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“It’s not your fault, Bree. Or should I call youBianca?” The question must be rhetorical; he doesn’t wait for a response. “And while Shelley didn’t get shot, she isn’t doing too well, to be honest. She quit her job a few weeks ago. Cited PTSD as the reason. Every time she turned up for work, apparently all she could think about was large men with big guns, and she kept reliving the moment she thought she’d die. As do I.”
“When you go back to Lots of Paws, you mean?”
“No. I mean all the time.”
Oh.
“I haven’t been back, Bree. I haven’t been able to bring myself to step foot back on that sidewalk, let alone walk in the door at work. I relive that moment every single night when I close my eyes.”
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Rio did that to them. My husband took away their innocence and gave them nightmares they’ll probably have for the rest of their lives. My husband, whose behavior I’m kind of condoning by staying here with him and not trying to make a run for it.
Not “kind of,”I correct my thoughts.At least be honest.
My presencecondoneshis abominable behavior. And that must be horrifying for Dave and Shelley.
In the ensuing silence, Dave laughs with little humor. “Okey dokey, then. See you Friday at Happy Beans, Bree.”
He rings off before I have a chance to answer.
* * *
Rio
Only time will tellif I’ve made a grave error in trusting Bianca with her own cell phone. But the dawning excitement in her expression when she realized the phone was hers caused a frisson of something unexpected in my chest.
I will have to create more moments like that for my wife. I enjoy her smile when it becomes genuine rather than forced. It transforms her into a true beauty and reminds me of her relative innocence on our wedding night.
A sudden ache in my dick reminds me that I skipped her bed last night. I will not abstain tonight. My body craves her, like a junkie needing a fix.
A shrill ringtone interrupts the lustful train of my thoughts, the sound announcing that my caller is not an immediate member of the family. They have all been allocated a low beeping tone. This will be one of Danelli’s team. But then, I already know that. I have been expecting this call for the past hour.
I punch the answer button. “Is it there?”
“Yes, Boss,” comes the answer. “The shipment arrived at the docks exactly at the time they said it would. Four containers. We’ve checked them. It’s all there.”
“Good. Have Danelli contact the buyer and arrange a meet. Here at my club, Saturday night.”
“Will do.”
I’ve been distracted with thoughts of Bianca, finding myself second-guessing every decision I make and wondering what she will think. Will she judge me? Stare at me with fire and passion in her eyes, or will I only see censure?
In this case, she would have little cause for censure. A shipment of equipment to outfit a new gambling establishment is hardly the same as a consignment of drugs or weapons. It would be entirely legal, in fact, except that the trade in gambling equipment is proving a reasonable way to funnel money from some of our less salubrious arms of the company as we transition into something more aboveboard.
Most of our business these days is digitized, conducted online. Shipments like the current one are becoming rarer. Physical consignments that can be tracked mean that more things can go wrong, and make it much harder to remain under the radar of the various agencies out there who would love to bring down the Agosti family by any means they can.
Despite the mostly legal nature of this particular shipment, my gut is telling me something is off this week. I can’t pinpoint exactly what it is that has raised my hackles. I have dealt with this particular buyer—from the Carbone family—several times over the years. I don’t believe my unease stems from that direction.
Carlos Rossi has been lying very low of late. I have plans in train that involve him, but I have not yet given the order to go ahead on those plans, and I do not believe he is aware of what is coming.
But still, my gut saysbeware. I’ve only ignored my instinct once before, and my lack of action got my parents killed. I knew something was off that night, and instead of contacting my father to let him know, I brushed my concerns off as stupid and unimportant and spent the night partying at a New York hotel with three willing women.
While my father’s rival gunned him down over dinner and took out my mother when she dived in front of my father to try—in vain—to save him.
I will not make that mistake again.
I need to stop thinking about sex with my wife, and get my mind back onto business matters before the wrong people die.
22
