by Kris Calvert
“You think I want more bloodshed? It’s the last thing I want.”
Tristan leaned forward, his loaded gun tapping the knee of his suit pants. “I know you’re sworn to omertà. Let me handle the dirty work.”
I cocked my head and cracked my neck as we pulled into the back gate of Jackson House. “I appreciate your offer, Tristan, but when I pay back a debt, I do it myself.”
Hawk waved us in. Vito moaned, the knock Bea had delivered to his head starting to wear off. In a fit of uncontrolled rage, I punched him in the face, knocking him out a second time.
Neither Bea nor Tristan balked. Neither said a word.
I climbed out of the car and unbuttoned the top of my dress shirt, loosening my tie. Hawk took one look inside the limo and leaned in for a better look. “Pick up a passenger along the way, did we?”
“You could say that,” I replied, giving my hand to Bea to assist her exiting the car. She was a badass security agent, but she was still a lady and in a dress and heels. She was the reason we had Vito’s sorry ass in the first place.
“Thank you, sir,” she said to me before turning her full attention to her commander. “Hawk, I’m changing. Then I’ll debrief you.”
I cracked a smile. She was hell on wheels—today, hell on heels. “Good work out there, Bea.”
She lifted her chin, clenching her determined jaw. It was an unspoken thank you.
“How’d it go around here today?”
“Smooth as a baby’s ass, sir. The construction company has come and gone. I think they’re almost finished with your closet. Your people have all settled in nicely with the routine. I realize we’re a lot, sir.”
I slapped him on the back. “You’re exactly what we need right now, Hawk.”
Snacks and Taco Six pulled Vito from the limo, his toes dragging across the pavement and up the stairs. His head hanging low, a drop of blood splashed on the white marble floor of the mud room. “Take him downstairs and tie him up. I’m getting out of these clothes. Someone find me when the shithead wakes up. I’ve got better things to do with my time than wait around for him.”
I took the grand staircase up, my pace slowing at every step. Yanking the tie from my neck, I felt horribly over how I left things with Polly this morning. She’d tried to comfort me and I acted like an asshole, then left her behind to attend Oscar’s funeral with Bea. She was right when she said we had everything we needed as long as we had each other. But I wanted more than what we needed, I wanted what I wanted. I was a selfish bastard, and I wasn’t stopping until I got it.
“Cher?” I opened the doors to the master suite. It was clean, but empty. “Cher?” I called out to her again, my voice echoing off the walls. The balcony and bathroom were both empty.
Piece by piece, I peeled off the black suit, placing it all on the bed that had been made, but was less than perfect. It meant Polly had been up since Dinah cleaned—perhaps napping. I sat on the edge of the bed, kicking off my shoes and socks. Tugging the stiffly starched blue shirt from out of my pants, I took off my cufflinks and sat them on Polly’s nightstand before reaching inside my coat for the diary.
Untying the string, I placed it beside me and opened the book. Each page was dated at the top. Sunday January, 6, 1935. Under that were the words: 6th day—359 days to come.
I thumbed through it. Kostas had written on every day. Sometimes it was an account of the weather, sometimes it was how many barrels of alcohol had been made or purchased that day. As the year progressed, I found that he’d written more and more in the fall and early winter of 1935 than any other place in the book.
Friday, September 6, 1935
When I saw her I knew. Corinna Demetrios has stolen my heart with her quick wit and beautiful smile. I passed her today on the street and tipped my hat to her. She blushed and my heart soared.
I’d stumbled upon my grandfather’s diary. And not just any diary, but the year he met Yaya. Fumbling through the pages, I found an opened letter. Addressed to Corinna, his red wax seal with an X had been broken across the back.
