Menace (Scarlet Scars Book 1)

by J. M. Darhower

  He winces, clutching the bridge of his nose.

  “Nothing to say? Speak now or forever shut your mouth.”

  Nothing.

  The door to the club opens on the three-minute mark, noise filtering in, familiar voices greeting my ears. My men are here. Amello grows even tenser, his shoulders squaring as he holds his head up. His men are outnumbered now, so I know they’re not going to try shit.

  “So, nice talk,” I say, lowering my gun, aiming it at the floor. “My condolences on your club, but it wasn’t her fault. It was yours. Maybe if you weren’t so fucking weak, Georgie, people wouldn’t do this shit to you all the time.”

  I turn, walking to the doorway, glancing at my guys. Amello’s men are still lurking, off to the side, watching.

  “Which one, boss?” Seven asks, looking around.

  I point to a black leather couch nearby, one with gold accents. “That one will work.”

  A few of my guys pick it up, moving it out to a truck outside, one of their personal vehicles, I’m guessing. I don’t know the specifics. I don’t micromanage shit. I just give the orders. It’s up to them to figure out the rest.

  Seven lingers, playing my shadow as usual.

  I’m about to tuck my gun back into my waistband when I hear a voice behind me in the office, Amello muttering under his breath, “Bitch is lucky I didn’t turn her over to them sooner.”

  Uh-oh.

  I turn to the side, aiming the gun back into the office, but I don’t even look, because frankly, it wouldn’t matter. Shooting blindly, it’s kind of like Russian Roulette. If the bullets all miss him, well, hell, guess it’s his lucky day.

  BANG.

  BANG.

  BANG.

  I unload the gun, bullet after bullet, pulling the trigger in rapid succession until it does nothing but click.

  CLICK.

  CLICK.

  CLICK.

  His men react, going for weapons, but my men are around, so well, they punk out, as expected. Seven draws his gun as the others rush in, the group locked in a showdown as I slowly turn the rest of the way around.

  “Aw, look at that…” Amello’s slumped in his chair with a hole in his face, damn near right between his eyes. Couldn’t have been more perfect if I tried. “Bullseye.”

  I slide my gun in my waistband, turning back to the others, zeroing in on Amello’s men. “You’ve got two choices, fellas. Either man-up and pull the trigger or put the guns down and get out of here. You’ve got about, oh, thirty seconds before I decide whether you live or die, so choose quickly.” I glance at my watch. “Tick… tick… tick…”

  They run. I’m not surprised. Scatter like cockroaches when a light flicks on. My guys, they leave once the others flee, all except Seven, who waits for me to go before him.

  “How’d you get here, boss?” Seven asks when we step outside. “Do you need a ride?”

  “No, Scarlet’s…” I look around, up and down the block. She’s not here. The BMW isn’t parked where it had been, some piece of shit Honda now there, and it doesn’t take a genius to riddle this one out. The woman took off in my car. Goddamn it, Scarlet. “Actually, make that a yes.”

  I’ve been told a time or two that I spiral.

  Zero to sixty in the blink of an eye.

  One second, I’m perfectly fine, laughing, smiling. The next, I’ve got my hands around someone’s throat, choking the life out of them.

  There’s probably a name for whatever’s wrong with me, but I’ve got no interest in a diagnosis. I don’t need treatment. Until people stop being ignorant, I’m going to keep on getting pissed. No little mood-stabilizing pill can stop that from happening.

  But still, sometimes, I can feel it. I feel myself spiraling hard, and falling far, making mountains out of molehills that even I struggle to climb.

  And today? I’m feeling it.

  My hands shake.

  I can hardly see straight.

  Shaky fingers reach down, picking up a puzzle piece, and I try it in a few places before giving up, moving to another, and another, and yet a-fucking-nother, before finally snapping one in. Adrenaline still surges through my veins, not yet faded. I’m trying to calm down, focusing on my puzzle in the dim library, and it’s helping a bit to keep me from lashing out but it’s doing a shit job of clearing my mind of all the chaos.

