Bitter Bite (Elemental Assassin #14)

by Jennifer Estep

  In the morning, I got up and went to the Pork Pit. I might be the head of the underworld now, but like Don the grave robber had said, all the other criminals were still plotting against me, so I did my usual checks to make sure that no one had planted any deadly surprises inside the restaurant.

  Once I had determined that everything was clean, I started getting ready for the day. Normally, wiping down the tables and booths would have brought me some kind of peace.

  Not today.

  Instead, my stomach churned in time to my quick swipes as I mopped the blue and pink pig tracks that covered the floor and worried about how to break the news to Finn. Regardless of how I did it, Bria was right—he was going to be hurt that I hadn’t told him right away.

  Maybe I would feel better when I had talked to Finn, and we could get on with the business of tracking down Deirdre and finding out what she had been doing all these years. Or maybe the answers would make me feel even worse—not to mention what they might do to Finn.

  Damned if I did, doubly damned if I didn’t. Yeah. I had a bad feeling that’s how this whole thing would ultimately play out.

  The bell over the front door chimed at exactly eleven o’clock, and in walked Silvio Sanchez, my personal assistant. The middle-aged vampire looked quite dapper in a dark gray fedora, overcoat, and matching suit. A small spider rune pin winked in the center of his silver tie.

  Silvio nodded in greeting, took off his hat and coat, and arranged his smartphone and tablet on the counter. Soft chimes rang out as he fired up his electronics.

  “Are you ready for the morning briefing, Gin?” he asked.

  I barely heard him. Instead, I stared at a photo on the wall close to the cash register, one of a young Fletcher standing with his friend Warren T. Fox during a fishing trip. Fletcher seemed plenty happy in the photo, but his smile was dim and faint compared with the big, beaming grins he’d worn in the pictures of him with Deirdre. The way he’d looked at her . . . it was like she had been his whole world. I wondered just how badly she’d broken his heart—and why.

  “Gin?” Silvio asked. “Are you okay?”

  I turned away from the photo. “Forget about the morning briefing. I have someone I need you to start digging into. Her name is Deirdre Shaw. She’s an Ice elemental.”

  I reached down, grabbed a copy of Deirdre’s file from a slot under the cash register, and passed it over to him.

  Silvio stared at the icicle-heart rune I’d inked on the folder tab. “And what is so interesting about Ms. Shaw?”

  I couldn’t tell him the whole truth. Not when Finn deserved to hear it first. So I went with the next-best thing. “She’s the one who was friendly with Raymond Pike. I think she’s the person Lorelei Parker did business with.”

  Silvio’s eyebrows arched. “You mean the person who revealed Lorelei’s real identity to Raymond? The person who pointed him at Lorelei so he could try to kill his own sister?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Have you talked to Lorelei about this?” he asked. “If she’s had dealings with Ms. Shaw, then she might have some insight into her. Mallory might too.”

  It was a good point and one I’d thought of myself, although I’d wanted to confirm that Deirdre was actually alive before I started asking questions about her. But I couldn’t keep this from Finn any longer, so I might as well use all the resources at my disposal.

  “Please add Lorelei and Mallory to my to-do list.” My voice took on a snarky note. “Exactly how long is said list today?”

  Silvio perked up, completely missing my sarcasm, and started swiping through screens on his tablet. “Well, it’s actually a light day, since you haven’t let me schedule anything for this week, but I can make some calls, and we can squeeze in a few pertinent last-minute meetings . . .”

  My eyes glazed over as Silvio rattled off a long list of people I needed to meet with, bruised egos that required soothing, and other complaints, rivalries, and problems that demanded my time and attention, both as the head of the underworld and as the owner of the Pork Pit. While he talked, I started chopping up vegetables for the day’s sandwiches, letting the steady thwack-thwack-thwack of my knife drown out most of his words.

  Everyone thought that running the underworld was so glamorous. That I had so much power. That I inspired so much fear in so many people. Fools. All I really did was take meetings, sit in on conference calls, and listen to people complain about things, just like any other CEO. Granted, they were all criminal things, like who was selling knockoff designer goods in someone else’s territory, who was jacking a rival’s gun shipments, who was kneecapping the competition.

