window of one of the suites. Her daddy tried to say that it was from a broken heart.”

  My stomach rolled, an uneasy movement that could have been caused by my position or his words. “She was dating Dario?”

  He shifted me as if I was a bag of flour, putting me in a new position on his shoulder, and I wheezed a little in protest.

  “She was dating a lot of men. Dario had been one of them. And he had stopped with her due to the Vegas woman coming into town.”

  The Vegas woman. Gwen. I pushed against his back just to raise my head, the blood rushing back into place, the woods bobbing around us. I could hear the faint sound of water, and I turned my head, saw the glint of a reflection through the trees. He took another ten paces and stopped
, depositing me down with enough care that I thanked him.

  “The water’s clean, but it’s cold.”

  I carefully hopped to the side, sitting on the edge of the stream and pulling off my dirty sock. As I rinsed it, and my shoe, I thought over what he’d said.

  “Do you think she killed herself over Dario?”

  “Who knows. Da media, they was all over him for it. Would have probably said he pushed her, but he’d been at dinner with da Hawk girl when it happened. And the security footage showed that there’d been nobody in that suite with her. Suicide, that’s what it’d been. And you can’t blame nobody for dat.”

  I watched the water swirl around the shoe and thought about Dario. Thought about how I’d feel if Gwen had come to town, and Dario had dropped me. What had it been like? Had she been a fling of his?

  I thought of his dancer and his mistress—the way he’d ended things with them when he had started dating me. I had never considered their reactions, had never thought about how cold my world would suddenly feel if Dario turned his attention away.

  In his light, under his attention, everything felt warm and alive and sexually free.

  But in this sweaty Louisiana town, with this strange hulk of a man beside me, and Dario in jail … I was starting to feel the chill of being without him.

  Six

  THE RUNNER

  In a city of almost a million people, it should have been easy to hide. Moving on foot, through Robert Hawk’s gated neighborhood, had been her first challenge. She’d jogged along the treeline, when the first police car had turned down Robert’s street. The sight of it had caused her to trip, her shoe snagging on the dirt as she had ducked down and in between two trees. The car had continued on, followed by three more sedans and an armored van.

  She’d watched them pass, her alarm turning into confusing. Were they looking for her? The group of blue and whites took a left and turned down Robert’s street. Maybe they were coming for him. If they showed up … if he had killed Dario …