  “Boss?” Seven calls out, tapping on the doorframe from out in the hallway. “Your gun.”

  I glance at him. He cleaned it for me, reloading the thing. I’ve come to trust him a lot, I realize. If he makes a mistake, next time I pull that trigger something might not happen, and where’s the fun in that?

  I hold my hand out. “Give it here.”

  He steps into the library, approaching, slipping the gun into my palm. I grip it tightly, not putting it away yet, just feeling it in my hand.

  “The guys switched the couches out,” Seven says. “What do you want to be done with the old one?”

  “Just throw it out by the curb.”

  He nods. “Yes, boss.”

  Seven lingers. I can feel his gaze. Setting the gun on the corner of the table, letting go of it, I turn to him. “Something you care to talk about?”

  “I’m surprised you let those guys go this afternoon,” he says. “You let them live.”

  “So?”

  “So you’ve been giving a lot of second chances lately.”

  “Is that a problem for you?” I ask. “Figured you’d be happy to have less dead bodies around, since I’m pretty sure murder is a sin in every religion, including yours.”

  “It’s not a problem for me,” he says. “I just want to be sure it won’t lead to a problem for you.”

  I stare at him. “You think I’m getting soft?”

  “Not at all,” he says. “But every second chance you give is just another opportunity for that person to harm you again.”

  “Yeah, well, that sure keeps things interesting, doesn’t it? A win was always a win to me, no matter how it came about, but where’s the fun in winning if it’s always by default? If I’m the only man left in the race, does it even really matter if I cross the finish line? Because I’m not entirely sure that’s a win for me anymore, Seven. I think everyone else just lost.”

  He doesn’t seem to get the distinction. In fact, he’s looking at me like I might be going crazy. I’ve done a lot in the presence of this man. I’ve slit throats, stolen money, fucked women, and blown up stuff, and he never once looked at me like he’s looking at me right now.

  Like I’m making no goddamn sense.

  Like maybe it’s his right to question me.

  Nuh-uh, ‘fraid not.

  I snatch the gun from the corner of the table, switching the safety off before cocking it, pointing it at his feet.

  BANG.

  BANG.

  BANG.

  He jumps back, out of the way, his reflexes fast, as three shots tear through the floor of the house, right where he was standing. The bewilderment leaves his face real fucking quick, replaced with one I’m used to seeing aimed at me: fear.

  Just like that, he’s sweating profusely, eyes wide, stance guarded, like he wants to get the hell away from me but he knows he can’t go, not like this.

  I have a lot of respect for Seven, respect others didn’t seem to have for him. Once a cop, always a cop. That’s what they say. NYPD gets in their blood and the only way to get it out is to spill every last drop. But I’ve always liked that about him. He is who he is. He’s a man that would do anything for his family, and I mean anything, and I’ve been able to use that loyalty to my advantage.

  But don’t think he’s indispensable.

  Don’t think I need him.

  Don’t think I won’t shoot him in the fucking foot if he’s not smart enough to jump out of the way of the bullet flying toward him.

  I’m not training monkeys here. This isn’t a three-ring circus. The man’s gotta be able to follow his gut.

  “What gets you out of bed in t
he morning, Seven?”

  “My family,” he says quietly. “They have needs. It’s my responsibility to make sure they’re taken care of, no matter what.”

  That’s the answer I expected.

  “Do you know what gets me out of bed in the morning?”

  He doesn’t even hesitate before saying, “Leo.”

  I laugh and set the gun back down, seeing him visibly relax once it’s out of my hand. “I wish I could agree with that. I wish I could say he gets me out of bed. He used to, you know, but he’s grown up, and when it comes down to it, he doesn’t need me. Not like he used to. He keeps me grounded, keeps me from doing a lot of things I shouldn’t, but that’s not because he needs me, Seven. It’s because I raised him right, and if I become a danger to him, he knows to cut his losses. Snip, snip.”

  “So what gets you out of bed?”

  I sit down, not sure how to answer that, so I just go with the word that makes the most sense: “Hope.”