  Blah, blah-blah, blah-blah.

  I wondered if Mab Monroe, the former queen of the underworld, had to listen to as many people complain before I killed her. Probably not. Mab had been known far and wide for her cruelty and ruthlessness. No doubt, she’d been able to shut up most people with a mere withering glance or a bit of elemental Fire flashing on her fingertips. And of course, she could have always just used her Fire power to roast the most excessive whiners outright.

  Maybe I should start doing something similar with my magic. Let little Ice spikes shoot out of my fingertips when someone annoys me. Maybe even give them a cold glare and casually threaten to freeze them on the spot. Silvio would complain that scaring people into submission wasn’t the best policy, especially with the crime bosses who were already plotting against me. Then again, he wasn’t the one who had to listen to them whine.

  I’d despised Mab for murdering my family and had taken great satisfaction in ending her existence. But maybe—just maybe—I should strive to be more like her in this one small way. Food for thought.

  The first of the day’s customers stepped into the restaurant, saving me from the rest of Silvio’s recitation of my ever-increasing to-do list. Catalina Vasquez, Silvio’s niece, was already here, rolling up straws and silverware into napkins, along with the other waitstaff, and we all got busy, cooking, cleaning, and checking on our customers.

  In addition to my regular, law-abiding customers, several underworld crooks came in during the lunch rush to subtly pay their respects to me, the big boss, by eating in my gin joint. A few folks, like Dimitri Barkov and Luiz Ramos, were less than thrilled by my reign and spent most of their time glaring at me in between big bites of barbecue. They were under the mistaken impression that their petulant pouts actually bothered me.

  Barkov ran some shipyards along the Aneirin River, importing and exporting everything from guns and drugs to shoes and uniforms. Ramos focused on illegal sports betting and high-stakes gambling. The two of them were minor-league players but with ambitions to move up to the big time.

  A couple of weeks ago, they’d been fighting over the right to buy some coin laundries from Lorelei Parker, but I’d given the businesses to someone else instead. Dimitri and Luiz were still plenty pissed about that and no doubt plotting some sort of foolish move against me. But for now, they seemed content to sit in my restaurant, get their barbecue on, and give me dirty looks.

  Dimitri realized that I was staring at them. His dark eyes narrowed to slits, his cheeks reddened, and his entire body puffed up with anger. Even his very bad, very obvious, very shaggy black toupee seemed to bristle with indignation. But instead of returning my stare with another hate-filled one, the Russian mobster grinned, picked up his soda, and saluted me with it. Then he put the glass down, leaned forward, and started whispering to Luiz, who gave me a quick, nervous glance over his shoulder before dropping his head and focusing on his food again.

  Luiz didn’t have either the stupidity or the balls to come at me head-on. But Dimitri . . . Dimitri was going to be a problem.

  I cleared my throat, and Silvio looked at me.

  I tilted my head in Dimitri’s direction. “Our Russian friend looks positively smug today. Which means that he’s probably decided to strike back at me. Care to nose around and see what you can find out?”

  “Of course,” Si
lvio murmured, a bit of sarcasm creeping into his tone. “I live to serve . . . when you actually let me do anything. I’ve been meaning to diagram his organization anyway.”

  “Diagram it? What do you mean?”

  Silvio turned his tablet around so that I could see it and swiped through several screens of pie charts, bar graphs, and more. “Diagram it. You know, break down his operations into manpower, money earned, front businesses, and so on and so forth. Just in case you ever needed to, shall we say, dismantle it in a hurry.”

  I arched my eyebrows. “Pie charts are going to help me dismantle a criminal organization?”

  The vamp straightened up and smoothed down his tie, affronted that I would mock his precious pie charts. “Absolutely. As an assassin, you should know that information is often the key to cutting off certain problems before they get started.”

  “Of course, you’re right,” I drawled. “Silly me for thinking that I had been cutting off certain problems with my knives for years now.”

