Game of Vengeance

by Amanda K. Byrne

  Nick clenches his jaw to the point stress lines dig themselves into the skin around his mouth. I pull out my hammer and drive the final nail home. “Do you want to hear me say it? All that chocolate was a mistake. I did a stupid thing today and made myself vulnerable. I’ll be safer with you. Besides, I might be able to help. New eyes, new ears, new brain sometimes equals new ideas.”

  His eyes darken, hands twitching and flexing at his sides. Tension mounts and stretches taut as a high wire as we continue to stare at each other. We need this show of force, and if he thinks about it long enough, he’ll realize I’m right.

  We are in this together, and this is our first chance to show everyone we mean it.

  His acquiescence flashes over his face before he speaks. “Go. Get in the car.”

  Chapter 6

  All those interrogation scenes where the captive’s bound to a chair, sometimes drenched in water, sometimes sitting in his own filth, are lies.

  The man sits in a metal folding chair, his arms cuffed behind him and his ankle cuffed to the chair leg. No one has a gun trained on him, and he’s not trembling in terror. His hair’s a mess, and his clothes are rumpled. There’s a bruise forming on his jaw, another around his right eye, and blood’s drying under his nose. He’s also the first person I’ve seen who isn’t around Nick’s age. Based on the faint lines around his eyes and the silver threading his dark hair, I put him in his forties.

  Constantine’s leaning against the opposite wall, carrying on a conversation with one of the other men, someone I haven’t met before. With his messy blond hair and golden skin, he looks like he ought to be on the beach, not in this florescent-lit room. Constantine’s gaze slips from Nick to me, brows drawing together in a frown.

  The room itself is pretty bare. Aside from the chair the captive’s in, the only other furniture is a card table near the door littered with weapons: a couple of guns, multiple knives, plus what looks like a pair of brass knuckles. The building is empty. Convenient. No one will be able to hear him scream.

  Constantine breaks away and comes over, an easy smile on his face and violence in his eyes. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  Kidding about what? I glance between Nick and Constantine, Nick’s shoulders a rock-hard line. “She’s in this just as much as I am. She stays,” Nick says, his voice low.

  “I get that she’s more than a piece of ass to you, bro.” His smile hardens. “Just don’t think she has to see this.”

  I stiffen. “Why don’t you worry about whether this guy will tell you anything useful instead of worrying about me? Or were you saving the beating until Nick got here?” I brush past him and take his spot on the wall, shoving my hands into my pockets. Surfer Dude shifts on his feet, and I push my lips up into a smile. “Hey.” This close, I see the fine lines around his eyes, putting his age closer to the guy in the chair than Nick and Constantine. Good. I was starting to wonder if everyone in the organization was some young hotshot.

  “Hi.” He draws the word out, uncertainty dragging it down.

  I nod at the guy in the chair. “He works for Isaiah?”

  “Loyal to him, yeah,” Surfer Dude says.

  I glance over my shoulder. “Does Isaiah hold the same position as you within the family?” I ask Nick.

  He shakes his head, his expression resigned. “Similar position. He has men who report to him, but he doesn’t have the leeway Con or I do. It’s a fairly recent decision by my father.”

  “How recent is recent?”

  “Last two years.”

  One of the pieces slides into place. That explains where Isaiah’s men came from and why they listen to him at all. Satisfied for now, I refocus on Surfer Dude. I point to the man in the chair. “You’re going to cause him pain, right? Broken bones, bruises, probably some bleeding?”

  He shoots a glance over my shoulder. “Likely.”

  Since we’ve established this isn’t the movies, I doubt the guy handcuffed to the chair is going to say anything of worth. “What happens if he rolls over? Gives up Isaiah’s current safe house? What will you do with him?”

  Nick answers. “You already know the answer to that, Cass.”

  Surfer Dude’s eyes widen slightly. I turn to Nick. “Do you kill all of them? Or just the ones who really deserve it?”

