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Alessandro
I caught Sierra staring at the dead roses, picking one from the trash. As I stood watching her as she fingered one of the petals before purposely pricking her finger with the sharp point of a thorn. She was silent, unmoving as blood trickled down her finger.
Sighing, I moved toward the kitchen counter, grabbing a paper towel. She allowed me to wrap her finger, slowly lifting her head. “You were right.”
“I’m going to ask you something and I’ll know if you lie to me. Have you been in contact with Tristen?”
She immediately narrowed her eyes, staring at me as if I’d lost my mind. “No.”
I studied the expression on her face as well as the shimmer in her eyes in my search for the truth. “Then I’ll believe you.”
“Wait a minute,” she said as she jerked her hand away. “Now you think I’m working with him?”
“It’s a remote possibility.”
Her reaction was painful to watch, as if I’d struck her with my fist. “How dare you even think that when you were the one who disrupted my life.” She walked closer once again, jerking off the towel and holding up her finger. “I did this on purpose, not because I love the man but because I wanted a painful reminder that he’d lied to me. Every day, every phone call was a fucking lie. And do you want to know what’s hysterical about this sick game? You haven’t lied to me, not really. Other than not telling me who you were at the beginning of this twisted, caustic relationship, you haven’t lied. He did over and over again. As I stared at these dead flowers, I told myself that it was okay to hate him and do you know why, I mean other than the obvious reasons?”
“Why, Sierra?”
“Because hating him would allow me to love you. Isn’t that insane?” She shook her head, keeping the defiant look in her eyes. Then she walked around me in a wide arc.
Love. What the hell was wrong with her? I would only crush her again and again, just like I already had.
“Sierra. I had to know.”
She stopped short, her laugh bitter. “Now you do.”
* * *
Food was the spice of life, according to some intellectual. For me, food usually allowed a potential terse meeting to have some common ground. Even the most brutal man had to eat, refusing to waste a good steak, especially when Wagyu beef was being served alongside a robust cabernet.
As I did with all my enemies, I kept tabs on their lives. Where they lived, what they ate, who they considered their friends, and if they had any dark proclivities. All men had at least one secret they preferred to keep hidden in the padlocked box they’d shoved it into.
The prosecutor who’d handled my case was no exception. Crawford James had an excellent reputation, enjoying the perks surrounding his reputable position, including the influence he had over dozens of associates. He also enjoyed spending money.
As I strolled into Gallagher’s Steakhouse, bypassing the hostess, I inhaled the sensuous scent of beef and smiled. This was the very location I’d gone after arriving in town, and I’d enjoyed a blood-rare filet. I suspected Crawford was doing the same, his recent win—a case involving several Russian lowlife scum—adding to his coffers.
And to his clout.
There were three men at the table, including the judge who’d presided over my case. This would seem to be my lucky day. I slid into the fourth seat without saying a word or being noticed, immediately attracting the attention of one of the waiters. “Bring another glass and a third bottle.”
“Yes, sir,” the waiter said without bothering to glance toward the host of the illustrious event.
Crawford glared at me, his fork remaining in his hand. He slowly lowered it, grabbing his napkin and wiping his mouth before bothering to speak to me. “What do you want, Montenegro?”
“What do I want. That’s a loaded question,” I said as I sat back in the chair. The judge was none too happy to see me, his face reddening. Only the youngest man at the table, likely a new recruit being wined and dined in order to begin indoctrinating him into accepting the firm’s way of life seemed impassive. Perhaps he didn’t know who I was. There wasn’t a better opportunity than right now.
“Get out before I have you arrested,” Crawford hissed.
“For enjoying a glass of wine on a beautiful day?” I might not be a patient man, but I allowed myself to enjoy the moment.
“What is going on?” the judge asked. Winston Parker also had a reputation as a ball buster, and he’d feasted on handing down my sentence. One day he and I would quarrel.
And he would lose.
I waited until the waiter returned, filling the new glass without bothering to touch up the others. The young man knew my reputation as did everyone inside the restaurant. I took very good care of them.
“I won’t belabor the issue, gentlemen. I’m very well aware that Tristen Bradford was working for a branch of the federal government as an undercover officer. I also believe that he was provided with a new identity as promised for his extensive work. I admit that your method of killing him off was extraordinarily exceptional, but utter bullshit.” I waited until my statement made an impact, both Crawford and Winston immediately uncomfortable.