My Princess,
The more time we spend together, the more I realize we are alike. We read each other’s minds. We know what the other wants without ever saying a word. But I must confess, my love for you has made me selfish. You consume my every thought, my blind eyes always desperately waiting for the sight of you again each time we must part. You’ve wounded me with the dart of love and I cannot live without your heart near me all the time. I know I may not be the man you expected to love in your life. I know my past; my future isn’t what you pictured for yourself. But if you’ll only give me the chance to love you every day for the rest of your life, I will spend an eternity showing you that above all else, you are the one truth of my life. I’ve been blessed with good fortune, but never knew how poor I was until I found something money cannot buy. I don’t confess to be a perfect man, but I do swear upon my life that I will strive each day to be the best version of me. Corinna, I’ve found myself inside you and although I reside at Jackson House, my home is in your arms. You are the earthly reason for my existence. S’agapò. Kostas.
I sat back on the bed at a loss. My grandfather loved Yaya the way I loved Polly. He knew his life wasn’t what she wanted, and yet he promised to make it what she needed by being the best version of himself. I had to wonder if I was living up to that. I certainly didn’t feel like the best version of myself. The selfish love I knew I had down pat, but the rest of it?
I’d been schooled by my grandfather eighty-two years after he’d written the letter.
“Dr. X?”
I could hear Hawk calling out to me.
I closed the book and tucked it into the drawer on the night stand. Dropping my pants, I left everything on the bed and walked to the closet, looking for jeans. Losing the boxer briefs, I slipped on my old Levi’s, thankful to be free of the confines of the suit.
I slopped a black t-shirt over my head and found socks in the drawer before stomping my way into my black motorcycle boots.
Opening one set of the French doors, I stared onto the lawn. Tristan took off down the lane and out the main gate in his vintage black Vette. He’d be back.
Tree looked up at me from the back lawn. “Where’s Polly?” I didn’t shout at him, but he heard me all the same and pointed to the house.
I hurried down the stairs to find her. After reading Kostas’ love letter, I needed her in my arms. “Cher?”
Room to room I went, scouring the premises. No answer.
“Where’s Polly?” I demanded, lumbering through the kitchen. “I can’t find my wife.”
Liz pulled her head out of the refrigerator and gave me a glare.
“Now, Leo.” Liz’s voice was calm and full of reason. “Where do you think she might be?”
My hardened features relaxed and I dropped my shoulders. Walking to Liz, I gave her a side hug and kissed her on the temple. “Thanks for pulling me back into reality, Liz. Without him here to do the job—”
“Oscar was always the best of all of us, Leo. You’re going to need to be strong. You know that, right? That’s what he would want. It’s what he’d expect—of you and everyone else.”
I nodded.
“Sir!” One of the team shouted from beyond the kitchen.
Throwing open the swinging door that led to the dining room, I yelled back. “Yes.”
“He’s awake. And pissed.”
My train of thought shifted dramatically. “I wouldn’t want him any other way,” I mumbled under my breath.
Vito Balivino looked more like a young Don Rickles than a wise guy. Balding, he was portly, wore an ill-fitting suit and tried, though he rarely succeeded, to be funny. He was too stupid to be entertaining. The younger of the two wretched spawn of Alfonso Balivino, Jr., he mostly took orders from his father and older brother Angelo. Part of the problem was Geno, a.k.a. Fabrizzio Nicolosi, was like a second father to the Balivino boys. The same Geno that Polly had killed upstairs in our bedroom. The S
hadow.
Hawk and the boys had secured Vito, zip-tying his hands and feet together. Downstairs in the safe room, he sat in the center of the dark space. It wasn’t the first interrogation to ever take place in that room and at the rate I was going, I didn’t know if it would be the last. His sweaty face hung over his double chin and bad silk shirt. The threads of hair he had left on the top, were brushed over from beyond his ear. It wasn’t pretty. But then again, Vito was ugly as shit. I grabbed him by the ear, raising his face to meet me. “Good to see you again, Vito.” His lip was busted and bleeding, his nose a little crooked. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had rearranged his face.
“Fuck you, Leo.” His words were garbled, filled with blood and spittle.
I pushed him back to sit upright, taking a chair from a nearby table to turn it around and straddle it. We stared at each other for a solid minute—neither saying a word. I eyed him from top to bottom, looking past his eyes and into what he really wanted.
A grin took over my face. The more I smiled, the angrier Vito became.
“Fuck you, Leo.”
