Liar

by Zahra Girard

  And I love hearing him answer just as much.

  A wave of dizziness hits me and I realize just how exhausted I am. Physically and emotionally, I’m so drained I can barely keep myself standing.

  “Just relax,” he whispers as he picks me up like I’m light as a feather.

  This time, he manages to open the door.

  My eyes shut and I drift to sleep before we’re halfway up the stairs.

  * * * * *

  Warm sunlight beams through the window to pry my tired eyelids apart. Smelling like sex, with a satisfied tiredness that goes through me all the way to the bone, I somehow manage to pull myself to my feet.

  I’m still wearing last nights dress. It’s rumpled and wrinkled and smells like sex. I’m going to have to get it dry cleaned and I can just imagine the look I’ll get from the cleaners. It’s obvious what happened to it.

  Across the room, I see my panties wadded up in a ball on the coffee table.

  But I don’t care about any of that, really.

  Next to me, Luca’s asleep. He’s naked, a relaxed mound of muscles and tattoos and scars. There’s a peaceful smile on his face and, for once, he looks content.

  I stretch.

  Holy crap, I’m sore.

  My legs are screaming at me with every step I take. Apparently, having sex while standing on one leg is a better workout than I thought. We’ll have to do it more often.

  And when you wake up while your hot, muscled boyfriend is carrying you to bed and decide you want to go another couple rounds before calling it a night? All while still in your dress?

  Yeah, also a good workout. It also means you’re going to be sore as hell in the morning.

  It hurts too much to stand and, as tired as I am, I decide it’d be a better idea to sit down and just enjoy the moment. I know Luca will be awake soon; the last time I slept over, he was up early enough to go next door to the bakery for coffee and pastries.

  I look at him.

  This is the first time I’ve really looked at him, all of him, in the light of day. Every other time, he’s been either in his gym clothes or I’ve only been able to see him by the dim light of the moon.

  My eyes trace the stunning lines of his body. He is just brilliantly hot. Muscles in perfect proportion, toned and sculpted, not too big, yet big enough that they just exude power.

  My mind idly wanders to last night. The dinner. How confident he looked as we walked into the restaurant, like he knew that he owned the place and how everyone knew it too. He spent an unfathomable amount of money yesterday, all for me. He spent all that time and effort, too, just for me.

  We went from that high, to meeting my dad.

  Almost unbidden, my dad’s warning pops to mind.

  Luca shifts, rolling onto his stomach.

  There’s a wicked scar there. Long and thin and snakelike on his upper-back. It’s old, faded, but even now I can tell it must’ve hurt beyond belief. It looks like someone tortured him, taking time to dice him with casual precision.

  A reminder of his violent past.

  I force myself to look away, to somewhere else on his body. I don’t like to think about him being hurt.

  Above his right shoulder-blade, there’s a crude tattoo. Small, shakily-drawn like the kind I’d find whenever the ER took in anyone who’d spent time behind bars — which happened pretty often, especially on the night shift. Two words run across the top of the tattoo: Inesorabile Morte. Beneath it, there’s a series of small, poorly-drawn crucifixes, like a tally. Almost two dozen.

  I know what those mean.

  I don’t want to admit it to myself, but I know.

  My stomach sinks, plummeting to the lowest parts of my being as my blood turns to ice.

  I hear my father’s words again.

  I turn away and stand up. Holding my breath, clenching my jaw to keep myself from making any noise.

  The only sound is the quiet click of the door latching behind me.

  I run.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Luca

  Fuck me, I never sleep this late.

  Fuck me, I could keep sleeping.

  Course, it’s been a while since I fucked a beautiful woman in public. Maybe a year, at least.

  When was it last?

  I pause, running over my spank-bank in my head. So many of the names and faces are fuzzy — especially since I met Stephanie there’s really been no need to remember any of these other women.

  Hmm… Was it Cabo?

  I hardly remember that trip — because it was Cabo and Nico and I timed the damn thing to coincide with Spring Break — but I recall there may have been something with a young co-ed and the two of us fucking in a phone booth.

  Oh, that’s right. I had her call up her soon-to-be ex while we did it.

  That was a fun trip. I’ll have to take Stephanie there sometime.

  I stretch. Fucking hell, I’m sore.

  There’s just something about fucking in public that wears you out — that excitement that courses through your body while you’re doing it, wondering if you’re going to be caught, that leads to a huge adrenaline dump at the end.

  That, and I think Stephanie may have literally drained my balls dry. I’ve never come that hard in my life.

  “Bella, you up?” I mumble.

  Her panties are still sitting right where we left them, wadded up on the coffee table.

  She must be in the bathroom.

  I strain my ears, listening, before getting up and heading to make some coffee. I stop along the way, picking up her panties for a moment while I recall last night.

  Who knew a normal girl could be so much fun?

  It’s when I’m halfway through my first cup when I realize she isn’t in the bathroom. Her purse is gone, so she definitely left. It must’ve been in a hurry for her to leave her panties behind. Unless she left them on purpose, in which case, she’s even sexier than I thought.

  I’m definitely keeping them. If she wants them back, she’ll have to earn me.

