Her lips curve into a satisfied smile, telling me that there’s no going back.
We’re in this together now.
For better.
Or for much, much worse.
11
“You’re a force, sweetheart. One day the whole damn world will know it.”
—ROBERT MONROE
Constance
Maximoand I climb into the back of the black Escalade Enzo brought around the front of the house.
Last night still clings to me, the scent of Maximo on my skin, in the ache between my legs, in the way he keeps stealing glances at me, as if we crossed into something neither of us is ready to name.
His thigh sits flush against mine; the contact is deliberate, not accidental. It feels like a silent promise, one that says,I’m here and I’m not leaving your side.
Maximo’s hands are still red and raw frombeating Pellegrini. He hides the pain well, but I see it in the stiff way he occasionally flexes them.
As soon as we leave the driveway, Maximo pulls up a contact on his phone, saved as “Dockmaster” and calls him.
“Are they still there?” he asks whoever picks up the phone. He listens intently for a moment, then says, “Keep an eye on them from a distance and keep Paul informed. Either you or he call me if there’s any change. Understand?”
After hanging up, he looks over to me and explains, “One of the dockmasters and several of the assistants are on our payroll. Besides helping me move product through the port, they keep an eye out for suspicious activity, like large gatherings of Russians.”
“How often do you get calls about these types of gatherings? Do you have a problem with Russian gangsters pushing in on your territory?” I ask him.
“It’s been a few years, but this isn’t entirely unexpected,” he admits. “Last year, I made sizable campaign donations to my friend Arthur Darby, who was running for mayor.”
That name sounds familiar. “Didn’t he lose to Byron Mathews?”
“He did. I bet you can’t guess who was funding Mayor Mathews’s campaign? I’ll give you a hint; he ran on an anti-corruption platform. He promised to break the grip of organized crime in the city. The hypocrite doesn’t want to get rid of our enterprises. He wants the Russians to take over so he can continue to get his cut.”
“You don’t think he’s actively part of this do you?” As I ask the question it feels like a vice clamps down on my heart as anxiety squeezes me.
“I don’t know. If we can grab Kirill and get him to talk, we’ll find out,” Maximo remarks. “Now, when we get there, I wantyou to stay?—”
“I’m not staying behind,” I interrupt him. “Don’t even say it. I’m coming with you.”
“I was going to say, stay behind me. You’ve got a vest and a gun, just in case you need them. Let my crew do the heavy lifting.”
I give him a curt nod and then draw the Glock he gave me from the holster at my side. I check the clip and rack the slide, then gingerly place it back. I spend the rest of the trip trying to quell the tremors that are tearing through my belly as fear grips me.
Enzo glances back at us in the rear-view mirror. “You sure about this Maximo? I’m not trying to second-guess you, but this could get ugly. No offense to Miss Monroe, but this ain’t no place for a lady.”
“You and your boys do what I pay you for, and let me take care of Constance,” Maximo replies in a tone that prohibits further discussion.
By the time we’re almost at Pier 17, the SUV feels like it’s vibrating with anticipation. I look out the window past him, my eyes fixed on the passing blur of city lights, my stomach twisting tighter with every block. Maximo doesn’t say anything else as we reach the docks and begin driving down past the warehouses. He’s wearing the same black bulletproof vest as the rest of his men, a matte pistol holstered at his side, and an extra magazine strapped to the front. I match him move for move, checking the straps on the vest Enzo gave me in the basement before we left the house.
He glances at me when I check the safety on my weapon for the fifth or sixth time, but he doesn’t give me a reassuring smile, or even a nod of approval. His expression as he stares at me is completely inscrutable as we head into this ordeal. And that alone sends a shiver down my spine. This is the face of a killerunmasked. One I’ve let kiss me, touch me, sleep next to me. And I have zero regrets.
The docks are quiet when we finally get there, the salty air heavy and sticky, mixing with the faint chemical tang of gasoline. Somewhere in the dark water below, a buoy clangs lazily against a piling.
“We move in two teams,” Enzo says.
