Saints and Savages (A Mafia Series Book 2)

by A. C. Bextor

  By some miracle, I haven’t seen Chase in nearly a week. He hasn’t called and left messages. No texts either. And thankfully he hasn’t seen fit to stop in at Ed’s again.

  He’s been quiet. Which likely comes with both good and bad tidings. Understandably, it’s the latter I’m mostly concerned with.

  I haven’t told Ed and Georgia about Saint’s Justice’s volatile interest in Chase. On her own, Georgia’s fallen under the false assumption that Chase is indisposed at the moment. I feel a pang of guilt in letting her believe this, but it’s easier than explaining everything that’s happened in such a short time.

  She drops the bag to the floor and holds a pair of silk pajama shorts up and around my waist to test the fit. “These were too cute to pass up.”

  Sighing, knowing my efforts to evade her consideration and kindness are futile, I say nothing more.

  After laying the material over my arm, she bends down to the bag and reaches for the shirt. The button-down, champagne pink blouse looks to be a perfect fit as well.

  Again, I don’t argue. I’m too tired.

  “Now,” she starts, “take these and the bath salt. Get your ass in the tub and relax. You’ll thank me later.”

  “I should thank you every day,” I insist.

  I lean in to hug her and Georgia wraps both arms around me in a tight embrace.

  She runs her hand through my hair as she breathes more kindness in her words. “I love you, kiddo. I do. But you’re crazy if you don’t think you need a real man.”

  Smiling into her shoulder, I picture Liam. “I love you, too. Now go so you can get back to yours.”

  “You’re totally cheating, Doc,” Mac boldly accuses, sitting across the living room coffee table. She’s doing this while refusing to make her next move. “I’m just a kid and you’re an educated adult who cheats kids. I should be sad for you.”

  Her vibrant personality never fails to amuse me. Even when I’m in the soberest of moods.

  Mac’s been keeping me company as I’ve been waiting for the call back from Mike. Because I left work early, I happened to run into Mac on my way in, who told me school had been canceled due to snow. According to my fiery-haired, know-it-all teenage tormentor, we’re expecting more than had originally been predicted.

  Her parents are both at work, and I couldn’t resist her sullen expression as she explained how “bored” she was going to be home alone all day.

  Obviously Mac’s no longer focused on relaxing at home and enjoying her free day, but rather on continuing our all-important competitive game of chess. I’ve been teaching her when time allows for over a month. She’s starting to understand the concept, but because of its tedious details it’s been a slow process.

  When Mike texted this morning, he told me he’d already stumbled upon few pieces of information I’d be interested in hearing. He said no more other than he’d call this evening.

  So far, he’s yet to get in touch.

  “I’m not cheating. There’s no way a player can cheat at chess, Mac. As long as the opponent is paying attention, it’s impossible.”

  “Well, I’ve been paying attention. And it looks like you’ve made it possible,” she snips.

  Nothing but clothes, shoes, and money ever make this teenager happy.

  “Here.” I point to the king. “Remember what I told you? What is it about the king that you can’t forget?”

  “He doesn’t have very much power,” she animatedly exclaims in triumph as she remembers. “Which is weird, ’cause isn’t a king supposed to be all big and bad?”

  “Sure.” I grin. “What piece can change position?”

  “You said promoted.”

  “Yes.” I smile, happy she’s retained more than she sometimes lets on. “Which one?”

  “The pawn,” she replies as if I’m boring her. Looking around the room, she quickly loses interest in her lessons and questions, “Can I take Cliff for a walk? I’d do it half off since you’re having a bad week.”

  Shaking my head, I look to my faithful canine lying peacefully in his bed near the fireplace. “Let’s skip his walk today. It’s cold and there’s a lot of snow.” I casually point to Cliff. “And he already looks exhausted.”

  Mac stands, brushing a litter of crumbs from the snacks she’s eaten during our cheating chess lesson.

  “He’s exhausted because you let him eat, like, all the time.”

  Standing, I push her shoulder in the direction of the front door.

