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“My angel wings.”
Christopher’s hands spanned her shoulder bones. There was no place else for her to go. She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, hating this man touching her, but she needed to get his guard down. A few more drinks and he’d be out. The sound of the liquid echoed in her ear.
The movement distracted his eyes for a moment, but not for long because the door opened. The two of them turned their head as the door widened enough for three of Christopher’s men, Tito in the center. Their eyes locked and she had to remind herself of his confession in the alley. The undercover agent gave her a slight wink.
“What happened to knocking?” Christopher barked and spun around.
The three men assessed the situation, Tito with the most scrutiny. A genuine blush of shame crept across her face. She knew the intimate situation looked bad. Christopher had her practically pinned against the wall while he tried to make out with her. There was no time to explain.
“Boss, we got a problem,” the man to Tito’s right stammered. “Melo Moorehouse is missing.”
“What?” asked Christopher, crossing the room to stand in front of his men. “He was with you,” he said to Tito, “what the hell happened?”
“We went to the restaurant like you said, Jefe, I went in, didn’t find nothing and when I came back out, Melo was gone.”
Was Moorehouse the guy she took out? What did Tito do with him?
Alfaro had questions of his own. He ran his hands across his head and asked in a hoarse whisper, “Was it Marchette?”
Clearly the small town gangster was petrified of the mobster. The side of his face in the light paled and his eyes grew wide. His hand, held down by his side, began to shake.
Tito shrugged, “Well…”
Again, there was no time to explain. The hotel doors opened again. Flanked by twice the amount of guards than Christopher’s, a tall lean figure strolled casually into the room. Leonardo Marchette.
“Marchette,” Christopher said boldly. His back straightened in determination not to sound weak in front of the crazy man.
The man, the myth, the legend, strolled into the suite as if he owned the place. He wasn’t as big and bad as Harley imagined, but his cold dead black eyes sent chills down her spine. Here was the man who’d inflicted so much pain to her family. Her arm squeezed her handbag while she contemplated how to pull out her weapon.
“Clearly you are not serious about doing business with me,” Leonardo’s voice was cold and over enunciated.
“What?” Christopher laughed nervously. The light from the foyer highlighted the red tint rising to his ears. Christopher was scared. “I am looking forward to working with you.”
“You have yet to take care of the problem. Need I handle everything?”
“I’ve got eyes on him already,” Christopher negotiated. “He won’t get far. I’ve got something to keep him quiet.”
With Christopher’s back turned, she couldn’t see what he mouthed or any gestures. She assumed Christopher meant Javier. But when Leonardo Marchette tossed an icy glance toward Harley, a slight shiver spilled down her spine. She squared her shoulders. She’d be damned if she let some man scare her—even if he pulled out his big ass knife and began picking the dirt underneath his fingernails. Didn’t Dante say he liked to play with his victims before killing them? Her ease did not lift when Leonardo handed the knife to Christopher and reached into the lining of his jacket.
“I’m working my ass off to set things up. My father got wind of where I am and has decided to play family-vacation time down here. Between father son bonding over parasailing and getting hounded by lunatic Rossi, I don’t appreciate you being here playing house with some hooker? We’ve got a warehouse full of women down at the docks and you pick this?”
“She’s not a hooker,” Christopher held his hands up in the air, hopelessly trying to block Harley’s vision. “She’s Rossi’s wife.”
Time stood still while Marchette processed the information. Harley eyed his hand still in his jacket. Her gut told her things were about to go FUBAR—fucked up beyond all recognition—she backed up against the glass wall until she could go no further. When Marchette pulled his hand out of his jacket, she wasn’t the least bit surprised that attached to his hand was a .38 with a white pearl handle.
“Perhaps his mourning her death will buy us some time.”
Harley heard the gun-fire and felt the glass break behind her.
Chapter 13
Dante figured something was up when Tito called for the Undesireables to meet in his hotel room before making his grand announcement. When he broke the news at the crack of dawn it took three of the largest men of the group to hold Dante down. Jerraud Anderson, TJ Anderson, and Roman pinned Dante face down on the ground with his hands behind his back. Damn shame to treat their second in command, Dante thought. Cole, first in command, sat in the oversized chair in front of him while Dante tried to settle himself down.
When they first broke the news of Harley’s death, Dante stormed into his room and tore everything possible—the bed, the dresser, his clothes, the hangers, and just when he was about to tear the wallpaper down from where he’d punched a hole, the team came in and brought Dante into the living room where Dante continued to terrorize the room until Roman speared and tackled him. His knuckles were bruised, shoulders ached from ramming the walls.
“I need you to keep a calm head,” said Cole.
The room already looked like it’d been trashed by Guns and Roses, pre-break up. Feathers from the couch’s pillows floated to the ground. Elliott Ash stood at the door paying off the bellman sent from the neighbors above, below, across and
