by Callie Hart
“You’re a rude cunt,” the girl with the broken nose informs me. Like this might be new information to me. My smile fades, and I allow my face to remain utterly unmoved by her anger.
“I’m sorry,” I say stiffly. “You just fall into the, ‘people I don’t want to fuck’ category.”
“You’re lucky our boyfriends aren’t here,” Sequins spits. “They’d kick your fucking ass.”
“Or maybe they’d thank me for revealing to them what ungodly whores you are,” I shoot back.
The girls’ expressions fall blank, like they can’t actually believe what I’ve just said to them. They’re about to cause a scene, I can tell, but a male doctor with latex gloves heads into the waiting room. “Lauren Pinskey?”
They both glare at me as the doctor shepherds them away to a treatment room. A gaggle of frat boys hiss and laugh as they disappear. “Yo, dude. You got some serious game. That was hilarious,” one of them says, holding out his balled up fist me to bump. I get up and I move instead, shifting to the emptiest corner of the waiting room. I’m just making friends all over the place tonight, and that’s not why I came. I came for a very specific reason, and it has nothing to do with my phantom migraine.
An hour passes.
Then another hour.
It’s two thirty in the morning by the time I finally get what I came for. She emerges through the set of double doors to the right, her hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, her face a mask of worry as she surveys the carnage of the E.R. room before her. She looks tired. I know she started work nearly eighteen hours ago, so she must by dead on her feet by now.
I keep my head down as she talks to the woman at the reception desk.
“Is Olly around, Gracie?” she asks. “We were meant to meet half an hour ago, but my surgery ran long.”
“Hasn’t been down here yet. I’d say he was delayed, too. You breaking for something to eat?”
“Yeah.” Sloane presses her fingertips into her temples, groaning. “I need coffee. Like, right now.”
I casually observe her out of the corner of my eye as she stands and talks to the nurse she called Gracie. Sloane’s not supermodel rail thin—she has curves in all the right places, visible even through her scrubs. Her hair is a little longer than the last time I saw her. She’s pale. Always so pale. She works every hour god sends at the hospital, so it’s no wonder she’s white as a sheet. She looks beautiful with it, though, instead of sick like some of the other doctors who work here.
I haven’t made a habit of this. I’ve checked in on her a grand total of four times since that night at the hotel. The last time I stopped by the hospital to catch a glimpse of her, I told myself I wasn’t going to do it again. When I woke up this morning, though, I knew I was going to come here. I just needed to make sure she was okay. I just needed to see with my own two eyes that she was alive, well and happy. And now here she is, standing ten feet away from me, playing with a ballpoint pen as she chats aimlessly with her friend, her eyes shining brightly under the strip lighting despite the subtle shadows hover beneath them.
She is alive.
She is well.
The happy part, though? I can never fucking tell. She puts on a good show most of the time, but there’s always this sadness that clings to her. Always.
I get to my feet, heading for the elevator. I can’t sit here all night, and now that I’ve done what I set out to, there’s no reason for me to stay. Only…it’s so fucking hard to walk away.
Fuck. Me.
I stab the call button for the elevator, my back to Sloane. I haven’t been able to forget her. In all the time that’s passed since we met in that darkened hotel room, I haven’t been able to get her out of my fucking head. It’s been fucking torturous.
“Oh, hey, I came down here looking for you,” a voice says behind me. Her voice. I cast a quick glance over my shoulder, and Sloane’s standing even closer now, only three feet away, talking to some tall, blond haired guy with a jaw like a motherfucking Ken doll. I turn back around, closing my eyes, my body fizzing with unexpected anger. Who the fuck is that guy? She’s smiling at him. Fucking smiling at him. And the way he was looking at her in that brief snapshot I got of the two of them together…I did not like the way he was fucking looking at her.
“Good. Are you ready? I’m starving,” the blond guy answers her.
“Yeah, let’s head for the canteen. If I don’t fuel up, I’m going to pass out.”