  “Eat and sleep. That’s what dogs do,” I needlessly explain.

  “I’m going to ask my dad to come over and talk to you about this, Doc. He says animals sometimes sleep because they have a tendency to get depressed.” Her gaze travels to Cliff and his tail wags twice, but my canine companion doesn’t put in any effort to leave his warm spot. “See?” She points. “He’s depressed.”

  Right.

  Opening the front door, I move aside for her to exit. She doesn’t, though, staying in place just as I had suspected she would.

  Looking up, her eyes dance in excitement. “Teach me.”

  Thinking of a life lesson, I only come up with “Un vero vincitore ammette sconfitta.”

  Her face scrunches the same as it always does.

  “No guesses?” I query. “Not even one?”

  Mac smiles, her green eyes narrowing as her cheeks lift higher on her face. “What did you say?”

  “Don’t be so quick to give up, Mac. Give me a guess.”

  Putting her hand to her hip, she pouts, “You’re supposed to be teaching me Italian, Doc. Remember?””

  Giving in, I translate. “I said that a true winner admits defeat.”

  This earns me an overly dramatic eye roll as she walks out of my condo and into the hall. Before turning the corner on her way home, Mac stops midstep to look back, once again imparting her teenage wisdom. “A true winner is just a winner. Only a loser has to admit defeat.”

  “Fuori dale bocche dei bambini,” I mumble to myself after she’s rounded the corner. Out of the mouths of babes.

  Walking back into the condo, the phone rings in my hand. Caller ID reveals it’s the one call I’ve been waiting for.

  “Let this girl go,” Mike states clearly before I’m able to so much as muster a hello.

  “What?”

  Clearing his throat, he repeats, “Let this one go, Liam. Whatever interest you have in this woman or however much you think you need to help her, let her go.”

  Now not only am I curious of his reasons to press for my disinterest, but I’m wondering what Wren could’ve possibly done to warrant him being so severe in his warning to do so.

  “Explain,” I sharply demand. “She’s a twenty-three-year-old woman, Mike. How bad could this be?”

  “Worse,” he clips. “That old man of hers, Chase Avery?”

  “Ex,” I clip, wanting to make Chase’s position in her life clear.

  Mike pauses, relieves a heavy breath, and then continues. “He’s into more shit than even I was privy to. Rumor has it he owes Saint’s Justice a lot of money.”

  Saint’s Justice.

  Elevent.

  Fuck.

  Truth be told, I have no committed ties to Elevent or the gang he runs with. Nor do I want any.

  Uncle Ciro chastises the group for their artless method of committing crimes. I’ve always thought it hypocritical how my uncle judges them for being just as brazen in breaking the law as his own family. Uncle Ciro himself has no tact for keeping his hands clean. The only difference between the dynamic of the associations is one has wealth in name, power, and money, and the other doesn’t.

  “How much does Chase owe them?” I ask to assuage my own curiosity.

  He could owe them one dollar or a thousand and I wouldn’t give a shit, but still, I’m wondering how deep the kid’s in for.

  “Does it matter?” Mike returns. “Stay away from it.”

  “What about her?”

  “Damn it, Liam!” Mike uncharacter
istically scolds. “You’re not listening to me. You wanted my help, so I’m helping. You can bet that one fuckin’ tragedy ties to the other, so who fuckin’ cares? This isn’t some bullshit story I’m selling you. I can assure you the situation Chase has the girl in is very real.”

  “Mike, I hardly think Wren’s—”

  “Everything here tells me she’s involved. I’m not sure how, but she is.”

  “I want to know.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “Mike, I asked you to look into this as a favor. If there’s something else, then you’ve got to tell me.”

  He hesitates. I picture my oldest friend running his hand through his dark hair and mentally cursing both our friendship and me for asking the favor in the first place.

  “There’s a connection.”

  “What connection? I’m not following.”

  “Chase Avery has a connection to the Palleshi name.”

  All air in my chest escapes me.

