All We Ever Needed

by D. A. Young

  They hugged and Kat observed that Andy was thinner than usual, making her gray eyes, so like Sten’s, seem too large for her gaunt face. Her bleach-blonde hair was a knotted mess, and she wore a leather mini-dress with a ratty, denim jacket. Andy looked terrible.

  “Nothing. I just finished a project and will be leaving for home tomorrow. What about you?”

  Andy pulled a pack of Kools from her red lizard-skin tote and lit up. “I’m just enjoying life’s big fuck.” She took a long drag and turned her head away, exhaling through her nose. “Haven’t been able to concentrate on a damn thing since Sten’s murder.”

  “I was so sorry to hear about Sten. I sent flowers and a cake—”

  “No, babe, don’t apologize. You were always great! Sten adored you, Kat!” Andy insisted. “All he talked about was how talented and cool you were. Aunt Cari secretly hoped he would wind up with you instead of that bitch Summer.”

  Kat’s eyebrows shot up. “I thought things were going great between them?”

  Andy flicked the ash away, her face twisted with fury. “Summer broke up with him the night before he died. I found out a week later when she finally decided to return my call regarding his death. Told me that was unfortunate but not her concern.”

  “Why did they break up?” Kat recalled him saying that Summer would be leaving the night of the event.

  “I don’t know. Sten called me, saying he fucked up big time and needed to make things right. He said Summer had pressured him, and he’d done an asshat thing that was going to hurt people.” Andy looked at her through troubled eyes. “I asked her what she’d done, and the bitch hung up on me! She won’t return my calls or see me. The cops insist that she’s not a person of interest and warned me to stop harassing her. I can’t get any answers! It’s driving me fucking nuts, Kat!”

  A group of women came out and called to Andy. She threw the smoke in a trash can and gave Kat a fierce hug.

  “I gotta go. It was good to see you!” Andy looked up as thunder rumbled. “Looks like it’s going to rain. Be careful out here and take care.”

  “You too, Andy.”

  Kat walked into the café and fished around in her wallet while waiting to place her order. She extracted the business card Summer had given her and dialed the number.

  “Hello, this is Summer Birkin, Charles McCray’s assistant. How may I assist you?”

  “Summer, this is Katerina Romankov, Sten Ferrara’s friend. We met almost two years ago—”

  “Yes, I do remember you, Katerina! How are you?” This time Summer’s voice was considerably friendlier.

  “I’m great, thank you. I’m in town and wondering if we could meet?”

  There was a lengthy pause. “Summer, are you still there?”

  “I am! Where are you now?”

  “I’m having dinner at Little Nicky’s.”

  “Love that place! The tiramisu is heavenly. Shoot! I’m not going to be able to get over there tonight. Any chance we can meet tomorrow?”

  Kat had intended to go check out some fabrics but after the desk revelation, she was going to Holt. How could she not? It was time to stop bullshitting herself.

  “I’m flying out but will change the time to noon instead.”

  They settled on a time and place and Kat hung up. She noticed that her flesh was covered in goosebumps.

  Fuck.

  That could not be a good sign.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was a torrential downpour when Kat exited the subway a couple of blocks from her place. It was coming down so hard, she could barely see what was in front of her. Keeping her head down, Kat hustled the best she could in her heels. She climbed the steps and was so busy trying to get inside unlocked the door that she never looked up. Unexpectedly, she was accosted from behind. Kat began to fight and opened her mouth to scream until she felt a blade on her neck.

  “Scream if you have a death wish,” a man’s nasally voice spoke loudly into her ear, confident he wouldn’t be heard over the heavy rainfall. “Get inside!”

  She obeyed him. He kicked the door shut behind them. The alarm was beeping, and he grabbed Kat by her nape, shoving her toward it. “Take care of that shit! No funny business either. Your death will be pointless because I’ll still be alive and long gone.”

  Kat plugged in the code, breathing deeply through her nose while her heart yo-yo’d to her stomach. Her adrenaline was charging through her veins, yet she managed to calmly state, “I don’t keep any cash on me or in the house.”