The elevator doors slide open, and people exit. I wait until the car is empty before I enter, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end when Sloane and the blond guy get on after me.
He reaches out and hits the button for the second floor. I freeze for a moment, considering my options. I’m meant to be heading down, into the basement, to the parking level, but something inside me resists hitting the P1 button.
I inhale deeply through my nose, trying to maintain my calm. Big fucking mistake. The second the air hits my nose, I smell her. Her scent. The same perfume she wore the night at the hotel—light, floral, slightly sweet and impossible to forget. I have no control over the way my body reacts to that smell. My dick is instantly hard, straining against my pants, my heart thundering in my chest. I can’t fucking breathe.
She’s standing right in front of me, laughing at something Dumb Blond Guy has said, and all I can do is stare at the tiny, fine hairs at the back of her neck that won’t reach up into her ponytail. I want to take hold of her and bite the back of her neck as my hands rove all over her body. I want to make her moan. I want to make her fucking shake with her need. I want to hear her gasping my name.
I also want to punch my fist through this fuck boy’s larynx. I’ve been trapped in an elevator with him for less than ten seconds and I can tell he’s in love with her. It’s painfully fucking obvious. Does Sloane know? How could she not? My mood blackens as I imagine what that means. If she knows how he feels about her, and she’s joking and laughing with him like this, does that mean they’re fucking? Goddamn it, I need to get out of this elevator right fucking now. I’m already grabbing hold of him in my head, wrapping a hand around his throat as I smash my other fist repeatedly into his face. I’ve already broken his nose. I’ve already knocked him the fuck out. He’s already dead, lying in a pool of his own blood on the elevator floor.
Mercifully, the doors sweep back and the two of them walk out, still talking about their respective patients. I don’t follow after them. I was going to head to the canteen, to sit at a table close to them so I could watch her some more as she eats, but I can’t.
He’s going to lay a hand on her at some point. It’s going to be a friendly cuff of the shoulder, or a barely-there graze of his fingers against hers as they line up to purchase their meals, and I am going to lose my fucking mind. I won’t be able to stop myself from launching at him, teeth bared, the testosterone on fire in my blood stream. I will rip his fucking throat out.
As if she senses the intensity of my gaze on her skin, Sloane looks back into the elevator as the doors close again. Our eyes meet for the very first time. She smiles softly, her mouth quirked up at one side as she finally sees me…
And then she’s gone.
NINE
ZETH
Michael: She’s good. She just went downstairs to do a consult, and then I’m driving her home. Nothing to report.
I tuck my cell away as I head across the street, toward the warehouse where the Barbieri family have set up their restaurant. I need to focus. Like, really focus. I have a better chance of doing that now I know Michael’s had eyes on Sloane in the last ten minutes.
I’m about to walk into the lion’s den here, and I have no means of knowing what will happen as soon as I’m inside. I’m risking everything. If I can’t get through the kitchen, I’m going to have to find another way in and that’s not gonna be fun. That either means shinnying up a drain pipe, or going balls to the wall and just walking in through the front door like a motherfucking boss. A part of me would pr
efer things to go down that way. It’s more dignified than trying to sneak in, but I’ve got to be fucking real about this. This is me against, what, thirty? Forty men? I’m a badass, but I’m not a fucking superhero. There has to be some element of stealth involved, otherwise I’m going to find myself being murdered very quickly and very painfully. These Italians are almost as inventive as I am when it comes to inflicting pain on others.
It’s not easy traversing the perimeter of the warehouse. There are cameras all over the place, I’m sure. They wouldn’t want someone sneaking up on the place and setting it on fire, after all, right?
I draw up my hood and I walk down my side of the street, keeping my head down. I walk until I hit a deserted cross street, then I cross and take a right. Eventually I loop back on myself, coming up on the other side of the warehouse, to the north, close to river. There are no entrances here. No drainpipes or fire escapes I can climb either. It’ll have to be the kitchen entrance around the other side then. I jump and pull myself up and over the high wall separating the street from the dark, narrow alleyway that leads to the restaurant’s kitchen.