  My uncle has his fingerprints on nearly every dirty play throughout Chicago. Although his ties to Saint’s Justice don’t come as a complete surprise, Ciro’s tie to Chase, in any way, does.

  “And?”

  “Chase Avery has a bounty on his head. He fled from Saint’s before they were done with him. They’ve been looking for his sorry ass ever since.”

  “How’s this come back to Ciro?”

  “Ciro purchased that same bounty.”

  “What?” I still don’t understand.

  “Ciro paid off Chase’s debt to Saint’s. Now Chase owes the Palleshi family. I don’t know why, so don’t ask. But I do know Ciro not only paid what Chase owes the Saint’s, he doubled their request just so he could get that specific contract.”

  “Jesus Christ,” I mumble to myself. Now I’m the one running my hands through my hair. I don’t get it.

  “Chase is a dot. No one’s seen him. You know as well as I do that if your uncle wants something from him, that crazy fuck will stop at nothing till he gets it.”

  “He will,” I agree.

  “He’ll treat Chase like a ball of fuckin’ yarn he’s playin’ with. This isn’t good for Wren… and I’ll insist again, get out of it. Let her go.”

  “I can’t do that. I won’t.”

  “The kid is fucked.”

  “It sounds like he doesn’t have the money to pay anything back.”

  Mike reiterates, “Ciro owns him. I’m not sure what it is about this woman that’s got you hooked, but my advice again is for you to let her go.”

  “She’s innocent.”

  “We all are,” he clips. “Until we aren’t.”

  “Find out more. Find out where and why she factors. If it turns out she’s in danger because that idiot won’t let her go, fine. If that’s the case, I’ll talk to Ciro and make sure Wren isn’t caught up in whatever he plans to do. He’ll listen.”

  Mike’s voice deepens as his words hit home. “By going to Ciro, telling him you know any of this, you’re getting involved with the family business. Not to mention he’ll know where this all came from, hence getting me involved in your family business. You’ve always promised me you wouldn’t do either.”

  “I’m getting involved to help a woman, Mike. Ciro doesn’t know what she is to me.”

  “Christ,” he hisses. “What is she to you, Liam?”

  “Innocent.”

  “You don’t fucking know that.”

  “I do,” I assure. “I know her.”

  “You know her? That doesn’t mean you know her,” he spits. “Christ, Liam. What the fuck are you doing?”

  “My fucking job,” I hiss.

  A silent understanding passes between us. In this discussion, I’m not his long-time friend. In this moment, we’re both professionals. Mike is a man who dedicates his life to preventing heinous crimes from happening to innocent people. I’m a man who took a physician’s pledge to help humanity in any way I’m able.

  “I’ll look for more. She’s tied to this, though. If and when I find out how, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you. I mean that.”

  “Don’t thank me, Liam. Just keep your nose clean of this shit. I don’t like prying into your family’s affairs. People who do end up swimming with the fishes.”

  I don’t acknowledge his ridiculous mob reference. We both know what he’s saying.

  “Chase doesn’t get to take her down with him,” I return. “If my family is involved, I won’t let him.”

  “I was afraid you’d fuckin’ say that.”

  “Up and at ’em, Wrennie. We’re going’ for a ride,” a hoarse male voice hisses in my ear, waking me in terror.

  Before I have time to react, a heavy body brutally slams on top of mine, pinning me to the bed as he moves his hands over every bare inch of my skin. The sour odor of his natural smell and the stale stench of cigarette smoke take over what little space there is between us. My arms are trapped against his chest, so using my legs, I make one feeble attempt to fend him off. My desperation is pointless; he’s too heavy for my small frame. And there’s nowhere to turn and catch my breath.

  The light flips on. Before my eyes can adjust to find who’s pinning me down, a black burlap bag is roughly placed over my head. I take in a few deep breaths, making every effort not to panic.

  I fail.

  “Stop!” I shout as the sheets and blankets fall from my body, and I’m hauled up and out of bed.

  My bare feet hit the cool carpet at the same time I’m being yanked without mercy toward my bedroom door. My left shin slams violently against the edge of my dresser, and I curse before being dragged by my right arm into the shallow hallway.