  Surprise flickers across his face.

  That, he didn’t expect.

  “Hope,” he repeats.

  “Hope that maybe today will be exciting,” I say. “Maybe today I won’t be so goddamn bored. Maybe, if I get my ass out of bed, something will actually happen. Maybe something will get my blood pumping and I’ll feel things instead of wasting away in tedium. Maybe, just maybe, today will be different and I’ll finally find a real reason to get out of bed in the morning. I don’t begrudge you your purpose, Seven. I respect it. You do what you have to. But don’t walk in my house, questioning what I’m doing, because if you step on my toes, I’ll shoot yours off. You got me?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  Just as he says that, a ringing shatters the silence. Sighing, I pull the phone from my pocket. Blocked caller. I toss it at Seven, annoyed. “Take this fucking thing before I break it.”

  He catches it, nodding in acknowledgement, before leaving the library.

  I sit there once he’s gone, listening as the guys move around the house, making themselves at home as usual, as I stare at the fresh holes in the floor. It’s funny, I think, how looks can be so deceiving. Here we are in suburbia, with picket fences and big backyards, perfection from the outside, yet nobody knows what goes on within the walls.

  I work on my puzzle some more, trying to distract myself, and hear the front door open after a while. I figure it’s Leo getting home from work, so I’m surprised when tapping echoes through the library, followed by the soft feminine voice. “Knock, knock...”

  Scarlet.

  I don’t acknowledge her, and she stands there, quietly waiting, and waiting, and waiting, until her patience grows thin. Groaning, she shoves away from the doorframe and takes a single step closer, right over the threshold.

  Grabbing the gun, I cock it, aiming it her direction, my finger on the trigger, ready to pull it when she takes an immediate step back.

  “Whoa, buddy,” she says, raising her hands defensively. “Testy today.”

  “You stole my car.”

  “I borrowed it,” she says, pulling the keys from her pocket and holding them up. “It’s right outside.”

  I look at her, raising my eyebrows, voice dead serious as I repeat myself. “You stole my car.”

  “No,” she says. “I didn’t. You told me to do whatever I wanted. Those were your exact words. Do whatever you want to do, Scarlet.”

  “I didn’t mean take my car!”

  “Yeah, well, you really didn’t specify, did you? ‘Do whatever you want to do’ means I could do whatever I wanted to do.”

  “And what, you wanted to steal my car?”

  “I wanted to drive it,” she says, “so I borrowed it.”

  My fingertips are tingling, my heart pounding hard. The adrenaline, as it merges with the anger, is one hell of a rush. It almost makes me sick to my stomach, the way it takes over my insides.

  God, I want to shoot this woman...

  “So you borrowed it,” I say, repeating her words.

  “Got you on a technicality, huh?” she says as she leans against the doorframe, like she’s not worried at all.

  “You think I won’t kill you? Do you honestly think I won’t pull this trigger, technicality or not?”

  “I think you might,” she says.

  “That doesn’t scare you?”

  “Should it?”

  She sounds genuine, asking that, like she really wants to know if she should be scared. I want to say yes, it should terrify her, because it terrifies damn near everybody else, but I don’t know... would I be scared? I don’t think so. The fear of dying left me long ago, the first time death knocked at my door. I don’t know exactly what she’s been through, but being as the head of the Russian mob is currently hunting her, I’m thinking shooting her in the face would be merciful compared to what he might want her for.

  But mercy killings aren’t really my thing.

  “Where’d you go?” I ask, lowering the gun, setting it back down on the table.

  “Home,” she says.

  “Home?”

  “Yes.”

  I motion for her to come in, and she strolls closer as I say, “I wasn’t aware you had one of those.”

  She pauses in front of me. “Doesn’t everybody?”

  She’s not making much sense at the moment.

  She seems almost... dazed.

  I grasp her chin, tilting her head as I pull her face closer to me. Her eyes are bloodshot, glassy. “Are you high?”

  She laughs bitterly at my question. “No.”

  “There’s something off about you.”

