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“You guys get what I asked for?” I ask while prepping Salty’s body to be chopped up.
“Yeah. Took a few days, but we got it.” Ace pulls out his phone and opens a folder full of images. “These are the guys gatekeeping imports at JFK, Manhattan ports, and trucks. They’re loyal only to him. But that only goes so far if they ain’t breathing.”
“You have their names? Names are most important.” I don’t like how quiet they are. “Yo!” I tap the cleaver I’m holding against the metal table in front of me.
“Nicknames, street names, yeah. But getting their Russian born ones? They’re like ghosts, Bull,” Ratchet says.
“That’ll have to do,” I say.
“What are you thinking?”
“It’s all for negotiation. Crippling Patrovski is a last resort. It does us no good with his connections dead, but it ruins him completely. He has much more to lose than we do here. So, pray that my tactics work. ’Cause if they do, we’ll all be swimming in gold.”
Ace and Ratchet grin at one another.
“Get Hairtrigger and Soap down here,” I demand.
There are two reasons I’m asking for Marco in particular. One? Because no one is better at setting up a kill. Two? I need him busy.
We clean the body of Salty Dom while waiting for our two hitmen to arrive. And when I say clean, I mean dismember and get ready for the big show.
Eventually Marco’s angry footsteps come bowling down the stairs. I keep my back to him, knowing he’s been on edge about me for a good while now. Time to let him in, this way he doesn’t question what’s really been going on.
“Yo, Cast. The fuck?” He walks up to the head staring at us on the table. “Is that?”
I take off my gloves, turn around, and pat him once on the shoulder. “You’re going to have my back in this one, brother. You’re going to do what you do best, or I’m going to wind up with a bullet right between my eyes.” I press my finger into my forehead.
“I was wondering what the fuck was going on with you. All of you.” He points his finger around the room, but he’s smiling. That’s good. “You fuckers were planning something big, huh? We leveling the Russian?”
“Better,” I say. “We’re going to own him.”
Chapter 19
Gia
The last several nights at Bangos have been pretty status quo. Except for my brother cornering me on my first day back, all has been quiet. Well, not quiet. The occasional douchebag frequents here more than any other restaurant that I ever worked, and my boss has been more attentive since I disappeared with Stacey a week ago, but other than that? It’s a good distraction from heartache.
I miss Castor terribly. He’s texted me a number of times, small things really. A few apologies, a number of ‘I miss you’ guilt trips, even some offerings to eat in, watch a movie – a movie on the couch, like normal people! – just so we can talk. He says he misses me and wants to make this thing between us work. I’ve ignored it all, unable to think past the screams.
Now that the image of a tortured Russian is a little less vibrant in my head, the big golden brute is taking over once more. It’s bullshit, really. Why can’t he fade away like a normal crush does?
He’s a murderer for God’s sake.
I’m a particular kind of mess today. The AC is broken, it’s busier than usual, and of course this all happens on a freak 70-degree spring evening. A bead of sweat tickles my back as I balance five plates on my arms. There’s a scrunch in my flats from sweat, and Stacey has been buzzing in my ear all night about the buff Wall Street dude in suspenders and an undershirt, revealing a veiny set of biceps.
“You’re so easy.” I chuckle over my shoulder while she follows me.
“Hey. No judgement. You had your fun with your stud, now mama’s gotta get some.” Stacey kisses me on the cheek, grabs all my plates, and whisks them to the table I have to sacrifice for her mid-serve. I scoff with a smile and head back to the kitchen. This means I have to pick up one of hers and complicate my whole routine.
All things considered, it’s fine. So long as no one is being burnt with liquid gold or assaulting me in my car, I’m good.
The number of draft text messages I have ready to shoot off to him is borderline insane. Landscapes aren’t doing it anymore either. The space behind my couch is getting pretty filled up with crumpled, dark-style portraits. He’s corrupting my mind.
“I’m falling for you,” his voice replays in my head, followed by images of his body lathered in sweat. Another warm shiver rocks me to the point I nearly drop a hot plate of filet mignon. I don’t know if it’s hormones, or what, but he’s nearly ruined four sets of panties without even being present for it. And wrapped up in that heat-filled desire, I just want to sink into his arms, hear about how his day went, and just to be present with him, like his messages keep showing he wants with me as well.
The man literally saved my life. Even if I keep telling myself he caused it, that doesn’t erase his dedication to me.
I bite my lip and go check my tables to get out of my own head. Every time I see bright headlights turning outside, my heart skips a beat – because I secretly wish it were him. There’s just the occasional Marco posted up on a faraway wall in the shadows, smoking a cigarette. Though come to think of it… No sign of him either the last two days.
