AllFreeNovel
Share Us
—
It isn’t hard to figure out where Rico lives. The most difficult part is waiting until the following evening to go and speak to him about what’s on my mind.
Truthfully, I’d expected Rico to be home when I stopped by his place—that pesky flu he’s been down with and all. But it seems like he stepped out, because when I pull up on the other side of the street, all the lights in the house are dark, and there’s no sign of movement within the home. He might just have gone to bed early, but somehow I doubt that.
I pull around to an alley further down the street—I chose a more nondescript car for tonight, a black sedan that I normally wouldn’t be caught dead driving. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the need to be this stealthy, but it comes back to me more easily than I would have thought.
Years ago, before I started to think of what our family might become after our father was gone, before I felt the weight of the responsibility that would rest on my shoulders so keenly, I did things like this more often. I park the car at the back of the alley, ducking my head as I step out. In the shadows, wearing black chinos, a black t-shirt, and a black leather jacket, I could easily be missed. My heavy boots, the ones I wear when I ride, splash in a puddle of indeterminate liquid. I don’t want to think too hard about what I might just have stepped in.
Rico’s house is the nicest on the block, but in Los Angeles, even the kind of money he makes can’t buy you a mansion. It’s terracotta with a low stone facade wrapping around the lower third of it, a concrete driveway winding through a yard that’s more pebbles than grass—watering a lawn could make you take out a second mortgage in this city—and an iron fence surrounding the yard. I listen for any sounds of a dog, but there’s nothing, and a padlocked gate won’t keep me out. I’ve known how to pick a lock like a pro since before I had a learner’s permit.
I go in through the back gate, keeping a low profile. Rico almost certainly has a security alarm on his house, but I also know how to disable that easily enough. Once upon a time, I wouldn’t have worried about it—but fewer of the beat cops are in our pocket these days. I’d get out of whatever trouble I got into eventually, but it would be more of an annoyance than anything else. I’d rather skip that altogether.
There are two locks on the back door—the outer iron-barred door in front of it and then the actual door to the house—but they give me very little trouble. I keep an ear out the entire time for any sounds of paws on tile or barking—I have no desire to lose a chunk of flesh to an over-eager guard dog—but the house is utterly silent. I slip in, remove a panel, and snip a few quick wires before the security system can go off, and walk deeper into the darkened house.
Just in case he’s asleep, I make a round of the house. From what I can see in the dim glow of the outside lights coming in through the closed blinds, the house feels very much as if it’s never been updated from the eighties when it was probably built. Thick dark brown shag carpeting underfoot, drywall interrupted with wood-paneled wainscoting in places, and the most predictable floor plan imaginable. It feels more like a house that a school teacher with a wife and three kids should live in than a tattoo artist of his caliber—although I doubt a school teacher could afford even this here.
I find the bedrooms easily enough, but they’re all empty. Rico isn’t home, so I circle back to the main part of the house.
The kitchen is as good a place as any to wait. It’s long and rectangular, with a round glass-topped dining table on one side facing the stove and sink. I sit down in one of the chairs—a piece of furniture that looks like it’s trying to be mid-century modern but probably came from an IKEA catalog—and bide my time. I’m in no hurry.
I hear that key turn in the lock at half-past nine, the sound of shoes shuffling against a doormat, and the crinkling of a plastic bag. I stay where I am, sitting quietly in the dark kitchen, as the footsteps come closer. I see Rico in the same moment that he flips the kitchen light on, filling the room with garish fluorescent light. He’s halfway to his counter before he sees me in his periphery and spins, his tanned face turning ashen at the sigh of me sitting at the kitchen table. The plastic bag he’s carrying drops to the floor with a heavythud, a bottle of Nyquil rolling out across the linoleum. I think I see a glimpse of a quart of ice cream.
I’d wondered if he might carry a gun, so mine is resting in my lap, my finger perched just above the trigger. There’s no chance he’d get the drop on me, no matter how fast he could draw. But it turns out that it doesn’t matter—Rico is clearly not the type to pack heat, even if he might like to look as if he could be.
Nothing about his appearance surprises me. Thick dark hair, long on top and buzzed to the scalp on the sides and underneath, dark narrowed eyes, trendy street-style clothing. He’s wearing loose jeans, expensive sneakers and a jersey with a flash-art tiger across it, a dark green hoodie over that against the California night’s chill. He’s looking at me as if he found a rattlesnake in his kitchen.
It’s not the worst comparison—although I’m unlikely to bite. But I’m equally dangerous.
“Who the hell are you?” Rico snarls. “And what the hell are you doing in my kitchen?”
“You should look into better locks.” I set the gun on the table, my hand still resting near enough to it that I’ll be able to fire it in a second if Rico tries anything. “A better security system, too. Really—just all around, you should try to be better. Including how you treat your employees.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, man. But breaking and entering is illegal. I bet that gun you’re carrying isn’t registered, either—”
I snort. “And I’m sure you’ve done everything on the up and up your whole life, Rico Axton. But the truth is, I don’t give a shit about that. What I care about is the fact that you’re making life very hard for someone I’ve taken a liking to.”
“And who’s that?” Rico sneers at me, a remarkably brave expression on his face for a man who has the wrong end of a gun angled in his direction. “I run a tattoo shop, man. I don’t know who sent a goon to my house, but you’ve got the wrong fucking idea—”
I’m up in a flash, my hand gripping the dark hair at the back of his head before he can so much as scramble backward. I twist, making him yelp in pain as I drag him by the hair to the kitchen chair furthest from the gun, shoving him down in it. I yank backward, so he’s looking up at me.
“I’m not a goon,” I snarl down at him. “I’m Dante fucking Campano. And you’ve made the unfortunate mistake of pissing me off.”
This feels better than it should. I’ve spent the better part of two years now cleaning up our family businesses, getting usoutof doing shit like this. It’s been a while since I’ve gotten my hands bloody—hell, since I’ve roughed up anyone at all. I told myself I liked it better that way. But there’s a thrill coursing through me that I’d forgotten, the rush of power as I see the blood drain out of Rico’s face at the sound of my name.
“Dante—shit, man, is this because I didn’t do your tattoo myself? What the hell, brother? It’s just a fucking tattoo—”
“Shutup.” I yank on his hair again, and he whimpers. “I don’t give a good goddamn that you couldn’t make the session. Shit happens. What I care about is that I liked the artist who took your place, and I want her to finish it.”
“Emma?” Rico snorts. “This is about Emma fucking Garcia? When I get my hands on that bitch—”
His voice breaks off in a gasp as I lean down, driving a fist into the side of his stomach. It’s softer than I expect, but that just means the punch lands harder, knocking the air out of him. He heaves, as if the pain might make him throw up.
It’s disgusting, really. He likes to look tough, but this man would fold if I tried to take out so much as a single tooth.
“I’m in your kitchen with a gun because, as I’ve said, I’ve taken a liking to her—and your response to that is to call her a bitch?” I click my tongue against my teeth, shaking my head. “You really are as stupid as you look.”
I let go of his hair, circling around to my side of the table and reaching for my gun before he can get any ideas in his head about grabbing it. “I spoke to Emma tonight about taking your place as my artist. She seemed to think it might impact her job if she did. That instead of being pleased that one of your artists impressed me enough to make me want her to come back, that you might fire her. That you’d think she—oh, how did she put it?Poachedme from you. Even thoughI’mthe one requestingher.”