  Silvio sniffed and gave me a chiding look, not at all amused by my black humor. Sometimes my assistant was a little too prim and proper for his own good. I resisted the urge to lean across the counter, muss his hair, take away his tablet, and give him a time-out.

  Luiz slid out of the booth, threw enough bills down onto the table to pay for ten meals, and skedaddled out of the restaurant. But Dimitri took his sweet time, making a big show of giving me one more soda salute and a smug smirk before peeling some bills off a fat roll, tossing them onto the table, and ambling out through the front door.

  Oh, yes. The mobster was definitely going to be trouble. But trouble was another one of those things that I specialized in, along with cutting off problems. I’d handle Dimitri the same way I had the rest of the lowlifes who’d come after me: permanently.

  The lunch rush wrapped up, and the day wore on. I was sliding a batch of chocolate chip cookies into one of the ovens when the bell over the front door chimed.

  “I hear we’re going on a double date,” a low, familiar voice murmured behind me.

  I almost dropped the tray of cookies, but I tightened my grip at the last second, shoved the tray into the oven, and shut the door. To give myself a few more moments to prepare, I set the timer on the counter. Then I plastered a smile on my face and turned around.

  Finnegan Lane, my foster brother, was perched on a stool next to Silvio. The vamp might look dapper in his suit, but Finn was positively resplendent in his. The navy Fiona Fine jacket stretched across his shoulders, the matching shirt underneath clinging to his sculpted muscles. Add the sharp suit and hard body to his bright green eyes, walnut-brown hair, and dazzling smile, and you had a devilishly handsome package, as Finn would proudly tell you himself. He knew exactly how gorgeous he was and used it to his advantage whenever he could.

  I wondered if that was a trait he’d inherited from Fletcher—or his mother.

  Finn kept grinning at me, and I forced myself to act casual and step forward, so that I was standing on the opposite side of the counter from him, just as I’d done a thousand times before.

  “Yep. Owen and I are crashing your swanky shindig, and then I’m taking you and Bria out to dinner at Underwood’s. My treat.”

  “Your treat?” Finn asked, a teasing note creeping into his voice. “Is something wrong?”

  My hands curled around the edge of the counter, but I managed to crank up the wattage on my smile. “Why would you think that?”

  He waggled his eyebrows. “Because you hardly ever offer to pay, especially at Underwood’s.”

  I snorted. “That’s because whenever I do, you always insist on ordering the most expensive things on the menu, regardless of whether you actually like them.”

  Another, wider grin stretched across his face. “What can I say? I have expensive tastes, baby.”

  I snorted again, but Finn cackled with glee before ordering a barbecue chicken sandwich, sweet-potato fries, and a triple chocolate milkshake. I laughed and joked and smiled as I fixed his food and slid it across the counter to him. But every time I glanced at Finn, every time I heard his suave voice, every time the rich timbre of his laughter washed over me, a single image filled my mind: that photo of Fletcher holding Finn while Deirdre stared down at her newborn son with a flat, distant expression.

  Finn chattered on about tonight’s party, some new client he wanted me to meet, and how everyone was going to be so jealous of how gorgeous Bria was. I chimed in when appropriate, but every forced grin and fake chuckle made my heart sink and my stomach knot up. Tonight was supposed to be fun for Finn, and I was going to ruin it by telling him about Deirdre.

  Finn’s lunch seemed to drag on forever, even though he strolled out through the front door less than forty-five minutes later with a grin, a wink, and a playful warning for me to bring my credit card to Underwood’s. I snarked back that I might have to take out a bank loan just to pay for his dinner. Finn laughed a final time, then left the Pork Pit.

  The second he was gone, the smile dropped from my face faster than a body hitting the floor. My jaw ached from grinding my teeth and holding on to the fake expression for so long. I reached up and massaged my temples, trying to ease the pounding there.

  Silvio slid over, taking the stool that Finn had just vacated. “Something’s wrong. Care to tell me what it is? And what it has to do with Finn?”

  I eyed him, but Silvio’s face was neutral. He hadn’t seemed to be paying all that much attention to Finn and me, but I should have known better. His keen observational skills were one of the things that made him such a great assistant. First Bria, now Silvio. I was really going to have to work on my fake smiles.