I half expect to run into a group of huge, heavily armed guys, sitting out here smoking cigarettes or something, but the dingy, sour smelling alley is deserted.
Is kitchen door looked? I try the handle, and it doesn’t budge. Makes perfect sense. I came prepared, though. I take out the slender set of lock picks I’m carrying in my back pocket and I flick through them until I find a suitable tool. I have the thing swinging open in less than five seconds. I should enter competitions for busting open doors; I’d be a national fucking champion. Slipping inside, I find myself inside a dry store room. The door at other end of the store is open, and a broad shaft of yellow light slices through the darkness.
I peer through the narrow gap, assessing the situation beyond: a large, industrial kitchen, with polished steel benches and ranges. Large, commercial ovens and fryers. Five men dressed in chef whites, standing at stations around the room, chopping, stirring, basting, frying, plating. They talk amongst themselves in Italian; I know a little of the language, but not enough to keep up with them. They’re all clearly distracted by their tasks. I push the door open, reaching for my gun, ready to shoot any of them if they so much as look at me. But the weird thing is, they don’t. They must register my presence, but none of them lifts their heads as I make my way through the kitchen. One of them says something, practically shouting over the noise they’re all making, and the other four burst out laughing. I keep walking. As I walk out of the other door, the guy plating the food finally looks up, acknowledging me.
“Here. Take this,” he says, holding out a plate of steak and artfully arranged steamed vegetables. “The table at the far end of the restaurant,” he tells me in a heavily accented voice. “Mr. Barbieri is expecting you.”
Well, fuck me dead. I’m beginning to feel a little predictable over here. I arch an eyebrow at the plate, using the barrel of my desert eagle to scratch at my cheek. I should tell this punk to go fuck himself. I’m not a goddamn waiter. I’m not Barbieri’s errand boy, either. That’s the whole reason why I came to New York, to tell him as much to his face. I am never going to be his bitch. So carrying his dinner to him seems counter productive. On the other hand, if he’s so obviously expecting me then carrying a plate of food to him is certainly going to be easier than trying to shoot my way through a busy restaurant to get to him.
Fuck it.
I snatch the plate from the guy, rolling my eyes. The desert eagle goes back into the waistband of my pants. I exit through a set of swinging doors, then head through another, following the sounds of chatter and laughter toward the restaurant floor. The space is packed, every seat at every table occupied with beautifully dressed men and women, conversation bubbling over like the champagne from their glasses. Waiters buzz from one table to the next, topping up wine, clearing tables, delivering food. They’re dressed formally, in white shirts and black waistcoats, with crisp black bowties at their throats. If anyone thinks it strange that I’m forging my way across the floor carrying a single plate, wearing a black leather jacket, ripped jeans, and a deep scowl, then I don’t see it on their faces.
Barbieri is sitting along at a table at the far end of the restaurant. A plate sits in front of him already, complete with steak and mashed potatoes. When I arrive in front of him, considering simply pulling out my gun and shooting him in the face here and now, the emaciated looking fuck gestures with his fork to the chair opposite him.
“Sit down,” he says. “Eat. I couldn’t wait to begin, I’m afraid. You took far too long to show your face, Mr. Mayfair.”
I look down at the plate in my hand. Great. So I just carried my own dinner to the table, not Roberto’s? How fucking presumptuous can a person get? I dump the food down on the table, growling under my breath. “I’m not hungry,” I inform him, taking a seat.
He wipes his mouth with the corner of his napkin, chewing. He swallows, then finally looks up at me. “You’re a difficult man, Mr. Mayfair. When someone tells you to go left, you go right. When someone tells you stay, you go. When someone tells you go, you stay. It’s very frustrating for a man like me to try and communicate with a man like you.”
“The problem is you’re communicating all wrong.”
