by April Lust
“You can hate me all you want,” Turo called after her. “You can slam the door to your room as hard as you want, too. But you'd better make sure you're ready to meet Lucio in an hour, and you'd better be done with these tantrums by then, or I might have to pay Penny a visit after all.”
Maggie stomped up the stairs and into her room, wiping the tears from her cheeks. Thinking of what had happened to Daniel made her want to throw up, especially since she knew, on some level, her father was right. It was her fault. She hadn't told Daniel what business her father was in, or how angry he'd be if he found out about them. She'd been stupid enough to think she could hide her relationship with him from her parents. And he'd paid the price, and who knew how badly they'd beaten him? Was he crippled? Would he die from internal bleeding?
She'd never be able to find out now.
For the millionth time, Maggie fantasized about running away from home—just packing a bag and getting as far away from all of this as she could. No more threats from her father, no more disapproving looks from her mother. She could wear what she wanted, eat what she wanted, fall in love with whoever she wanted.
But these fantasies never lasted long, because she understood how sheltered she'd been her entire life. Her parents had never allowed her to learn how to drive a car, since even that would be too much independence. She had no money of her own, and even if she did, she wouldn't be able to buy a ticket for a bus, plane, or train without Turo finding out. She had no friends she could stay with, no way of knowing how to make it in the world alone.
She was trapped.
Once she got her tears under control, Maggie walked over to her mirror and started to wipe the makeup from her face so she could reapply it in time to meet Lucio.
As much as she hated it, she couldn't think of a single other thing to do.
Chapter 3
Brock
Brock swirled the tumbler of aged scotch, peering out the penthouse window of Crockett Plaza. It was one of the tallest buildings in Dallas, and the streets and homes were so far below him that they looked like detailed miniatures from a model train set.
“Hell of a view you've got here, Robby,” Brock commented. “Better than the view we had upstate in D Block, huh?”
Behind him, Robert Nickelson grunted his agreement and fussily rifled through the papers on his desk for the fourth time since Brock had walked in. Brock watched the bespectacled man's discomfort reflected in the window glass, enjoying it. Nickelson had long ago earned the nickname “Robby Nickels,” since his early crimes had generally involved shaking down parking meters and jukeboxes. But in the three decades since then, he'd risen in the ranks of the Moretti crime family, achieving the rank of consigliere or “trusted advisor.”
Brock took a sip from his tumbler, savoring the burning flavor that gave way to the sweet aftertaste of oak and liquid gold. “This is some incredible scotch, too. What's that aged? Fifty years?”
“Something like that,” Robby sighed impatiently.
“Man, that's swell,” Brock continued. “You sure have come a long way, haven't you, Robby? Hey, remember that pruno we used to brew in the toilet bowl? We used to use the fruit cocktail they gave us in the chow line, plus some ketchup, sugar, bread crusts for the yeast—”
“Yeah, sure, I remember, okay?” Robby snapped, tossing the papers to one side. “I also remember that we were gonna sell that hooch to Big Lester to square my gambling debt. Instead, you used it to try to charm that corrections officer named Breanna, and you left me hanging. Look, Brock, I'd love to believe you came by today to shoot the breeze about when we were cellmates up in Ditchfield. That way, I could just tell you to fuck off and be done with it. But since we both know you've got something else in mind, why don't you just come out and say it instead of wasting my time with this cutesy, mysterious Memory Lane horseshit?”
Brock raised an eyebrow mildly. “Wow. Sounds like someone woke up on the cranky side of the bed today.”
“Not all of us get to spend our lives standing around in fancy suits and making quips, shitbird.” Robby squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his temples. “Jesus, I thought getting promoted would mean less work, not more. Sit back, relax, delegate, and wait for the guys under me to kick up what they owe. Instead, Old Man Moretti's got me busier than a one-armed pimp in a bitch-slapping contest. Little Ralphie just got picked up by the Feds last week, which means I've gotta make sure he's either sprung or shivved before they get him talking. Plus, I've got to deal with these Russians who are setting up shop down in Corpus Christi, and it's the busy season for sports betting, so...”
“Yikes,” said Brock. “Moretti's gonna crap a litter of lizards when you tell him you're going to be gone for the next month or so.”
“And why the fuck would I tell him that?” Robby asked.
Brock finished his drink and set the glass down on Robby's desk. “You just said it yourself, Robby. Thirty years of busting your hump for Moretti, laughing at his stupid jokes and kissing his ass, and you still feel overworked and underpaid. And you're second in command, and you know you'll never reach the top unless you whack Moretti and both his sons—which we both know you don't have the stomach for. So, it seems to me like the only way you're ever gonna actually get the life of leisure and luxury that you want is by stumbling over a random fucking pot of gold. Well, here I am. Consider me your own personal goddamn leprechaun.”
Robby chuckled. “I'm Sicilian, Brock. We don't believe in leprechauns. But, okay, go ahead and give me your pitch. It should be good for a laugh, at least.”