  Nick shuts his eyes and mumbles something under his breath. “If they all ended up dead, no one would have any motivation to talk, would they?” His eyes snap open, as cold and blank as I was earlier today. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Wait.” I walk over to the table, conscious of everyone’s gaze on me. Picking one of the guns at random, I check the safety and close my hand around the butt, the grip too large to be comfortable. That’s okay, though. I have no intention of shooting anyone.

  Nick and Constantine have matching impatient expressions when I make my way back to them. “Mind if I ask him a few questions?”

  “Cass,” Nick says.

  I didn’t know it was possible to fit both a warning and uncertainty into the same syllable. I lift a brow. “If I wanted to kill him, I’d slit his throat. I’m better with a knife, remember?” Swallowing my resurging nausea, I face the guy in the chair. “What’s your name?” There. Best way to ensure I won’t kill him. Give him a name.

  “Demitrios.” Constantine answers for him.

  “Demetrios.” I shift my grip on the gun. “Did you know Marc?” Behind me, Nick sucks in a breath. God, I hope he doesn’t interrupt me.

  Demetrios clearly isn’t expecting the question because he frowns. “Yeah.”

  “Well? Did you know him well?”

  He flicks his gaze over my shoulder. “He was my cousin.”

  Is everyone related in the Kosta organization? Surfer Dude probably isn’t. I give myself a mental shake. “The months before he was killed. Had he changed?” I ask. Demetrios gives me a blank stare. “Gotten quieter? Harder to get a hold of? Looked like he lost weight or hadn’t been sleeping?” He should have had circles under his eyes, hollows under his cheekbones, and a scraggly beard on his jaw. His shoulders should have been perpetually slumped and his mouth downturned.

  Marc hadn’t looked like that at all. He held his head up, gone about his business, smiled when he had to. He’d shown the world a picture of a man content with his life, fully capable of handling the stresses of the path he chose. Maybe it was my own guilt wanting to see the sadness weighing him down. But if I didn’t ask, I’d never know.

  An unnatural hush falls over the room, as if everyone’s holding a collective breath. Had one man’s death had that much of an impact? Did I have to worry about that many more people wanting my head on a pike? Demetrios lowers his gaze to his knees, a line appearing between his brows. “He’d been talking about getting out.” His voice is quiet and rusty. “Didn’t do it a lot, usually just an offhand comment. Last month or so, he didn’t smile as much, kept to himself more than usual. Said he wasn’t sleeping well. Figured it had something to do with a deal Isaiah was working that he’d been brought in on. It fell through after Marc died.”

  “Nautilus?” I ask, and he nods. The scrap of information might point toward Isaiah’s motives for wanting Nick out of the picture, but it’s not the confirmation I’m looking for. Proof of Marc’s suicidal thoughts are my absolution.

  Demetrios lifts his head. “Why?”

  “Because I’m the one who killed him. Someone took out a hit on him.” The peace in his eyes just before the light went out of them is imprinted on my memory. His absolute surrender, waiting on his knees.

  This will never stop hurting.

  I embrace it, let the guilt wash through me one last time. “Not someone,” I say quietly. “Marc. I think Marc took out a hit on his own head because he wanted it to be over.”

  Grief floods Demetrios’s eyes, coats his features in a thick film. He blinks a few times, staring hard at a spot over my shoulder. “Not surprised to hear that,” he says, voi
ce tight and rough. Controlled. “I thought maybe something was up, but he didn’t want to talk, and I didn’t push it. I assumed it would pass.”

  “So did I.”

  I glance at Constantine, leaning against the wall. He scuffs a hand along his jaw. “Shit, I bet a lot of us did. Dom?”

  Nick shakes his head. I give my full attention to the man chained to the chair. “You’re not going to tell us where Isaiah’s hiding, are you?”

  His lip curls in a halfhearted smirk. “No.” He jerks his head in the direction of the men behind me. “They know it too. I’m their fucking punching bag.”

  “Not tonight.” I flip the gun around so my hand’s around the barrel. He’s my messenger, however reluctant he might be, and I’ll use him.

