Vendetta

fourteen

DEVON

If I could pick one day to last twenty-five hours, this would be it. I'm in the car, driving aimlessly, trying to figure out what to do. I have some money stashed in Baroque, mostly racket—which is shit these days. Still, it should be enough for what I need.

Parking in front of the club, I pull out my cell phone. Shit, I'll probably need a new one. First I check in with Hayley, letting her know she doesn’t have to come in today. She doesn’t like it and starts giving me a lecture, but I finish the conversation fast and hang up, realizing that might have been the last time I talk to her. I dial Colin's number next and set up a meeting in an hour, telling him I have a job for him. Satisfied when he agrees to meet me, I hang up and get inside Baroque.

They don't expect me, of course, since I'm never here during the day, and I get curious looks all around as I walk the long distance from the entrance door to the dark hallway leading to the back office. I have to cross the saloon and then another room—the girls' room—and then, at the very back, is the main office.

Just act normal. I repeat this mantra in my head. How do I act when I'm normal? Without a word, or a nod of a head, I walk past everyone. A flash of dark curls catches my eye. Soraya. She sees me and gives me a shiny smile, heading toward me. I'd rather have avoided her, but I can't just run now.

“Devon Andre,” she says, reaching me. She's wearing a red dress, elegant, but revealing, with just a little cleavage, to get you to ask yourself what's underneath—the way we require them to dress for this place, day or night. She puts her small hand on my forearm, squeezing it lightly and giving me a flirty smile. It’s barely noon, so there aren’t many people in here, but all eyes are on us, taking this exchange in curiously. I smile back at Soraya, deciding to play this in my favor.

Placing my hand at the small of her back, I lead her toward the office, then let it slide down, cupping her ass. She gives me a questioning look, and starts to pull away. I lean in, pushing her further toward the office door, and whisper in her ear, “Follow my lead and you'll never have to sleep with old men for money again.”

We make eye contact, and she gives me an imperceptible nod. Her demeanor completely changes, and she laughs timidly, but loud enough for at least those nearby to hear, leaning back into my hand and letting me grab her ass.

I don't think there's any doubt as to what we'll be doing in my office at this point, especially after I lock the door after entering.

“What's—”

I put my hand over her mouth to shut her up. The whole place is wired, even this office where our business associates sometimes have meetings between themselves. The material we collect we use for extortion and blackmail. Stevie's idea.

I shush her with my finger, then wait for her to nod so I know she understands, and let her go.

“Do you want something to drink?” I ask her, pointing with my finger at the whiskey bottle on the table.

She nods. I shake my head at her, motioning with my hand for her to speak instead.

“That whiskey looks good. We need to loosen you up a bit,” she says, her voice turning flirtatious.

I pour a full glass of whiskey.

“Off with the clothes, I just have to do something,” I say, shaking my head to let her know she doesn't have to do it.

She follows me around the office, while I locate all three microphones and submerge them in the amber liquid. They're waterproof and I've done this before, so when I take them out and let them dry they’ll be as good as new. Everyone, my uncle included, knows why I do it, so it won't seem suspicious.

It's one thing recording other people talking business or having sex in this place, but it’s different to do it to yourself.

“We can talk now,” I say, pouring another glass of whiskey and shoving it at her. When she doesn't take it, I wrap her fingers around it and let it go.

“What's going on?” she asks, bringing it to her lips with a trembling hand and taking a small sip. She makes a face of disgust but bravely brings it to her lips again.

“I have a friend coming over,” I tell her.

The glass stops midway to her mouth, her face taking on a comical expression of pure horror. “That's not in my contract,” she squeaks.

“What? No, it's not like that! I didn't mean that,” I tell her pointedly.

She visibly relaxes and leans on the desk, placing the glass down next to her and crossing her legs. She looks at me expectantly. “Okay, go on,” she prompts with her hand.

I hold up a finger. “Give me a second,” I say, walking to the huge painting on the back wall. I take it off, revealing a safe. After I input the right combination, it clicks and opens slowly to reveal several stacks of hundred dollar bills. I take a few, probably fifty grand, then walk to her and place them on the table next to the glass.

She eyes them hungrily. I feel like crap for using her own self against her, but it's all I've got.