  “Please wait,” I try again, but fear consumes my plea, fumbling the simple request to nothing.

  “No more waiting, Wrennie,” the same voice calmly tells me. As he clutches my hip, his fingers dip into the skin just underneath my silk nightshirt. “We’ve been waitin’ long enough.”

  “Please, stop. I don’t know what you want.”

  He turns me around and pushes me into another set of strong and waiting arms.

  This man’s chest is hard, his smell just as grotesque as the one before. His beefy hands wrap around my throat, halting my call for mercy along with my already shallow breaths.

  My eyes still covered by the sheath of dark material, I can only make out the shadow of his form. Of their own accord, my hands reach up to feel the cool leather at his chest. Even in the frenzy, I had already known who was there, but the touch and smell of what he’s wearing confirms it.

  Chase lied. The beating he took didn’t make him even, or almost even. He ran, leaving me again to pay his debt.

  Saint’s Justice has come to collect, just as Elevent promised they would.

  My body jars in place when a loud slam followed by a shatter comes from inside the living room. My steps falter. Once I regain my momentum, I dig my heels into the carpet in one last-ditch effort to avoid what I know is sure to happen.

  The chest of the man holding me to him vibrates with his instruction. “Grab her bag. See if she’s got anything in it that’ll tell us where the fuck Chase is.”

  “I don’t know where he is,” I tell them. “If I did, I swear I’d tell you. I don’t have anything.”

  My eyes close. My body weak from struggling and exhausted from fear, I stop resisting. Visions of Thanatos culminate together as I remember how much he wanted me to fight him, nearly begging to give him that challenge.

  “Good thinkin’,” the second voice decrees in my ear. “You do as you’re told and this’ll go a fuck of a lot easier.”

  From across the room, a new voice chimes in, making him now the third man who’s invaded my home. “She’s got nothin’ in there.”

  “Take the bag with you. We’ll look through the rest of it in the van. Let’s go.”

  “But I don’t know anything!” I plead.

  My stomach retches after the severe blow from a heavy fist.

  “S
top talkin’,” the man from a distance snaps. “Jesus Christ, guys. Get her to the fuckin’ van.”

  My lungs scream in protesting agony as the winter wind steals what’s left of my breath. I’m wearing only silk pajamas and a black sack over my face.

  The snow and ice slice the bottoms of my feet with every step as I’m dragged off the small deck of my trailer. The smell of gas and oil coming from the loud exhaust rushes in first, followed by sounds of a sliding metal door as it opens. Seconds after, large hands wrap around my waist and I’m tossed in the air before landing on a hard, cold, metal floor.

  The clinking sounds of what I imagine are mechanics tools vibrate to the force of the door slamming shut behind me. My arms are pinned by heavy hands above my head as another pair of muscular hands secures a rope around my throat. My hands and feet are tied as well.

  I’m completely immobile.

  “Awake or not?” a man next to me questions to my confusion.

  The answer comes from the front seat as another voice simply replies, “Not.”

  A fraction of a second passes before everything goes from terrifyingly dark to peacefully black.

  The aching in the right side of my face throbs in furious sync to the beat of my rapidly racing heart. The surprising blow to my temple knocked me out cold.

  My hands, tied together behind my back, tremble beneath my weight. The pins and needles of pain spear me from the inside out. I’ve been lying in this lifeless position for who knows how long. The cold rush of winter air covers my exposed skin, causing it to pebble.

  I smell smoke, varying in an array of familiarity. Pot, cigarettes, paper, wood—nothing can be discounted as the mixture of unseen ash burns my throat with severity.

  Everything is so dark.

  The burlap bag is still draped over my face, tied at the base of neck. The rope used to bind it in place allows only short breaths to be taken.

  Breathe, Wren.

  The male voices from the other room carry in, echoing off the walls in hushed whispers. I can’t make out what’s being said.

  My feet are tethered separately, my legs spread wide. The cool draft chills me to the point of pain.