  The metal bites into my palm as I shift my grip. I can’t hit hard enough with my fists, and using my feet seems ridiculous when I can just clobber the guy. “They’re going to dump you someplace Isaiah will find you easily, and you’re going to tell him that he’s going to have to be smarter than sending someone to break into Nick’s house to get the jump on me again.” I lean in until I’m nose to nose with Demetrios. “He should have made sure I was dead before he walked away,” I murmur, ignoring Nick’s growl. I draw back, rolling my shoulders, letting the anger overtake the guilt. Isaiah. “Sorry, this is going to hurt. A lot.”

  And I smash the butt of the gun into the side of his head.

  * * * *

  “Remind me not to piss you off.” Constantine watches as Surfer Dude—I never did learn his name—and Nick pick up Demetrios and haul him toward the door. One set of handcuffs dangle from the chair leg. The other pair are firmly around his wrists.

  “Why?” I have a temper, sure. Nick and I have already had our share of disagreements. I’ve never participated in any sort of interrogation, though that wouldn’t be obvious to someone like Constantine. “The only people I want to smack on a regular basis are Nick and my father.”

  He snorts. “Right.” He cups my elbow and guides me toward the door, and we follow the others out into the hall. “So your father’s an autocratic asshole?”

  I slow, putting some distance between us and Nick. He doesn’t need to overhear my insecurities. “I wouldn’t say that. He’s an ass a lot of the time, and heavy handed, but if he was really an autocratic asshole, he wouldn’t bend to anyone’s whim, and he almost always bends to my mother’s.” Except on one very important thing.

  If she’d left him, taken me with her, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have to lie to my best friend and random strangers all the time. Sometimes I wonder just how hard my mother tried to get me away from Turner, or if her newfound happiness that everyone was getting along was more important.

  Constantine tightens his hold on my elbow, and I move closer to him, wishing Nick were next to me. He would slide an arm around my waist and press a kiss to the top of my head in that sweet, casual display of affection I’ve quickly come to crave. Instead, I get Constantine’s arm around my shoulders and his fingers playing with my ponytail. “I still don’t think you should have been here,” he murmurs.

  “I get that. Nick’s right, though. I’m in this too.”

  “And you’re trying to get out. Dom’s said a couple of times you were giving up the game. You should,” he adds. “If that’s what you want, don’t let anyone talk you out of it, especially not Dom.

  “Do you know what you’re getting into? Think about it. Think about who Dom is, what he does. He keeps his women separate from the family. They don’t know what goes down. Him letting you in this deep, and this is deeper than his sisters go, is a big fucking deal.” He shoots me a glance. “You might get out, but you stay with Dom, you’ll always be straddling the fence.”

  Nick and Surfer Dude are at the end of the hall, waiting for the elevator, and Constantine points to the door leading to the service stairs. Nick’s lips flatten into a thin line, and he nods. “Stairs are safer than the elevator. Easier to avert an ambush,” Constantine says.

  “We have to worry about that?” It makes sense; the building we’re in houses one of Nick’s companies. Most of the upper floors of the building are unoccupied, including the floor we’re on. “Why is Nick taking the elevator?”

  “Ever dragged an unconscious man down seven flights of stairs? Makes a lot of noise. Carrying him will tire Dom out and weaken him in a fight. Isaiah could find us if he wanted to. He’s going to want to get Demetrios back, dead or alive, and dead gives him an excuse to come out swinging.”

  “Which means…” Nick’s anticipating an ambush in the parking garage. By taking the stairs, I’ll have a better chance of remaining out of the line of fire. Unease prickles the skin on my neck. I want to run after Nick, beg him not to take the elevator. I change the subject instead. “After Josef, who would you send to get rid of someone in the organization?”

  “Not Xavier. The guy you jumped in the kitchen,” he explains. “He’s like a billy club.” He pushes open the door to the stairwell. “If I wanted it done fast and quiet, if I wanted to prove a point, I’d hire your dad. And we have before. Dom’s used him a few times.”

  I wish I hadn’t asked.

  The stairwell is dimly lit and cavernous, our footsteps thunderous against the cinderblock walls. “Was he used while I was gone?”