“You already said that. Surely you can think of something better. But then again, I don’t know. Your IQ is pretty low. I think maybe Angelo got the deep end of the gene pool when it comes to the Balivino brothers. Why else would your father send you to put a hit on me? Me?”
“Fuck you, Leo.”
I stood and walked to the bar. “Jesus, Vito. Really? If you can’t think of anything else to say, why not keep your fool mouth shut?” I lifted the crystal ball stopper on the bourbon and poured myself a shot. Rolling the alcohol around in the high ball glass, I walked to the other side of the room. Dark and fully covered in mahogany wood panels, there were hidden cabinets in the walls. Pushing on the wall opposite Vito, a loud click sounded out and one of the hidden cabinets opened. Inside were guns, power tools, a thumbscrew and brass knuckles. As a kid the cabinet scared the shit out of me. When I told my grandfather, he explained that was its sole purpose. Not to harm, but to intimidate.
I slid the brass knuckles over the fingers of my right hand. They were only a little swollen from the right hook I’d thrown into Vito’s unsuspecting face. I walked closer to him, the brass knuckles gleaming in the overhead light enough to reflect off of his sweaty face. “Now, Vito. You know how this works. We can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way.”
“Fuck. You.”
I slapped him across the face with the back of my left hand. His head whipped away from me and stayed there. “I meant it when I said if you can’t say anything else, keep your damn mouth shut.”
My body tingled with rage. I wanted to beat the holy living shit out of him. Just looking at him made me think of what he’d done to Oscar. I walked away and calmed myself. Hawk stood back, giving me a reassuring nod. It was his unspoken permission to do what I wanted with Vito, and his promise to have my back.
“What did you want out of the safe in my bedroom?” I asked, sitting in a chair across the room. “What was worth doing that to Oscar?”
Vito pulled his head back up from his chest. “You’re so stupid. You’re just a stupid, spoiled rich kid, Xanthus. You never had to get dirty.”
“You’re right. I didn’t get dirty. I didn’t want to. I wanted no part in what you and your piece of shit father were up to. I wanted no part of what my father was up to.”
“And you still got the best of all of it.”
I popped an eyebrow and moved into him, grabbing his ear once more to lift his face. “I’m not afraid to get dirty now. Tell me what you wanted.”
“You’ve had everything. This fucking house. Your grandfather, Kostas, he left it all to you. We all know he went around your father—everyone knew Kostas fucked over Demetri.”
I folded my arms across my chest like a shield. “Big fucking deal, Vito. Old news.”
“You know, your dad hated you for that.”
I let his words wash over me. Fuel me. “I’m only going to ask this one more time. What were you looking for in the bedroom safe?”
Vito stared at me, but said nothing.
“Fine.” I dropped the heavy brass and picked up the thumbscrew. A simple vise, it was made to crush fingers and toes—something a lot easier on my own hands than the knucks. “Hawk, hold him down.”
Vito squirmed, but all two hundred and fifty pounds of Hawk put a knee in his crotch and a vise grip of his own on Vito’s bound hands. Securing his thumb, I began to tighten the vise. When he cried out in pain, I asked my question again. “Vito. What did you want from the sa—”
“The ring! The fucking ring! Okay? Now get my thumb out of this thing and Andre the Giant off my dick!”
I nodded to Hawk, who stepped away. I released the tension, but not his thumb. “My grandmother’s diamond?”
“Yes, you stupid olive picker. You don’t even know what you have. Your stupid fucking grandfather didn’t know either.”
I could take his insults all day, but degrading Kostas was crossing the line. I twisted the thumb screw tighter than before, locking it down. “Look asshole, you don’t talk about my grandfather. Ever. Why do you want the ring? Tell me now or I swear I’ll rip your fucking thumb off your hand.”
Vito cried out in agony then finally gave in, the information spilling out of his mouth in rapid fire. “There’s something on the ring. Numbers. Dad says it’s latitude and longitude—a map or something.”
“To where?”
