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I rub a hand over my face. Trying to keep secrets is hard enough without Vice constantly changing the damn rules. I guess it doesn’t matter now—they all saw me shoot Giovanni.
Climbing to my feet, I make my way back to the bedroom and find my cell phone on the side table. I crawl onto the bed and scroll through it, tucking my knees up under the T-shirt I took from Vice’s drawer.
News has begun to circulate—news of my marriage, news of my true identity. Most people are shocked, asking questions about whether I knew or not. I don’t reply to anyone, not tonight, while my head is a mess.
My cell rings while it’s in my hand. Seeing that it’s Alessio, I answer it. “Hey.”
“Nova,” he chokes out, making me jolt up.
“What’s wrong?”
“C…c…container five. East gate. I’m sorry.”
The line goes dead, and I stare at it for a second before I jump off the bed and throw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt over the T-shirt. I slip one of my gun holsters on and arm myself before adding a second gun to my ankle and my trusty knife into my pocket. I shove my cell phone in the back pocket of my jeans and head down the stairs at the back of the house.
I slip out the back door while they eat and head to the garage. I climb into my Mustang and pull the visor down, catching the spare key. I start her up and ease out of the garage, heading for the gate that’s still open from the pizza delivery. I drive through before anyone can stop me.
My phone starts ringing. I lift up a little and pull it out of my pocket, holding it against my ear as I answer it. “Alessio?”
“Where the fuck are you going?” Vice roars down the phone.
I hang up on him, dropping the cell phone in my lap. I’ll deal with him later. See, here’s the problem with me losing faith in him. I don’t trust him not to stop me. He might have offered Alessio sanctuary earlier, but I don’t know if that’s real or for show because he keeps me in the dark and lies to me. No matter what Vice says, Alessio followed Vigo for years. Vice will never fully trust him, and a part of me can’t blame him for it. But if there is one thing I do know, it’s that Alessio would never hurt me. If he’s calling me, it’s for a damn good reason.
Alessio mentioned container five. I thought for a moment he was talking about the docks, but there’s no reason for Alessio to be there—not on Vice’s turf—without telling him he was coming.
He had to be talking about the containers over at the storage unit. I’ve never been there, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know where it is or what it’s used for. Drugs and guns are a boomingtrade, and using containers isn’t exactly inconspicuous, but we have enough cops on our payroll to turn a blind eye.
My phone keeps ringing in my lap, and as soon as it stops, it starts again. Eventually, I answer it with a growl.
“If you hang up on me again, I’ll tie you up and paddle your ass until it blisters,” Vice tells me in a silky-smooth tone that sends a shiver through my body, and not the good kind.
“Then stop yelling at me. Look, Alessio called. He needs me. He wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important.”
“I don’t care if the fucking pope called. You do not leave the house without your guards.”
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Turn around and come back.”
“I can’t.”
“You will.”
“Vice, he’s my father.”
“Except he’s not, is he?” he spits.
I hang up. I can’t do this with him right now. Looks like I made the right decision to leave without telling him. Besides, it’s far easier for me to slip into Fiore territory than him. I can say I’m visiting friends. Vice coming in would be considered an act of war.
My cell rings again, but this time, I silence it and tuck it into my pocket.
I park around the corner, away from any cameras, and head for the chain-link fence surrounding the property. I quickly scan the area before climbing the fence. When I reach the top, I yank off the sweater and lay it over the razor wire before climbing over and dropping into a crouch. I keep myself low as I make my way toward the containers.
One by one, I check out the containers until I find theone I’m looking for. It has a large old-fashioned padlock on the front, but the lock is open. Slipping one of my guns into my hand, I pull the padlock free and tug one of the doors open.
It takes a while for my eyes to adjust, but when they do, I almost wish they hadn’t. Inside are a bunch of young girls, and I mean young, as in underage. All of them wearing short, tight dresses, looking absolutely terrified.
“Shit, fuck. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”