  Constantine pauses on a landing and looks up at me, perched a few steps above him. “Yeah.” He waits until I’ve descended the last couple steps to stand in front of him. “And we’ll use him again. He’s pretty fucking brilliant. In, out, like a shadow.” There’s a reason he’s called The Ghost. Turner is brilliant. I just wish he’d be a brilliant father. Constantine shrugs.“Frankly, we probably would have used you a time or two if Dom didn’t know who you were by now.”

  I’ll never get out. Not completely. Not if I keep trying to have a relationship with my dad. Add in my desire to be with Nick, I’ll be surrounded by blood and shadows for however long we last.

  I just have to decide if that’s something I can live with. Or, better question, if Nick is someone I can live without.

  Since I would rather put off that debate for as long as possible, I nod, and we continue down the stairs in silence. After we pass the landing for the third floor, Constantine changes his gait, limbs stiff to silence his heavy footfalls, and I do the same without being asked. Panic flares in my belly as his earlier words race through my brain. An ambush. Nick and Surfer Dude had no choice but to take the elevator. Demetrios was a dead weight between them, his booted feet dragging down the hall. The elevator opens with a clear view of the garage. They’ll be sitting ducks.

  We hear the fight before we see it, and the panic spreads into a full-on flame. On the landing above the entrance to the garage, Constantine bends over and removes a gun from an ankle holster, then hands it to me. It’s more compact than the ones that littered the table and fits better in my palm. I give him a half smile, automatically check the safety, and race the rest of the way down the stairs, uncaring if they hear me coming.

  When Constantine pushes his way in front of me and eases open the door, I slip behind him. We step out into the darkened garage, weapons at the ready, gunfire ricocheting between the support pillars.

  The fight’s centered in the wide lane between parking spaces. Four men have taken refuge behind cars. A fifth man is on the ground, bleeding from a wound to the stomach, and I can’t stop the sympathetic wince. Two of them have their backs to us, occasionally popping up to squeeze off a shot. At the next barrage of gunfire, Constantine darts forward and grasps one of their heads, giving it a vicious twist. It snaps like a dry branch, and the man slumps to the ground. His partner doesn’t recover quick enough. He raises his gun to fire. I line up my shot and send the bullet through his temple.

  Brain matter splatters on the car. I hurry forward, blind to everything except the two remaining men. I crouch behind the car and peer around the bumper at the elevator. Surfer Dude is down, though it’s unclear i
f he is severely injured or just playing possum. Demetrios lies in a slowly expanding pool of blood, his eyes already blank and lifeless. From my spot, I can’t see Nick at all, but I hear a gun, firing bullet after bullet.

  One of the two men pops up, and I fire, my shot skimming the top of his head. He returns fire, and I’m forced to pull back as I wait for the shots to stop coming.

  The quiet that comes next is eerie. No one moves. No one breathes. Constantine points to the recesses of the garage, away from the fight, and makes a circle, indicating he’s going to swing wide and try and come up behind them. I nod, and as he creeps off, I fire over the top of the car to cover the noise.

  I peek around the end. No sign of Nick or the two gunmen. I withdraw and make my way back to the body. Easing his gun from his grip, I switch it out for mine. It’s not a comfortable fit, too bulky and awkward, but I’ve already emptied my magazine, and Constantine didn’t give me a spare. I readjust and edge around the body, then poke my head over the top of the car.

  Still no one. I pull the trigger twice, firing blindly into the space I think the assailants are and wait for the fighting to resume.

  One head comes up quick, and he’s picked off by Constantine, his shout of pain echoing off the cement. The other remains absent. I really don’t want to crawl around trying to find this guy.

  I don’t have to. Another shot rings out, answered by an all clear from Nick. Constantine heads for Surfer Dude and Demetrios, and I stand slowly, sure there are stray bullets waiting to find me.

  But there are none. Just Nick standing in the middle of the chaos, smears of blood painting his jeans, and a gun in his hand. His face remains a mask as I emerge from my hiding spot. He jerks his head toward the bodies. “Gonna be here a while.”

  I figured as much.

  Chapter 7

  I head for the beach as soon as we get home. The dark is soothing, the crash of waves more so. Push pull, push pull, over and over again, taking more of the sand with it each time, bringing a little of it back. I dig my hands into the fine grains and fist them.