Vito cringed, his face red and sweating. “Oh God!” He screamed in pain. “I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”
I believed him. Al Sr. was the type of man who only let people in as far as he needed to. Even his own sons. Letting the pressure off, I took the torture device off his trembling hand. The nail was already turning black. I backed away without another word and watched him wheeze, desperate for air—desperate for the pain to dissipate.
The room was silent, save for Vito’s panting.
“Anything else?” I could feel my heart beating through my chest. Polly was right. Right about the ring. Right about everything.
Vito caught his breath and coughed. I walked to the steps. I’d had enough of the Balivinos for the moment. There were people I loved that needed my attention.
“Your little boy Marchant cried like a baby.”
I stopped in my tracks but didn’t turn. “What did you just say?”
“You heard me.” Vito slurred through his pain. “At least Oscar didn’t beg for his life when we killed him, but the pig? He cried like a baby. Then I slit his throat and cut out his tongue.” Vito looked me in the eye, taking his attention away from his hurting thumb. “He was a rat.”
I backed up. The storm that had brewed inside me for days erupted in an uncontrollable fit of rage. Picking up the brass knuckles, I punched Vito. A violent frenzy overtook my body and I delivered punishing blows to his face over and over. Blood spattered across my shirt. I couldn’t stop pounding.
Hawk pulled me off, the knuckles dropping to the floor with a bloody thud.
Vito was unconscious, but breathing. Shrugging off Hawk’s tight hold I walked back to Vito one last time. “Know this, motherfucker. You may have killed Marchant, but Oscar is alive and well and two stories above you right now.”
Shoving his body backward. I stepped away once again, kicking his feet. “That’s right, motherfucker. Oscar is alive and well which is more than you’re going to be when I’m finished with you.”
21
POLLY
I stared at the list—five pages of artwork insured and supposedly hanging in Jackson House. Listed alphabetically, I found the two Rembrandts near the bottom. Bust of a Man Wearing a High Cap and The Card Player. There was no description of either of them. I hadn’t a clue as to what they were, but as I held the thought of the ace of diamonds in my mind, I was willing to bet my life The Card Player was the piece I needed to find.
Room to room I went, checking each and every painting. Nothing. The last room wa
s the south parlor—the beautiful space where Ephraim’s portrait hung. The problem was, there was very little else on the walls in that room—just Ephraim and a family oil of Kostas and his wife.
I nearly threw myself on the overstuffed couch, causing the cushions to bloom and the pillows to sigh at my arrival. I stared into the eyes of Ephraim Jackson. “What say you, Ephraim? If you were Kostas, where would you hang your Rembrandt?” Leo was right. The painting was creepy. Ephraim could stare a hole through you from somewhere beyond. I switched couches, facing the opposite direction, his watchful gaze getting the best of me.
Atop the grand piano that filled the parlor were several framed photos. Mostly of Kostas and his wife, I could see a few baby pictures of Leo. He was an adorable child with his dark eyes as big as saucers and the mound of black curls on his head. I hoped beyond all things I could someday have a baby that looked just like my husband. A beautiful child of our own.
I frowned and let out a sigh, blubbering my lips in exasperation. And then I saw them.
Sitting up on the couch, I craned my neck to see beyond the photos on the piano that blocked the back wall. It was only the corner of a golden frame, but it was one I hadn’t seen before.
Filled with trepidation, I took slow and deliberate steps toward the obstructed wall. It was my last hope. This had to be it. It had to be.
I wiggled my way behind the piano to the wall, pulling back the heavy brocade curtain. I gasped, bringing my hand to my mouth in utter astonishment. Hanging on the wall in the darkest possible corner and directly across the room from Ephraim himself hung two tiny etchings. Only four or so inches tall, both were matted and framed, one hanging over the other. The top etching was a man in a tall hat—although to me he looked more like a bearded lady with a towel wrapped around her head. Below, in a matching frame, was what I knew was waiting for me. What Kostas intended for Leo to find. The Card Player.
An original etching in black on laid paper, it was signed and dated in the left plate center, Rembrandt 1641. Only slightly smaller than the etching above it, it looked like Leonardo da Vinci shuffling cards.
