Dimitri
Nine long months later…
Ignoring India’s concerning glance, I scream for the driver to stop. It’s pissing down rain, and we’re running late to a function with a mafioso seeking a new realm in a town he isn’t wanted, but the redhead standing under the awning of a Publix supermarket has too many similarities with Audrey to ignore. Same svelte frame, fiery red hair, and enticing curves I’m certain won’t alter no matter how many kids she rears.
“Dimitri… it isn’t her—” I lodge the remainder of India’s words into the back of her throat with a stern glare. She may very well be Audrey’s neighbor/friend, but she has no right to speak to me in such a manner.
Until Audrey and Fien are found, my search won’t end. I thought India understood this. If she doesn’t, she should leave now, because my belief that she understood my quest is the sole reason I’ve kept her around this long. She has a face that encourages visitors to our side of the pond, but her beauty is a dime a dozen—easily replaceable.
It will do her best to remember that.
While raking a shaky hand through my hair, I growl out, “I’ll never stop looking for her.”
“I know that.”
India scoots closer to my side of the bench seat. We’ve put bells and whistles on tonight’s festivities. A stretch limousine, whores by the bucketloads, and a woman who will never eye him as she forever eyes me. In a way, India should consider herself lucky Audrey classed her as a friend, or her unwanted sideways glances the past nine months would have caused her demise. She’s trying to profit from her friend’s downfall, or worse, use me as part of her grief process.
If I were to believe rumors, India’s husband has been presumed dead as long as Audrey has been missing. Although I feel sorry for India, I willnottolerate her suggestion that two broken hearts can meld into one.
Alas, I have to keep my cards close to my chest until it’s my turn to show my hand.
“But I also know the redhead isn’t her, Dimitri. Audrey only cut her hair the week she…” my tightened jaw slackens when tears well in India’s eyes, “… went missing.”
Just like me, she refuses to say Audrey is dead. Her legs were as still as Fien’s when she was torn from her stomach, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’m granted confirmation on the third of every month that my daughter is alive, so who’s to say Audrey didn’t find the same strength?
Despite having the weaponry and capital for a century-long war, and a crew of blood-thirsty men, Rimi has yet to man up. Although it frustrates me to no end, I can’t say I don’t understand his tactic. Why risk a net profit of 1.8 million dollars annually when all they have to do is provide proof my daughter is alive?
My grandfather would roll in his grave if he knew how cartels were being run these days. In his era, it was about infrastructure, drugs, and weapons. Now nothing but profit is on the mind, and innocents like my daughter get caught up in the bullshit.
Although pissed, I’ll find Fien, and when I do, there will be hell to pay.
The old saying, ‘Before you embark on revenge, you should dig two graves.’ I’ll need more than two. At last count, the Castros were sitting at eighty-nine men. That will take my quota to over ninety because despite what my father says, the Castros aren’t acting alone. Rimi isn’t smart enough to pull off a stunt like this without help. His family has only been in this industry for the past twenty years. Exploits like this require decades of experience. If it were simple, my father would have dabbled in it years ago.
He learned nothing from our family’s downfall and is forever looking for a way to make a quick profit. I could challenge his leadership, however my bend of the rules wouldn’t have the same outcome my father achieved. He didn’t kill the leader of the allied crew. If he had, he would have been dead no matter what.
After laboring my jaw side to side, I get back to the task at hand. “I’m not saying she’s Audrey, but there’s no harm in checking.”
Before India can issue a single worry I see in her eyes, I snatch up an umbrella from the storage in the door, then slide out the back seat of the limousine. With rain making it seem as if winter arrived early, I tug up the collar of my coat, hiding both my neck tattoos and goosebumps that have nothing to do with the winds whipping in from the east.
Nothing says gangbanger like a set of neck tattoos.
“Audrey…” I won’t lie, my heart stops beating when the redhead commences pivoting my way. India is right, her hair is a little longer than Audrey’s, and more an orange-red than a sapphire coloring, but their similarities are uncanny.
“Dimitri, hi,” greets a woman I swear I’ve seen before.
It takes me a few seconds to click on to who she is, but when I do, I am shocked. I’m not just chasing ghosts of my past anymore. I’ve caught up to them. “Justine.” She appears stunned I remember who she is. I don’t know why. We were born in the same hospital and attended the same school. I’ve just had my head up my ass too long for immediate recognition. “What are you doing out this way? I didn’t think the Walsh’s would ever leave Ravenshoe.”
When she smiles, I discover how well she grew into her buck teeth. She’s always been beautiful, but her legs were miles too long for her body, and her front teeth seemed to have a mind of their own. I can’t say I fared much better during the awkward preteen years, but my family name stopped it from being mentioned—as did my fists.
I stop smirking about times bygone when Justine discloses, “They still live in Ravenshoe. I’m heading home for Thanksgiving weekend. Thought I better grab some supplies first. As my mother always says, an empty hand is an unwelcoming one.”
“Do you live around here?” Shock echoes in my tone. Justine has four brothers. That’s the equivalent of living in a convent when you’re both the youngestandthe only girl in your family. Why do you think it took me so long to realize she’s grown into her rabbit teeth? I wasn’t sure getting through her brothers would be worth the effort. Despite the heavy knot in my stomach advising me differently, I’m slapping myself up the back of the head right now.
Locks of red lava fall onto Justine’s shoulders when she notches her chin to our right. “I’m a sophomore at Eastwood State. It’s—”
“An easy hour drive to Ravenshoe,” I interrupt, unsurprised. Her brothers would never let her lead get too long.
Justine smiles again like she heard my inner monologue. “Yeah.” After a nervy swallow, she asks, “How about you? Last I heard, you were in New York.”