  Scarlet clutches my wrist, trying to pry my hand away. “I’ve had a rough day, so excuse me for not being my bright-eyed, bushy-tailed self, Lorenzo.”

  I let go when she averts her gaze.

  She’s been crying, I realize. She sucked it the fuck up before walking in here, but there’s no doubt she was crying.

  I look at my puzzle, grabbing a piece, trying it in a few places. “Where’s home, Scarlet? With the Russian asshole?”

  She laughs bitterly again as she takes a step over, helping herself to my chair. Tilting her head back, she scrubs her hands over her face. “No, not with him.”

  “Good,” I say, “because if I find out you took my car for a rendezvous with that jackass, I will shoot you, technicality or not.”

  “You think I’d…? That I would really… with him?” She blinks rapidly, staring at me, looking like she might try to cry again, this time in front of me. “That’s just... wow. You don’t understand. You just don’t get it. If you did, you wouldn’t think... ugh!”

  She throws her hands up, shaking her head. Okay, she didn’t cry, but I definitely offended her.

  “So, tell me about home.”

  “Do you really give a shit?”

  “Maybe.”

  She’s quiet for a moment.

  I continue working on my puzzle.

  “It’s a white house with a bright red door and wooden floors. It’s small, I guess, but it’s two stories tall, two bedrooms, one bathroom, you know, with everything else that comes in a house. It has a lot of little spaces, cabinets and closets and cubby holes.”

  “And that’s home?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “Because home is where the heart is, I guess,” she says.

  “And what, your heart’s here? I need some elaboration. You’re weirding me the fuck out with this.”

  She laughs at that. “No, but it’s not there, either. Not anymore. It’s just... it’s hard to explain. I wish it was still there, and seeing the place, well, it just reminds me that it’s gone.”

  “So why go there?”

  “Because I need to remember.”

  “Remember what?”

  “That I have a heart still out there somewhere.”

  I don’t know what to say to that.

  Anything I do say will probably make me sound like an asshole.

  Because it
’s easier, you know, to forget the heart exists at all.

  But I’m getting the idea that her heart may be what gets her out of bed in the morning, so I won’t begrudge her that. To each their own.

  The front door to the house opens again. I hear a commotion, something getting the guys riled up, voices loud.

  I pick up the gun again, thinking I probably ought to just glue the fucking thing in my hand with the way today is going, and step out of the library, pausing in the hallway, glancing toward the front door, straight to someone I quite frankly didn’t expect to ever see again.

  Three.

  He looks at me as soon as I aim the gun. Fear flashes in his eyes as he raises his hands. “No, no, wait! Please!”

  “A week,” I say. “You’ve been gone for seven days.”

  “I know,” he says, “but it wasn’t my fault!”

  He looks pretty damn rough. Someone worked him over good. Fresh bruises. Old bruises. He’s filthy. He stinks. I can smell him the whole way down the hall. It makes my nose twitch. “Whose fault is it?”

  “The Russian,” he says. “Aristov.”

  Huh.

  “He snatched me that night at Limerence. Me and this girl, we were going at it, next thing I know I wake up in some fucking basement, chained up like a dog.”

  “So, what, you got roofied? Kept as a pet for the Russians? What did they want?”

  “Her.”

  Three’s gaze flickers past me. I don’t have to turn around to know Scarlet will be standing there.

  Of course he wants her.

  “He just kept saying she was his,” Three continues. “He wanted to find her. He wanted me to help.”

  “And did you?”

  Shock passes across his face. “What? Fuck no! I told him to fuck off. He said he just needed an address, that he’d do the rest, that I didn’t have to get my hands dirty, but I wasn’t telling him shit.”

  “So how’d you get out of there?”

  “I guess after a week, he realized I wasn’t cracking, so he let me go.”

  “He let you go,” I say with disbelief. “Which means he probably followed you.”

  He shakes his head adamantly. “He didn’t, I swear. Nobody did, I made sure of it! I took five trains and three cabs, even rerouted into the city, just in case. He was going to kill me, I think, but he decided to have me bring you a message. He said—“