  He snatched her tote from her shoulder and turned it upside down, shaking the contents out all over the wooden floor. His crude, high-pitched laugh grated on her nerves. “That’s too bad. A looker like you…don’t worry. I’m sure you and I can work something out.”

  He spun her around, and déjà vu swept over her. The man was had a narrow, feral face resembling a weasel. He was dressed all in black. Just like Sten’s killer. Instinctively, she knew this was no coincidence. The eyes were dark this time, and he was taller. With a knife in his hand. Kat wondered if they used knives because they weren’t traceable like bullets.

  “You should leave now before things get out of hand,” she quietly advised him.

  He laughed again, this time, longer and harder, as if Kat was a comedian, bending forward. She seized the opportunity and grabbed him by the back of his neck, yanking his head down and kneeing him viciously in the face. He fell back, dropping the knife, and Kat kicked it out of the way and jabbed him in his balls then thrust her palm upward, connecting with his nose when he heaved forward. Lastly, she utilized an inside foot sweep to bring him down.

  The intruder, Marty, was a mess. He’d had one job: follow her from Little Nicky’s, get inside, and wait with her until Al arrived with the car so they could kidnap her. He wasn’t even supposed to be working tonight! But Al was too noticeable to trail her. With his tatted bald head, perma-scowl, and tank-like build, he was eye-catching. Marty’s nose was bleeding. He had a fucking headache, and his balls felt like a grenade went off in his sac.

  Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!

  “Cunt! I was gonna go easy on you! Fuck that!” Marty gasped, covering his nose as he tentatively got to his feet, waiting for the ache in his groin to subside.

  Their eyes clashed, and his fury spiked at her nonchalance. He swiped the blood from his nose and hissed at the stinging discomfort. A ghostly smile danced across Kat’s lips, enraging Marty further. She wrapped her hand around the baton in her trench coat pocket and pressed another button on it. Tuck’s weaponry expert cousin had installed it on her twenty-first birthday. The slight whirring noise was muffled by her coat fabric. She retreated further down the hall. Marty assumed it was out of fear since he was still between her and the obvious escape route. A nasty, victorious grin spread across his face.

  Kat’s adrenaline was soaring, making her fingers twitch around the baton. Carefully, she gathered her weapon in her hand, wincing slightly. She didn’t envy what was coming next for this bastard. But damned if he didn’t deserve every fucking bit of it. Elevated pulse thundering in her ears, her fury buzzed like a live wire as she assessed her opponent. The malevolent gleam in his eyes told Kat that she would pay the price of a lifetime if she made the slightest error. She gave him a middle finger kiss-off while her other hand slipped out of her pocket.

  “Bring it.”

  It was like waving a red flag in front of a bull.

  Furious at her insolence, Marty charged her. He was so focused on teaching her a lesson that he didn’t notice anything else until her hand drew back and her wrist snapped forward sharply. The thin, barbed whip sailed through the air with a soft whistle. Alarmed, Marty tried to retreat, throwing his arms up to shield his face. Unfortunately for him, that wasn’t Kat’s intended target. Instead, the whip wrapped around his lower thigh. He howled and tried to hobble backward. That only served to do more damage to Marty’s leg as the sharp metal shredded through the fabric of his nylon, cargo pants and sank into his th
igh.

  “Motherfucker!”

  Biting his lip, he endeavored to suppress his shock at this unforeseen turn of events. His ragged exhales echoed in the otherwise silent house. Marty’s hands came down, and he attempted to pry himself free. Unwilling to lose her advantage, a determined Kat dropped to one knee. She yanked viciously, causing the spikes to further embed into his thigh. They sank into Marty like talons, serrating his flesh until blood ran in rivulets down his exposed leg. Drenched in sweat and blubbering, he collapsed, hollering like a damn fool.

  Still, Kat was unsatisfied. She pressed the button to retract the whip. The bastard thrashed about, making his situation worse as the metal dragged, torturously slow, through his bloodied, jagged flesh until his leg was completely free of the whip.