  “I have to give Finn some bad news, and I’m not sure how he’s going to take it.”

  Silvio kept his gray eyes steady on mine, but I didn’t volunteer any more information. “Would this have something to do with Deirdre Shaw?” he asked. “Because I find it extremely odd that you want me to drop everything and focus on this one Ice elemental.”

  I gave him a short nod, confirming at least that much. “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. After I talk to Finn.”

  Curiosity flared in Silvio’s eyes, but he knew better than to push me. He nodded back at me, slid over onto his previous stool, picked up his tablet, and went back to work.

  I stared at that photo of Fletcher hanging on the wall. Dark hair, green eyes, great smile. My heart twisted with loss and longing. The young Fletcher in that photo was the spitting image of Finn today. The only real difference was in their temperaments. Finn had always been much more cheerful, boisterous, and outgoing than the old man, who had been serious, quiet, and reserved, sometimes to the extreme.

  I wondered how Finn was going to react to the news that his mother was still alive. No doubt, shocked and confused for starters. I wondered if he would be curious about her. Hurt that she had never reached out to him. Angry that I hadn’t told him the second I found Fletcher’s file on her.

  My heart twisted a little more, this time with dread.

  I’d find out tonight.

  4

  At seven o’clock that evening, a knock sounded on the front door of Fletcher’s house. I opened it to find a man wearing a dark navy suit. He was a little more than six feet tall, with a solid, muscular frame that was the result of many long hours of working in his blacksmith’s forge. His blue-black hair gleamed under the porch light, which also showed off the rough, rugged planes of his face and his vivid violet eyes. His nose was slightly crooked, and a jagged scar slashed across his chin, but the imperfections only added more character to his features.

  “Hey there, handsome,” I drawled. “Here to show a girl a good time?”

  Owen Grayson, my significant other, grinned. “Always.”

  He stepped inside, looked me over, and let out a low whistle. “Nice dress.”

  A little black cocktail dress with long sleeves and a short skirt hugged my body in all the right places. My dark chocolate-brown hair was
pulled up into a sleek ponytail, and smoky black shadow made my gray eyes seem larger and lighter than they were. I wore my spider rune pendant over the dress, the silverstone shimmering against the black fabric.

  “As Finn would say, I clean up good.” I laughed, but the sound was weak and hollow.

  He frowned¸ hearing the tension in my voice, but before he could ask me about it, I wound my arms around his neck, drew his head down, and planted a long, lingering kiss on his lips. Owen responded in kind, and we didn’t break apart until a minute later, both of us breathing hard.

  He leaned down so that his forehead rested on mine, his warm breath caressing my face. The heat of his hands on my waist soaked through the fabric of my dress, making me want to kiss him again and again, until the rest of the world—and all my problems—melted away.

  But I couldn’t do that. Not tonight. Not with Finn waiting for me to ruin his world, even if he didn’t know it yet.

  “Not that I’m complaining,” Owen murmured. “But what was that for?”

  “Luck.”

  “Luck? What would you need luck for?”

  I should have made some airy, flippant excuse, but the lie got stuck in my throat, and I ended up shrugging instead.

  He drew back, his gaze searching my face. “What’s up, Gin? What’s wrong?”

  I grimaced. I was really going to have to get a better poker face. Or maybe I could get Jo-Jo Deveraux, my Air elemental friend, to give me some tips on how to fake a smile. Either way, I definitely needed to quit wearing my emotions on my face for everyone to see.

  “Gin?” Owen asked again. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Yet?”

  I sighed. “I have to give Finn some bad news at dinner. Or maybe after dinner. It depends on how long it takes me to work up my nerve. But there’s no use ruining the evening before I absolutely have to. We should go. We don’t want to be late. Okay?”

  Owen studied my face again, questions filling his features as he mulled over my cryptic words. But he trusted me enough not to press me for answers, and he nodded. “Okay.” He stared at me a second longer, then grinned, crooked his arm, and held it out to me. “Well, then, my lady, your chariot awaits.”