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His smirk fades, and he rises from his seat, trying to look intimidating. My lip curls. At five-ten, Gerard Lafayette is exactly my height. With his double chin and the paunch stuffed beneath his tailored suit, he looks pathetic.
“Nobody will believe the word of a bitter artist with such minuscule talent,” he snarls.
His words hit like a hot knife to the heart, radiating pain across my chest. My insides twist and churn at him denigrating my abilities, and I force myself not to flinch.
When Lafayette's eyes glimmer at having hit a raw nerve, the backs of my eyes sting with the onset of tears.
Jim used to tell me every day that my paintings were shit. He used to punctuate that point with his fists. According to the great detective, real artists painted recognizable subjects like sunflowers or girls wearing pearl earrings.
“That’s right, Ms. Kay,” he says, his smile widening. “Your work only reached five hundred dollars because the market doesn’t reward mediocrity. I gave you a chance because you looked like the kind of artist who would do anything to succeed. I had an entire business strategy worked out to help you reach your goals, but you’ve chosen to be an ungrateful cunt.”
My fury reaches a boiling point and the edges of my vision turn red. Fingers tightening around his desk, I upend the entire thing with a scream. Pens, papers, teacups and hot tea clatter to the marble floor, making Lafayette jump back.
As I walk out into the gallery, he screeches something about calling the cops. The crap on his desk probably cost more than everything I own, but I don’t give a damn. I’m tired of men treating me like I’m nothing more than an object to be used and discarded.
The next asshole who fucks with me will get more than just a scalded dick.
THREE
ROMAN
Some bastard leaked my release to the news. Now, my mugshot is everywhere, along with a list of my illegal businesses. All alleged, of course. The reporters are spinning my release as a failure of the justice system and a threat to the safety of New Alderney.
What they don’t understand is that I’m cleaning up my territory and the streets, eliminating anyone who ever dared to conspire with Capello to steal from my family.
I don’t give a damn about my reputation, but I was hoping to get the jump on my enemies before word spread that I was free. My scientist disappeared one night with her team, with the formula for an extremely potent form of crystal meth and four-million-dollars’ worth of laboratory equipment and supplies.
Which is why I need to multitask.
I shut off the hose, step back, and motion for Cesare to pull the rag off Ricky Ferraro’s head.
The weasel-faced informer lies on the tiled floor, thrashing from side to side within an upturned chair, filling our nightclub’s staff bathroom with gurgled screams.
The Phoenix nightclub is the legitimate business we use to launder drug money, but there’s only so much income this establishment can claim to earn without looking suspicious. Since the majority of our legal operations are under Capello’s portfolio, this is now the unofficial Montesano headquarters.
Cesare yanks off the wet cloth.
“Stop screaming, Ricky,” I say. “The sooner you hand over the passwords, the sooner this will all be over.”
We already have a hacker searching through Ricky’s phones, computers, and tablets, tracking down every scrap of information that could lead us to our missing team of meth cooks.
We once used Ricky to send misinformation to the police. After I got arrested, he switched sides and started funneling details of our operations to Capello.
It’s thanks to him we lost shipments of guns, cocaine, our lab, and our brilliant scientists. Since their meth is still out there on the streets, I can only assume they’re still alive.
Ricky coughs out a mouthful of water. “I swear to God,” he cries. “I don’t know nothing.”
With a snort, Cesare slaps the cloth back over Ricky’s face. “Give me the hose.”
“We need to keep him alive.” I turn on the water and point the spray at Ricky’s mouth and nose.
My little brother steps back and grumbles. I’d ordered both of them to keep their heads down during my incarceration, which is why Cesare is eager to crack heads.
Ricky chokes, convulses, and coughs again, but nothing can keep the fluid from entering his lungs. I shake my head as he bucks in his restraints, trying to break free. Waterboarding isn’t my usual style, but I’m still dissatisfied with how quickly it took Vincent to burn.
A heavy fist pounds on the door and Benito steps inside. I turn off the water and wait for my brother to speak.
“We’ve got the address,” he says.
