Deviant: Courtney & Dustin: A Captive Tale (The Billionaire Voyeur Book 2)
Page 11
It’s not a matter of if, but when you will get caught or killed. Too many of my friends have died to this adherence to the way it has always been.
No more.
I see a new frontier and a new future.
I’m taking my family there first, and I’ll leave old men like the one in front of me behind.
Emilio guffaws from his joke and the men behind him laugh openly, no longer trying to hide their amusement. If they are actually amused, that is—their boss could tell them he fucked their mothers and they’d laugh if he told them to.
“Unfortunately, there is only me,” I say with false humor.
He stops laughing and looks at me through narrowed eyes.
“Yes, there is only you,” he says. “Then speak, Donnie, why are we here?”
“A sit-down,” I say. “A ceasefire.”
“You running out of men, boy?”
I smile again, still refusing the bait.
“Our families have been at war for years. Open or cold, the fact remains—war is bad for business. There is no profit. Instead of making money, our men are busy shooting each other.”
“Your father should have thought of that before he started it,” he says through gritted teeth.
My smile spreads; I’ve got him.
“I agree,” I say. “Be that as it may, it should not color a brighter future for our two families.”
“What is it you’re offering?”
There it is. I have him exactly where I want him.
Emilio has wanted the docks for thirty years. My father and he warred over them for a long time until my father solidified his control with the massacre. This is the carrot that will appease his need for revenge.
“This,” I say, motioning around us.
His rheumy eyes widen and he lets out a whistle.
“You’re kidding. What’s the catch?”
“No catch. You give me a ceasefire, we work out a peace deal between our families. I give you control of the docks. Full and complete.”
“What’s your cut?”
“No cut, no percentage. Yours. Like I said, full and complete.”
He shakes his head.
I’m guessing he can’t wrap his mind around the idea of no strings. He still sees the world through the framework of the old, and normally in a deal like this among the families, there would be percentages kept and other terms attached. But that would run counter to my goal.
Emilio’s probably trying to work out what he’s not seeing—some hidden trap, perhaps—but he won’t figure it out; there’s nothing to figure out.
My family is moving into white-collar crime, so I have no need for this place.
It’s an information age, and nothing is more valuable than information. Information I certainly won’t be sharing with him. We already make more money in a day than our old operations would earn in a month.
“Always a string, right, boys?” Emilio says to the men behind him.
“Always, boss,” one of the gorillas says.
“The string is, I want peace,” I say. “No more violence. No more shootings in the streets. It brings attention neither of us wants. It cuts into profits. We can both make more money in peace than by continuing this war.”
“I think he’s afraid, boss,” the talking gorilla throws in.
“That it, Donnie? You afraid?”
I smile and shake my head.
“Fear clouds the mind. I’m not afraid; I’m rational. I’m looking at a bigger picture.”
Emilio leans over the table, his fingers drumming on it as we stare each other down.
“Why don’t I just take what I want?” he says at last.
I nod and act as if I’m considering the idea.
Francesca shifts her weight behind me from one foot to the other, ready for anything.
“You could,” I say. “It would cost you. It would cost me, but yes, you could, eventually.”
Silence sits heavy between us while I wait patiently.
My father is rolling in his grave. Patience was not a virtue he possessed.
Don Baldini’s fingers keep drumming.
Any minute now, he’ll agree. It’s a waiting game.
The gorillas with him shuffle, the sound of their leather shoes on the concrete accenting the sound of his fingers.
“You got some balls, kid,” he says.
“I’ve been told as much,” I agree.
“Peace, huh?”
“A ceasefire,” I say. “An end to this war. What is it that matters? Money.”
“Money,” he snorts.
“Do you do this for some other reason?”
“The problem with your generation right there,” he says. “No honor. No adherence to a code.”
Code. Honor.
I resist the urge to snort at his use of the words.
His idea of honor and a code is outdated. He’s living in the beginnings of the twentieth century. The world has moved on without him.
His adherence to old ways will be his downfall, and I won’t have to do a thing to make it happen. The Feds will catch him sooner or later.
“Do we have a deal?”
His frown deepens, then he straightens up.
Everything stops as he does.
We’re standing at a fork, and everything now hinges on his next words.
“All right, kid,” he says.
I stand and hold out my hand.
This time, he takes it, gripping mine firmly as he shakes.
His hand is a meaty paw covered with sweat.
“Good,” I say, matching his grip.
“You look just like your father, kid,” he says with a sneer. “You know—before he had that unfortunate accident with the matches.”
Anger hits me in the gut like a fist.
It takes all my willpower not to react this time, even though I know he’s still just baiting me.
“Thanks,” I reply.
“If anything goes wrong between our families,” he says, pulling me in close and clapping his free hand on my shoulder. “Anything at all, I will rain hell down on you. I won’t hold back anything. You understand me, Donnie?”