Brock sat on the edge of the desk. “You know Don Ricci over in New Orleans? Long story short, he ripped off a friend of mine, and I promised I'd get him some payback with interest. I've got the whole thing planned out, and when it's over, everyone involved is gonna come out the other side with enough money to retire on.”
“Oh really?” Robby smirked. “How do you plan to reel in a fish that big?”
“By using the oldest con in the book.”
“If it's such an old con, won't he see it coming from a mile away?”
“They never see it coming,” Brock assured him. “That's why it's the oldest one in the book. No one ever went hungry betting on people's greed, especially guys like Ricci.”
“So what do you need me for?”
“You're gonna be the most important part of this whole thing,” said Brock. “See, if this is going to work, Ricci will have to believe I'm the heir to a Mafia family. But the only thing that'll convince him is if a trusted, high-ranking member of la cosa nostra makes the introduction, so—”
Robby threw back his head and laughed. Brock waited patiently for him to stop, but the cackling continued for several minutes, until Robby's face was red and tears were streaming down his cheeks.
“That's your plan?” Robby asked when he could finally get enough breath in his lungs. “Are you the dumbest fuck who's ever walked the earth, or what? First of all, look at you, with your spiky, moussed-up blonde hair, and your fruity little Brooks Brothers monkey suit! You look like some kind of Wall Street yuppie. There's no way anyone would even believe you're Italian, let alone a made guy.”
“Yeah, but some hair dye and contact lenses can give me the right look,” Brock insisted. “And you can help me with the rest. Give me some coaching so I can walk the walk and talk the talk.”
“Even if I thought that would work—which it wouldn't, by the way, not in a billion fucking years—I still swore an oath never to betray this organization. That includes all the families in all the states. I make this introduction, and my life ain't worth stale dogshit. I'd be better off jumping out that window behind you.”
“So, you won't do it, then? Not even for me, Robby? Not after all we've been through together?” Brock asked, pouting theatrically. Inwardly, he was loving this. He'd hoped that the carrot would be enough to convince Robby to help him, but hey, the stick was fine, too.
“Brock—and I say this to you with all the love and resp
ect in the world, man, I really do—but go get fucked and die in a fire, okay? We haven't 'been through anything together; we just served a few months in the same cell.”
“But I have such fond and treasured memories from that enchanted time,” Brock sighed wistfully. “For instance, I remember one magical day when a certain someone sold heroin to Darrell Diggs, who tragically OD'd on it—”
The color drained from Robby's face as his eyes widened. “Don't you do that.”
“—and hey, it turned out that Darrell's father was none other than Reese 'R-Gunz' Diggs, one of the biggest gang bosses in California! Man, that was some rotten luck for you, huh? Christ, can you imagine what that guy would do if he found out who sold the junk to his kid?”
Robby's eyes blazed with anger. “I'm fucking serious, Brock. Don't you dare bring that up.”
Brock shrugged. “Well, I certainly wasn't ever planning to tell anyone, out of respect for our relationship. But now you're telling me I was wrong about how close we are, so...”
Robby stood up, kicking the trash can next to his desk. It hit the opposite wall hard, and the cheap plastic split down the side. “You're a real piece of garbage, you know that, Brock?”
“Hey, I walked in here offering you more money than you've ever seen in your life, and a chance to stop shining Moretti's shoes and picking up his dry cleaning. You're the one who wanted to play it like a hard-on, so here we are. Now come on—take a few deep breaths, pick up the phone, tell Moretti something came up and you have to leave town for a while, and let your old pal Brockie make you into the richest motherfucker you know. How about it?”
Robby banged his forehead against his desk, letting out a sound that was somewhere between a roar of fury and a groan of acceptance. Then he raised his head again, rubbing his eyes and looking at Brock. “That suit's gotta go,” he said. “And you're gonna need more than just hair dye and contacts to pass as a paisan. Your vocabulary, your whaddayacallit—inflection, shit, even the way you stand still. We're gonna have to work on all of it if this menefreghista plan is gonna have a snowball's chance in hell.”
“Robby,” Brock assured him, “consider me clay in the hands of a master sculptor.”
Chapter 4
Brock
“Are we getting close?” Robby yelled in Brock's ear for the ninth time that afternoon, his arms tightening around Brock's waist.
Brock winced at the noise and the pressure on his midsection. Even though he knew the odds of this scam working without Robby's help were slim to none, he was still giving serious thought to simply dumping Robby off the back of the bike and riding off without him, given how much bitching and moaning he'd already had to put up with.
“I'll tell you when we're close,” Brock said. “Until then, keep your mouth shut and quit squirming around back there.”
“My fucking pants are riding up on me,” Robby whined.
“I warned you not to wear a suit on a motorcycle.”
“But all I got are suits! Damn, this shit's uncomfortable. And this dumb-looking helmet's gonna fuck up my hair.”
“So take it off.”
“I can't!” Robby shrieked. “You're riding this thing like some kind of maniac!”
“So have fucked-up hair, then.”