  But whatever, I’m not expending any more brainpower on it. I’ve got a sex hangover and a dead body — well, parts of a dead body — in my trunk to deal with and this nagging suspicion that there’s more going on than I thought.

  When I was taking that Russian prick apart, there were some signs that gave me pause. His shitty ink, for one. They’re kind of tattoos you get in prison from some guy named Viktor or Alexei who happens to be missing a few fingers and more than a few teeth.

  It’s got me thinking that I need to know if the Russian mob is trying to rip off the woman I love. After that, I can go about deciding who else and how many I’m going to kill. Because I sure as hell am not letting them fuck with her. She’s too good to be mixed up in all this.

  I get dressed and head downstairs, mug of coffee still in hand, to move my car into the alley behind my apartment building. As soon as I’m sure I’m out of sight from most passersby, I open my plastic-sheet-lined trunk and start digging through the trashbags.

  It’s hard work to do with one hand, but there’s no way in hell I’m doing this without coffee.

  I spend a lot of time digging through my trunk and fucking around with body parts before I find what I’m looking for, but once I find it, I pull it out of my trunk and set it down on the pavement in the alley. I open the bag and set it up right so that there’s plenty of light shining into it.

  There’s a severed right arm in there. And on the bicep is the tattoo I’m looking for.

  If I was still in the business, or even still talking to those people from that part of my life, I’d probably send this pic to them with some bragging caption.

  Bagged another one, sounds about right.

  But, whatever, it’s the ugliest tattoo I’ve ever seen. I think it’s supposed to be a grim reaper, wearing his robes and scowling, but I can’t really tell because it’s so poorly drawn. Hell, it could be this Russian asshole’s mom for all I know. Maybe it is his mom. She’d certainly be ugly enough to g
ive birth to a shitstain like whoever-the-hell is in my trunk.

  I take a picture of the tattoo with my phone, then I spend the next five minutes sorting through the other bags and taking pictures of any other tattoos I think might be pertinent. It’s a veritable snuff film of limbs, shitty Russian phrases, skulls, a few black teardrops, and one flame-and-dragon tattoo that looks like it belongs on the cover of an 80’s hair-metal album.

  After that, I load my trunk back up and get moving.

  Today’s going to be a busy day.

  * * * * *

  “What the fuck is this?”

  Jose doesn’t often mince words. And now is no exception.

  “Just look at it. What can you tell me about that tattoo?”

  He pushes my hand — and the phone it’s holding — away.

  “It’s attached to a severed arm. Seriously, kid, what is this about? What kind of shit did you get into? Are you into snuff now?”

  “Don’t ask. Just tell me if you know anything about it. You’ve been here for forty years, Jose. And I know more than a few gang members have trained in this gym.”

  He shrugs and looks out the office window at the gym floor. “We’ve got a few out there right now. But what makes you think I now anything? I keep out of that shit, kid.”

  I set my phone down on the desk in front of him.

  “Don’t lie to me. I know you’ve got a deal with some crooked cops to keep immigration and law enforcement from poking around here. You’re not clean. And hey, I’m not judging.”

  He clicks his tongue but otherwise doesn’t speak.

  “Look, I’m not upset. Yeah, I was pissed you didn’t tell me — I’m your partner, after all. But I get it. You know what I was into, and I know sometimes you have to make certain arrangements that you might not be proud of. But this is important, Jose. This guy was trying to rip off Stephanie’s place the other night. You know I can’t have Russians fucking with the people I care about. What would you do if they started messing with your family?”

  He picks up the phone. I knew playing the family angle would get to him.

  Jose takes his time, and I can see the gears in his head are turning.

  “We don’t get many Russians here. Shit, I don’t think we have many Russians at all here in California. Something about the sun and the warmth just doesn’t mix with those guys. We mostly get the Mexican gangs around here, like Nuestra Familia or the Norteños, and even though everyone who comes through those doors has to leave their grudges and all their other petty shit outside, they still don’t play nice with those pale Russian bastards.”

  “But?”

  I can tell he’s getting to something. Even though he’s taken decades worth of punches in his time as a boxer and a trainer, Jose’s still sharp.

  “We had some dumb son of a bitch come in a couple years ago. He had the look, he was definitely connected from what a few of the guys told me, and he had tattoos like these. In fact, he had this exact one. It marks there family or some shit,” he says, pointing to one of the pictures. “He always wore that same god damn track suit that I swear every single one of those bastards wears, too. Why do they do that?”

  I shrug. Even the few Russians I ran across back in New York whenever my work took me over to Brighton Beach had the same outfit. Even the kids in that neighborhood wore it. Babies, too.

  It was weird as hell.

  “There’s a guy, Vladimir Sokolov, he’s up there in the Karaulov syndicate. He has a bar called Volgograd down by the docks. It’s a shithole. Word is they even water down their beer.”

  “Fucking hell. You serious?”

  Any way you cut it, that’s dirty. And more than anything preps me for the fact that I’m going to be coming up against some inhuman scum.

  I grab my keys and start for the door.

  “Where are you going?” he calls out.

  “To get a drink.”

  “You’re not going to kill anybody, are you?”

