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“Sounds like you’ve got some information you’d like to share.”
He shrugs. “I’m not exactly an expert on Haven Marchenko.”
“Bullshit. You’re an expert on everything.”
He flashes a thin smile. “Haven’s bark is worse than her bite but I’m guessing you already figured that out. As best I can tell, she stays out of the fray. Instead, she sticks to her club and looks after her people.”
Gage’s forefinger taps out another pattern on his thigh and his jaw tightens. “But the rest of them? That’s a whole other fucked up matter.”
Chapter11
Haven
Essex Street, all of it, belongs to Uncle Desmond and his garbage sons. My cousins lack taste the way they lack decency. Every square foot of real estate on this ugly strip has been swallowed up Marchenko-style with tactics that have even raised my father’s eyebrows.
Still, he’s done nothing to rein them in. I don’t expect this will change. And I never set foot on this particular block of the east side unless I have to.
Today I have to.
The meetings called by my father are not optional.
A pair of black-suited men bracket the entrance. They eyeball me behind their dark glasses, no doubt recognizing me and wondering why I might be lingering behind the wheel with a dirty look on my face. They belong to my father, pieces of the entourage he keeps for the sake of appearances. Like he’s a freaking mafia don or a celebrity instead of an east side mobster who fattens his pockets with gun running, gambling rings and shakedowns. He used to try and stick me with some of his bodyguards. Even while I balked, I never dared to speak the truth, that the most dangerous men in the borders of Em City exist within the family fold.
My empty stomach sours, a merger of hunger and anxiety. Keeping an eye on the black suits, I reach into my purse for a roll of antacid tablets and pop two into my mouth, chasing with a sip of lukewarm bottled water.
No one on the outside would ever guess how many of these rolls I go through in a month. Chowing down on antacid tablets would put a dent in the badass bitch image and that’s an image I can’t afford to part with.
Any fracture in my armor would be detected by the deranged motherfuckers I share common blood with. My cousins would be breaking the door down with demands for my meager territory and I’m not sure my father can be trusted not to give it to them.
I check my makeup in the mirror and shove a hated pair of black patent stilettos on my bare feet. Wearing them gives me a tiny height advantage over my cousins and I’m petty enough to enjoy that half inch.
The neckline of my dress is low, as usual. There’s a special reason for that on days like this. Their tattoos are all stored beneath their crisp, costly suits and I’m sure none of them think twice about this. But they need to see my mark to be reminded that I’m one of them.
Just in case they try to forget.
I feel my mouth pull into a grimace as I glance down to see the top of the inked snake that slithers between my breasts and flicks a forked tongue three inches above my right nipple. I was twenty when my father decided I’d proven to be impressive enough to join his inner circle. He ignored the scowls from his brothers and beckoned to the tattoo artist to step forward and get to work. He looked away when I dropped my shirt, as did my uncles. Even Jared averted his eyes in the end. But Talon kept a cold smile on his despicable face and watched every jab of the needles as I glared with my chin up, refusing to acknowledge the humiliation of being studied with my breasts bared.
The black Lamborghini crookedly parked two spaces away isn’t a car I’ve seen before. My cousins have short attention spans and a taste for flashy engines, rarely keeping cars for longer than six months before trading up. They act like they’re royalty, zipping up and down east side lanes in their chariots with no respect for traffic laws and daring anyone not to make way.
Egotistical shitheads. Murderous ones at that.
And if gossip among girls has a kernel of truth, a small dick complex might also be a factor.
I’m discreet when I scrape the sharp end of my key along the driver’s side door of the Lamborghini. The sound of metal mutilating paint makes me smile.
The two guard dogs at the door don’t receive a greeting as I breeze right past them without pausing. This building used to be something more wholesome. A tire store, I think. A vague odor of new rubber still clings to the interior. Now it’s a bare bones dingy bar, which is really just a cover for the backroom illegal betting racket that pays for the Lamborghini I just disfigured.
The place is closed right now. A man polishes shot glasses behind the counter and minds his business. Dense retractable screens cover the windows to blot out the daylight but it’s not too dim for me to notice the lone girl seated on a cheap metal chair in the corner.
She’s young. If she’s finished with high school then she hasn’t been finished for long. She’s pretty, possibly Hispanic, with hair the same color as mine but on her it looks natural. An ugly bruise colors her left cheek. Her tearful brown eyes lift and I can read her thoughts as if they are painted above her pleading expression.
A sideways glance confirms that the bartender has paused and watches with interest. Maybe he’s not really just a bystander. My cousins tend to appreciate tattletales.
The girl’s lips part and mouth a silent word.Please.
Acid curdles in my belly.
Emotion will get me nowhere. If I don’t look away I’ll do something reckless.