  The weapon felt damn good in her hands.

  Kat had spent hours perfecting its use. In the beginning, she’d received her fair share of injuries. On more than one occasion, she’d nearly taken her eye out with a swift retraction. Tuck about stroked out, worrying what her family would say and do to him. He’d wanted to quit, but Kat refused to give up. It’d taken her six months of wearing a helmet and padded sweat suit and gloves to learn how to wield it, utilizing the right amount of pressure and accuracy. Kat practiced every chance she got in Whiskey Row. The last time she’d used it, she posted pictures of Geneva Blom on the trees behind Autumn’s mother’s house where she Tuck began training years ago and went to work.

  Sniveling with relief at the reprieve, Marty flinched as he listened to the staccato of her heels approaching. Slow and deliberate, it made his anxiety spike. The cold-blooded bitch was purposefully toying with him, knowing she held his life in her dainty hands. His leg felt like it was on fire, yet he attempted to sit up. It couldn’t end like this for him. He had kids! She stopped five feet away from him, her face icy and unforgiving, the bloodied whip idly dangling from her hand.

  “Wait! Wait! Ma’am, we can work something out!” Marty pleaded, holding his hands up placatingly. He felt lightheaded and queasy and delirious with agony. Black spots swirled before his eyes, and his leg was growing unpleasantly numb. “I got kids! My name’s Marty! You were just a job, ma’am! I’ll tell you whatever you want to know!”

  The whip encircled his neck tight enough to let Marty know Katerina wasn’t finished with him. Her punishing smile validated that suspicion when she tugged enough for the metal to prick the tender skin covering his Adam’s apple.

  Methodically, she retracted the whip a little more. Panicking, Marty tried to claw free, cutting his fingers as he weakly fought for his life. He screamed when Kat stepped forward and placed her heel, none to gently, on his sore crotch, halting his efforts.

  Kat twisted her stiletto viciously. The unexpected pain made him vomit, and it spewed like a waterfall, causing her to retreat slightly.

  “I’ll do whatever you want…” he begged, fighting to stay conscious.

  “Who sent you here, Marty?” she drilled him. “Was it Summer Birkin?”

  Recognition flashed in his eyes at the name. Murderous rage swamped Kat, scalding and thirsting for justice, blurring her vision. She didn’t know how to process this newest revelation. Kat’s finger hovered over the retraction button undecidedly while her hand clenched and unclenched the baton. Her control was dwindling. Focusing was becoming difficult. She should call the cops. But if she didn’t, obtaining the desired information and then killing Marty would be easier.

  Dear God, she wanted to.

  “Yeah! The bitch’s name is Summer! We were told—”

  Kat barely heard him. She didn’t recognize this bloodlust-crazed person possessing her. Nevertheless, she liked her. Entirely too much.

  Wait a minute.

  “Who’s we, Marty?”

  Suddenly, the front door kicked open, revealing a beast of a man with a colorful bald head and menacing stare. This one had the fortitude to bring a gun. He glared down at his injured cohort.

  “You were gonna sell us out?!” he growled, pointing his gun in Marty’s face.

  His partner’s red-rimmed eyes widened. Deciding Kat was the lesser of two evils, he begged his partner, “No, Al! I wasn’t going to—”

  “And now you just said my fuckin’ name in front of this bitch!”

  The bullet hit Marty between the eyes.

  Then the man leveled his gun at Kat while a new, yet vaguely familiar voice behind her yelled, “Duck Katerina!”

  She obeyed, hitting the wooden floor as gunfire was exchanged. Frozen in place, Kat could only stare as Al, eyes frozen with disbelief, fell forward on top of his frenemy.

  Geez, if Marty wasn’t already dead, Al’s weight would have done the trick, she thought.

  Heavy footsteps approached, breaking her catatonic spell. Kat rolled over to find Cruz Merada standing over her, staring dispassionately at the dead assholes.

  “I guess there truly is no honor among thieves,” he drawled.

  She continued staring stupidly at him.

  He squatted in front of her, inspecting Kat for injuries. “Are you hurt, Senorita?”