  I smirk at him over my shoulder. “Maybe. I’m going to see how watery their drinks are, first.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Stephanie

  “It’s good to see you again, Stef. I was starting to get worried.”

  Bryan’s got this smug look on his face, like he just knew at some point I’d be calling him frantic and worried out of my mind.

  It’s almost enough to piss me off, but right now, I really need his help.

  “I’m sorry for the short notice. I just didn’t know who I could turn to.”

  Sometimes I hate having so few friends in town.

  “I’m always free for you,” he says, pausing to take a sip of some Czech microbrew that he ordered. “What can I do to help?”

  I’ve been wracking my brain all morning, putting together the pieces to figure out just what the hell is up with Luca and I think I have enough information that I can start to make a diagnosis. There’s just a piece or two I’m missing.

  “I need you to look up some information on someone. Nicolo Moretti. He committed suicide in the Bronx around a year ago.”

  That gets a raised eyebrow out of Bryan. “Can’t you just Google him?”

  I push down the urge to roll my eyes because I know, if I want his help, I’ll have to stroke his ego. But it’s tough, because so often, he thinks I’m just helpless.

  “I tried. And all I got was a small snippet from a couple local newspapers just stating that his body had been found and the cause of death was ruled to be from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. I need to know more than that. I want to know if he had a police record, or if he was ever under investigation for any crimes. Stuff that I know only someone talented like you can get.”

  Bryan’s eyebrows rise higher and he tries to mask his surprise by practically hiding his face behind his pint of fancy Czech beer.

  “That’s not exactly legal, Stef,” he says, when he finally surfaces.

  “I know. But I know you’re really, really good at that sort of thing, and since you work at one of those identity protection places, I know this has got to be right up your alley. I’d be grateful for the help. This is serious stuff, Bryan, and I need someone I can count on.”

  The man practically blushes he’s so full of himself.

  “I can do it. It’ll take some time, and you can’t mention a word of this to anyone, but I’ll get it done.”

  Mention a word of it to someone? What? That I’m investigating my kinda-boyfriend’s brother’s suicide to figure out if he’s a murderer? Damn, because that’s usually the first thing I talk about whenever I want to start a conversation with someone on the bus or when I’m shooting the breeze with my barista.

  “Thank you, Bryan. I owe you one.”

  “You owe me more than that. This is going to be dangerous. But you can start by picking up the tab. I have to get back to the office, there’s a big meeting later today and the higher-ups will be absolutely lost if I’m not there.”

  I manage to keep a straight face as he gets up and leaves me with the bill. I dig through my purse to find a credit card that isn’t maxed out so I can pay for his probably-expensive beer and the rest of our food.

  I just finish signing for the bill when my phone starts ringing. I don’t recognize the number on the caller ID, so I pick it up.

  “Where’s Yuri?”

  I stare at my phone, speechless.

  It’s Vladimir, barking like a rabid dog.

  “You worthless bitch, answer me or I swear to fucking Christ I will rape the humanity out of you.”

  Somehow, I find my voice.

  “What the hell are you talking about? I don’t know where Yuri is.”

  And, surprisingly, I sound way less scared-shitless than I thought I would be. It must be because part of me is imagining Yuri lying face down in a ditch somewhere and, though I should be horrified, I’m comforted instead.

  “He went to your place last night to collect my cargo. No one has heard from him since. Do you expect me to believe that he
just fucking vanished into thin air? Are you done working for me now? Should we just get to the part where I paint my cock with your blood and sell your worthless cunt?”

  My blood goes about as cold as I imagine Siberia to be in the middle of winter.

  I have to force myself to keep talking. If I freeze up, I’m as good as dead.

  “Honesty, Vladimir, I don’t know what happened to Yuri. He didn’t show up and your stuff is still in our storeroom, just where you left it. Do you think I could hurt him?”

  I probably could, actually. Luca’s lessons have really started paying off.

  “You better fucking hope he turns up, bitch.”

  Yeah, I don’t think there’s any way I could hope for that. Yuri’s the biggest creep I know, next to Vladimir. I’d be happy never to see him again in my life.

  “Can I go?”

  “I’ll be by later for my shit. And I’ll be keeping an eye on you. When I see you, you and I are going to have a nice, long talk and you better fucking hope Yuri’s turned up by then.”

  “Bye,” I say, dismissively and I hang up the call.

  I head back to my car, somehow managing to keep it together until I collapse in my seat. My fears about Luca are getting more true by the minute and my life is starting to collapse around me.

  If I don’t find some way out, soon, I’ll wind up dead — or worse.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Luca

  I miss the East River.

  I never thought I’d ever say that, because that waterway is a special kind of cesspool, but as I’m dropping off this severed Russian foot at the eighth drop-off point I’ve hit since leaving the gym, I think I might have misjudged the fucking thing.

  The East River is New York’s garbage disposal. You can toss a body in there and trust it’ll be taken care of.

  And the best part? Everyone knows what you’re doing and they know not to get in your fucking way, so if you’re down at one of the docks at three in the fucking morning tossing a body-sized bit of cargo into the water, no one’s going to question you. Hell, they’re probably out there doing the same thing.