Brock took a deep breath. He tried to ignore Robby, focusing on the warm breeze on his face and the lush green swamps of Louisiana on either side of the road. He loved cruising on his bike, and he hated knowing he'd have to stay off it for a few weeks while they conned Ricci. He consoled himself with the thought that if the scam went the way it was supposed to, he could buy a dozen bikes and a private road to ride them on.
“What about these other guys of yours?” Robby asked.
“I already told them where and when to meet us. They should show up around the same time we do. Now for Christ's sake, pipe down and ease up, will you? You hold onto me any tighter and my liver's gonna come squirting out of my nose.”
Robby didn't talk for the rest of the trip, but his arms didn't loosen their grip.
Finally, they pulled up in front of The Clear View, a squat roadhouse that served as the base of operations for The Twisted Saints. Brock killed the engine, put down the kickstand, and unstrapped his helmet, smiling at the sign on the door that said “Private Party Tonight.”
Robby took off the spare helmet, tucking it under his arm and grimacing at the bar. “Maddon', this place is a fucking dump. I feel like I could get a bad case of crabs just by looking at it.”
Before Brock could respond, the door flew open and Hammer burst out, beaming at Brock. “Holy shit, there he is!” He ran up to them, throwing his arms around Brock and lifting him off the ground happily.
“The Hammer and the Nail, together again at last,” Brock wheezed, patting Hammer on the back. “Now put me down, huh? I already got half my ribs squeezed in on the way here. I don't need the other half busted, too.”
Hammer put him down again. “Sorry, man. It's just...what's it been, ten years? You ain't changed a bit.”
“Wish I could say the same for you,” Brock retorted, poking Hammer's stomach. “I told you not to eat those pork rinds all the time, didn't I? Now look at you.”
Hammer laughed. “Same old Brock, always busting balls.” He looked at Robby. “Who's your friend?”
“Hammer, meet Robby Nickels. He may not look like much, but think of him as the golden key that's gonna open all the doors we need opened. Now let's go inside and go over the plan. The rest of my team should be showing up any minute.”
They walked into the roadhouse and Brock looked around at the other members of the Saints. “Wow, Hammer. You've really built this MC into something heavy, huh? And you can vouch for the loyalty of everyone in here?”
“Damn straight,” Hammer affirmed.
“You're absolutely sure about that?” Robby asked. “Because if even one of these apes thinks he can make some extra cash by selling us out to Ricci—”
Hammer's meaty hand clamped down on Robby's shoulder hard. “You've been in here for all of five seconds, and you're already questioning how righteous my guys are? You must carry your balls around in a fucking wheelbarrow, pal.”
“Easy, Hammer,” Brock said. “Robby's just a little nervous, that's all. This ain't his usual scene.” He turned to Robby. “You might want to go ahead and say you're sorry, before Hammer puts your nose through your fucking brain.”
Robby opened his mouth to crack wise, then closed it. “I was impolite,” he murmured. “I apologize.”
“There, see? Now we can all be friends,” said Brock, slapping them both on the back.
The door opened again and Greg walked in, followed by three other people. The first was a tall black man in his forties with a shaved head and gold hoops dangling from his ears. The second was a short woman in her early thirties with a delicate frame and a white streak in her otherwise-brown hair. The third was a man in his late twenties who was built like a refrigerator, with a round, hairless, piggy face and slab-like arms.
The black man's eyes fell on Brock and he immediately exclaimed, “No. No, nope, all the no in the fucking world, uh-uh, fuck off, goodbye.” He turned to leave.
“Aw, come on, Ben!” Brock called out, grinning.
Ben whirled around again, furious. “I should have known. When Greg said he wasn't gonna tell me who was running this con, I should have known that meant it was you, and I should have shut it down right then. But no, instead I end up dragging my ass from L.A. all the way out here to fucking alligator country, just to find out it's you...”
“Yeah, but you're here now, right? So okay, fine, it's me. You may as well stick around and find out what the score is.”
“Why bother?” Ben asked. “All I'll hear is the part where I'm supposed to get giddy about how much cash is involved and how easy it's supposed to be. I won't hear about what happens later, when you figure out a way to get a bigger piece for yourself and change the plan without telling the rest of us.”
&nb
sp; “Ben, that hurts me,” Brock replied with a smirk. “It really does. That only happened, what, one time?”
“Three times.”
“That second thing doesn't count. And, besides, I still made sure you got paid, right? So okay, maybe I didn't let you in on every tiny detail as we went along, but you still got taken care of in the end. Come on, sit down, have a drink. You'll love this, I promise.”
“This is already off to a hell of a start,” Robby grumbled.
“So first of all, some introductions are in order,” Brock continued. He knew if he gave Ben a chance to walk out, some of the others might decide to follow and then he'd really be screwed. Better to steamroll them with his pitch at the outset, before they had a chance to think for themselves too much.
He gestured to Hammer. “This is Hammer, the president and co-founder of The Twisted Saints MC, who will henceforth be known as 'The Aggrieved Party.'”