  “How did you get in here?”

  “I’ve been here in New York City for a while,” he answered evasively, wary of the way her eyes darkened.

  “That’s nice, Mr. Merada!” she snapped. “What I actually meant was how did you get inside my brother and sister-in-law’s home?!”

  “Ah…” Cruz was stalling for a plausible explanation as Kat’s eyes swirled with turbulence, her anger gaining momentum with each passing second.

  He was saved by the ringing of Kat’s phone.

  ***

  Lunchtime at Zannick’s Seafood Restaurant was quite popular with locals and tourists alike. The location was near a popular marina but far enough to filter the accompanying noise it brought. The lunch wait was almost an hour long for one of the twelve tables inside the restaurant while the grab ‘n’ go shack had a line almost to the parking lot. On this particular Monday, the day started off normal. The cooking staff arrived at seven in the morning and meal-prepped what they could before opening. They peeled, chopped, and diced vegetables and dragged the containers of fresh catches in, rinsed them, and packed them into the display cases. By eleven that morning, the restaurant was completely empty. The owner Jan Zannick and his servers were bewildered. Never in the restaurant’s fifteen-year history had such an occurrence taken place.

  An hour later when his oldest son Gerard emerged from the office, the place was still empty. Mystified, he walked outside and up the road. Thirty minutes later, he returned.

  “What gives, Father? All of the other shops are open and busy.”

  “I don’t know, son.” Jan was pensive, wondering what this could mean for future business.

  Another hour passed, and Michael, his middle son and Peter the baby of the family, returned from fishing. The restaurant was still empty, and their father and older brother were more vexed than ever.

  “What’s happened?” Michael asked.

  “We have no idea,” Gerard answered, noticing that their father was growing increasingly irritable with each passing hour.

  “I think I have an idea!” Peter exclaimed angrily, studying his phone. “There’s a tweet that’s trending about the restaurant having rats! It’s been retweeted a four hundred times with eighty-nine comments! It’s being shared on Facebook and Instagram, too!”

  Rats? They stared at each other with bewilderment.

  “That’s preposterous!” Jan yelled. “We don’t have rats! The health inspector was just here! Get her on the phone, Gerard! She’ll vouch for us.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Thea Falk said, gracefully stepping over the threshold of Zannick’s. She grabbed the handle, closed the door, and turned the lock.

  “What’s the meaning of this? Open that door right now!” Jan ordered.

  Thea didn’t. Instead, she faced them and withdrew an Uzi from the inside of her Burberry car coat.

  “What’s the meaning
of this?!” Gerard shouted. “You want money? I can get you—”

  “No, thank you. I have more than enough of my own. I want something a little more meaningful.”

  “Like what?” Jan stepped forward. “Put that damn gun down before you hurt yourself, girl.”

  “Like your blood.” Thea fired, hitting both of his kneecaps.

  He fell to the ground screaming and rolling around while his sons gaped from him to Thea.

  “Are you just going to stand there and stare? Pick him up, you idiots! Move him to the back.”

  Meanwhile, a well-dressed man strolled through the back entrance and sucked all of its oxygen from the room with his commanding presence. The kitchen staff automatically looked in his direction. The hum of boisterous conversation dwindled to intimidated silence as they watched and waited to see what he wanted. He stopped in the middle of the room and gave it a thorough perusal, ignoring the staring. He was used to it and controlling any room he stepped in.

  “Anyone whose last name isn’t Zannick should leave now.”

  The men and women who’d loyally worked years for the family and broke bread daily with them during family meal, abandoned their work stations and exited the way he’d come, no questions asked. Left alone, Holt walked over to the industrial sink and turned the faucet on. He checked the stove next, turning knobs off. The fryer was on high and next to it was a platter, full of coated snapper and perch waiting to go in. Holt turned the burner to medium. He hadn’t planned on burning the place down today.

  Then again, the day was still young.

  His pondering was interrupted by a man’s pitiful moaning headed in his direction.

  Three men were ushered through the swinging doors by Thea.