“Right, Emilio,” I say. “Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Good,” he says, releasing his grip. “Let’s go, boys.”
Francesca moves to my side and we watch them leave.
“That went better than I expected,” she says, her voice soft as always, belying the rest of her.
Francesca is tall for a woman, just shy of six feet. Dark hair reaches her shoulders outlining the sharp features of her face. She’s pretty but there’s an air of danger about her that either entices or drives you away.
“You’re an optimist, Francesca,” I say.
“Yeah, right,” she snorts.
“We got what we want; let’s get out of here.”
“That could have gone the other way,” she replies.
“It didn’t,” I say as we walk out the door.
She stops just outside.
“Clean up the explosives before you leave, boys,” she orders.
I halt briefly.
“The what?” I ask.
She smiles. “It could have gone the other way.”
“I didn’t order that,” I say.
“You didn’t not order it either,” she says.
“Taking liberties?”
“Precautions. It’s my job.”
“So it is,” I say, climbing into the car.
CHAPTER TWO: ISABELLA
“Look, this isn’t necessary. I mean, really,” I say.
“Shut up,” one of the men in the front seat barks, his voice harsh.
“Seriously, what am I going…?”
“I said, shut up!” he barks again.
“Or what?”
I hear the gun cock and then cold metal presses hard into my ribs.
“There will be an unfortunate accident,” he growls.
I shut up.
I’m n
ot sure which of my father’s men are here.
Cold steel grips my wrists and the rough bag over my head smells of must, mold, and dust.
I didn’t think he’d go this far. I’m his daughter and this is how he treats me.
I hate him. I hate him so damn much.
Adjusting in the seat, I try to find a way to be comfortable, but we hit a pothole and I’m tossed up, banging my head on the ceiling then landing in a hump on my side.
“Fuck, Brett,” the one who growled at me exclaims.
“Fuck you,” Brett says.
“Fuck both of you,” I yell, trying to get back up to a sitting position. “How about a seatbelt if Jackass can’t drive?”
“Shut up!” they say in unison.
Great—twins. Just great. I’m so screwed.
The bag on my head seems to have pulled tighter. I can barely breathe.
I struggle and shift, finally pushing it out of my mouth with my tongue.
Gah, now my mouth is gross.
I wonder if they’re going to kill me.
I don’t think so—I don’t think Father will go that far but he’s pissed.
I don’t care—I couldn’t let him kill my friend. It’s not like I have that many, to begin with. It’s hard to make friends when your father’s a psychotic asshole.
The code of silence in all its applications—from the sacred omertà all the way down—was drilled into me from the time I could talk. Never go against the family. Family is everything. Never say what you know, especially to authorities.
See something? Keep your mouth shut.
Someone you love disappear? Don’t talk about it.
Overhear something? Absolutely keep your trap closed.
I couldn’t this time, though—Tommy is innocent. He stole a couple of hundred dollars, so what? It’s not like my father would miss it; he pisses away more than that every day. Also, it wasn’t like Tommy stole it for fun—his mom needed her medicine. He just took enough to cover the insurance deductible, but did that matter to my father?
Tommy is his mom’s only child. His father used to work for my father but ‘went missing’ in the line of duty, which means he was gunned down.
The war between my family and the Soriano family has gone on for years and Tommy’s dad is just another in the long list of victims. Tommy started working for my father running packages to help make ends meet at home.
Damn it, these cuffs are really chafing into my skin! They’re cold and hard.
I adjust again, trying to find some way to be comfortable.
I hate this. I hate him.
The two idiots up front are whispering.
I stop shifting around and try to listen but can’t make out what they’re saying.
“I have to pee,” I say.
“Too bad,” not-Brett says.
“I’m serious,” I say.
“So am I,” he replies and Brett snickers.
“You can’t treat me like this! Do you know who I am?”
“We know exactly who you are. We also have strict orders from your father. You went against your family.”
“I did not!”
“Huh. Well then, how did that little prick know to run? How was it that he knew right when we were coming to have a conversation with him?”
“How am I supposed to know?”
“Don’t be in idiot, Isabella,” Brett says and the van bounces again, throwing me against the side wall.
“I’m an idiot? Is there a pothole in fifty miles you haven’t hit?” I ask.
“That’s it—I’m finishing this,” Brett growls and the van swerves to one side.
My heart leaps into overtime.
Shit, I may have pushed too hard.
Adrenaline floods through, making my breath come faster but now I can’t breathe. The bag is too tight on my head. The rough fabric scratches my skin while trying to work its way into my mouth constantly.
“Brett, knock it off,” not-Brett says.
“Screw you, Jeff. I’m teaching this bitch a lesson,” he says.
The van lurches to a stop with a loud squeaking of brakes and bad suspension.
Hints of light leak through small holes in the bag over my head.
I’m breathing fast—too fast—but can’t get a full breath. Gagging from the smells, I struggle to make myself calm and slow my breathing, lowering my heart rate.