“Oh? How so?” He seems genuinely interested, his dull brown eyes watching my intently.
“For a start, no one tells me what the fuck to do.”
“I see. Didn’t Charlie Holsan tell you what to do on a regular basis?”
I smirk, tapping the steak knife next to the plate in front of me. “And look what happened to him.”
Roberto shrugs. “You’re right. He died. But at great cost to you, no? Namely, your sister, Lacey? Would you not say your disobedience to your master caused the death of someone you loved?”
I go tense, my skin prickling all over. “Don’t fucking talk about my sister. It’d be best if you never say her name again.”
Roberto cuts into his steak, blood pouring out of the almost raw piece of meat. He pops a forkful of food into his mouth, his eyes rolling back into his head as he chews. “You really should…eat your steak,” he says. “It’s our specialty. The secret’s in the beef. Slaughterhouses these days use stun guns and bolts to kill their animals humanely. Not the place we buy from, though.” He waves his fork from side to side at me as he shakes his head. “They are old school. They still stun the beasts with a hammer. They cut their throats and drain them while their hearts are still beating. We have it shipped here all the way from Louisiana. Everyone’s always going on about how the animal’s fear sours the meat, but personally I think a touch of fear actually tenderizes it perfectly. Tell me, didn’t a certain DEA agent recently exhume your precious dead sister?”
Fire charges through my veins, my entire body reacting violently to his words. I have to fight to keep myself from vaulting over the table and wrapping my hands around his goddamn throat.
“I see that I’ve upset you,” Roberto says. He puts his knife and fork down neatly beside his plate, bridging his hands together. “I apologize. I’ve never been known for my tact.”
Understatement of the goddamn century. I grip the edge of the table with my right hand until my knuckles turn white. “I didn’t come here to talk about Lacey, or Lowell.”
“No, you did not. You came here to kill me. Now how am I supposed to take that, Zeth? Lying down, with a happy smile on my face? I don’t think so.”
“You should have thought about that before you started fucking with my shit back in Seattle.”
He grunts. Running his tongue over his teeth, he stares at me for a moment, not saying anything. It’s almost disturbing. Roberto Barbieri is very different to the crime bosses I’ve had dealings with in the past. When his gaze meets mine, I see none of the drug-induced madness that plagued Charlie. I see none of the ego and arrogance that Julio suffered from. Roberto is a clever man. Incredibly intelligent. When I look into his eyes, all I s
ee is a blank, vacant wall staring straight back at me, and that’s more dangerous that insanity and ego combined any day of the week.
“If you’re not going to eat the steak,” he says slowly, “then perhaps we can skip ahead to some desert.” He raises his hand, motioning to one of the waiters. A guy standing by the door notices him immediately; he doesn’t come over, though. He turns and hurries out of the room, returning seconds later and rushing across the floor toward us. There are no plates in his hands. Instead, he places a thin manila envelope down on the table next to me, inclining his head respectfully to Roberto before he hurries off again. I eye the envelope, huffing.
“What’s this?”
“This is a gift from me to you. Think of it as an apology for our previous misunderstandings. Go ahead. Open it.”
“I’m not interested in gifts from you, asshole.”
“You’ll be interested in this one, I promise,” he tells me, smiling ever so slightly. I push back from the table, rising from my seat. I fucking refuse to engage in game playing with this man. I point blank refuse. Roberto’s smile broadens. “Are you sure you want to do that?” he asks. “A series of events have been set in motion back in Seattle. It is within your power to control these events should you wish to, but only if you remain seated at this table. Only if you open the envelope and see what is inside. Once you walk away, there will be no stopping what is to come.”
I know an empty threat when I hear one. He’s bullshitting me. He has to be. He just wants to tug on my strings, make me bend to his will. He’s spinning me a line. If I sit back down, I’m giving him exactly what he wants. I need to go back to go back across the road and rethink how I’m going to approach this problem. Turning, I begin to walk away.