I don’t know which side of the van the door is on.
Will he come at me from the side? Will he come from the front?
I twist in the seat, trying to position myself to fight him off but I don’t know where to face.
Metal clicks on metal.
A ratcheting sound cuts through my panic.
Silence crashes down afterward.
My own breathing is loud in my ears but beyond it, I hear the two men breathing.
What is going on? Not knowing is worse, I think.
Are they going to kill me? Was that the order all along?
I didn’t think my father would.
Tears stream down my face unbidden, leaving cold trails across my hot skin. They fall into my open, gasping mouth, stinging my tongue with their salty bittersweetness.
Was it worth it? I don’t even know if Tommy will survive or not.
They’ll look for him. That I know. Will he be smart enough to stay away?
Oh god, will they use his mother to pull him out?
These men are cold, calculating, and have no qualms about hurting anyone.
I thought I’d get away with it—I’m his daughter, for god’s sake. The worst I expected was for him to rough me up, scream and yell, throw his fists around.
It wasn’t supposed to end this way.
“Don’t do it, Brett,” Jeff says, his voice quiet.
A quiet voice is the worst.
The men that work for my father are like him—hot-blooded. They get mad and they’ll beat you or break things.
They go quiet, someone is about to die.
Maybe it’s a reverence for the act of killing, or maybe it’s some weird trained thing. Either way, I’ve heard it too many times. I’ve heard my father’s voice do that right before he orders a death.
I quit moving, holding as still as I can while trying to slow my breathing so I can hear them better.
“You sure you want to do that, Jeff?” Brett asks.
“I ain’t doing nothing,” Jeff answers. “You’re in control here.”
“I’m not the one with a gun out,” Brett says.
“You’re right,” Jeff says. “But you’re the one who decides what happens next. You open that door, I kill you. You put this van in gear, we go on our way, and I put this gun away.”
I can hear Brett breathing. No one says anything.
I’m too scared to move, holding my own breath as I wait for what comes next.
“You’re an asshole,” Brett says.
He shifts in his seat and the van drops into gear then lurches into motion.
The gun clicks, and there’s a shuffle as the tension fades.
My heart slows, at last, leaving me alone with the fear.
I still can’t believe I’m here.
The uncertainty is what makes it worse.
My bladder is so full it aches, and my stomach is a roiling pit of acid.
“Hey, I still have to pee,” I say.
“Hold it,” Jeff says.
“We need gas soon,” Brett says.
“There, let me pee at the gas station. How far are we going anyway?”
“Thought you gassed up before we left,” Jeff says.
“This ain’t a fucking Prius,” Brett snaps.
Jeff doesn’t say anything back.
If I can get them to let me out, I can make a run for it; I don’t think they’ll shoot me. They wouldn’t take me this far out if that was their orders. I’d be dead already.
Of course, that doesn’t mean they won’t shoot me. There’d be consequences, but I don’t know if they care.
Bile rises in my throat as I remember him standing over me…
“She did what?” my father says quietly.
Paulie stares at me from where he’s leaning against the wall.
My father’s consigliere has cold, steel blue eyes that dig into you. There’s not an ounce of compassion in them or in him. My father is cold, but Paulie is liquid nitrogen—like he was born broken, missing some key ingredient that makes humans human.
“Tipped the boy off,” Paulie answers him.
“You sure?” Father asks Paulie, not me.
“Wouldn’t bring it to you otherwise,” Paulie answers.
Father leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of his face.
I can’t stop myself from shifting my feet; my nerves are a mess.
The way they’re looking at me makes me want to run screaming from the room but I can’t. It would be the worst thing I could do.
“Isabella,” Father says.
“Yes, Daddy?”
“You went against your family. Have I raised you no better than this?”
It doesn’t matter what I say, I’m screwed. I’m so, so screwed.
He stares at me, waiting for an answer.
The clock ticks loudly, each movement of its gears sounding like the approach of impending doom.
I shrug, swallowing hard and trying to meet his eyes, but I can’t hold his gaze.
He sighs.
“Children,” he says breaking the silence between us at last. “I am an indulgent father, perhaps too much so. She gets her stubbornness from her mother, god rest her soul.”
“Daddy… ”
He cuts me off with a glare.
I know better than to speak when he is speaking.
My stomach clenches tight as nausea grips it, and cold sweat forms.
He stands and walks around his desk, moving to stand in front of me.
“It’s time my daughter learned a lesson.”
He’s not talking to me but to Paulie.
He looks at me, and it feels like the floor opens up underneath me.
I wish it would—anything to escape his gaze.
“Isabella, I love you—you are my only daughter. But never side against the family. Ever.”
He grabs my shoulders and pulls me close.
The smells of bourbon and stale cigar smoke overwhelm me as he kisses each of my cheeks then my forehead.