“I can wire you more. All you have to do is say you were with me all day.” I have an off-shore account nobody knows about. It's in Joey Andre's name.

She looks at me warily, probably realizing whatever is going on isn’t flower picking. Sure enough, she asks, “What exactly is going on here?”

I open my mouth to answer, but my phone rings, interrupting me. Colin's number flashes on the screen.

“Yeah,” I say when I answer.

“Hey man, I'm outside.”

“Back office,” I inform him shortly, and hang up.

A few minutes later, there's a knock on the door and I open it for him, and then lock again.

He looks around the office, his gaze landing on Soraya, and then he frowns at the glass in her hand. “Hey, what's up?” he says softly. To her.

She groans and takes the remaining whiskey and downs it, his eyes following the movement. “This is your friend?” she asks, pointing at him with the empty glass.

“Is there a problem?” I ask, really confused.

She sighs a heavy sigh. “He's a client.”

“Yeah, a client,” Colin mimics her words in this high-pitched voice.

I palm my face. Just what I needed. “For fuck's sake, can we not do the whole secret lovers thing? Lives are at stake here,” I say, slamming my fist on the table.

They break off their angry stare down contest to look at me.

“Sorry, man,” Colin says, glancing at Soraya again. “Sorry, Amber.”

“Thank you,” I say, exasperated. Soraya just nods sadly.

“So, what's this all about?” Colin asks me, leaning on the desk next to her. She moves away slightly, but doesn't say anything.

I'm wondering why I'm about to trust the biggest gossip I know with this sensitive information. Probably because Colin, he has that something other people in our circles don't. He still has a sense of justice, of fairness. He has a heart.

“Colin, what I'm about to tell you, it can't leave this room.” My gaze strays toward Amber, making a subtle threat. Yes, he has a heart, and that's exactly what I'm counting on. I watch his Adam's apple bob, and then he nods with determination. “It's about Leighton Moore,” I say after a beat, easing them into the story. If I want their cooperation, I'll need to tell them everything. “I know where she is.”

Colin sits on the floor, stunned speechless.

“Wow,” Amber says, although I'm sure the story means nothing to her.

“Holy shit,” Colin finally manages. “And all this time . . . you and the Moore girl? Holy shit.”

“Leighton,” I correct him, the sound of her last name making me feel sick. I can't believe I'm fucking doing this.

For so long I've held onto this one tiny shred, the justice I'll get for my parents and brother one day when I see them all on their knees. Instead, I'm failing them by saving the daughter of the man who killed them and running away with her. Betraying my own name for the sake of love.

What kind of person does that make me?

“A person in love,” Amber says, her face taking on a dreamy look. I must have said that out loud, and for fuck's sake, I am so not in the mood for girly dreamy sighs.

“Are you in or not?” I ask Colin.

He nods without giving it a thought and Amber looks at him, frowning. It's clear she cares about him and he's not just a client. What is she doing here if he loves her? Why doesn't he take her away from this godforsaken life when they can freely choose where to be and what to do?

“You don't even know what the plan is,” she tells him, her voice more authoritative than worried. He shrugs, and she shakes her head at him, clearly annoyed. “Will he be safe?” she asks me, still looking at him.

“All he has to do is take my car,” I tell her honestly. “Just drop it off at a certain location and leave it there. When he does, he needs to call me and let me know. And that's all.”

“And why?” she asks.

“Because tonight, Leighton Moore and Devon Andre are going to die.”

The look she gives Colin is doubtful. “You think you can pull that off?” she asks me, still looking at him.

“I’ll have to.”

A black sedan pulls into the warehouse, grabbing my attention. I exit the office and approach the car as the door opens and a blond, broad-shouldered man steps out. He pulls off his shades, revealing his brown eyes, and puts them in his shirt pocket.

“Justin,” I say in greeting.

“Devon.”

“How's Martha and the babies?” I ask him. He shifts on his feet nervously, looking around to see if we're alone. After a few moments, he approaches, slapping me on the back and pulling me in for a manly hug. I went to the same school as Justin, who is now a detective, my police contact. He's a few years older than me, but we used to be good friends. Back in high school, he was one of the few real friends I had: normal kids stayed away from me because their parents know who I was.

No one in my family knows we still keep in contact, if you can even call it that. I would never call him in, if I had a choice. He has a wife and two kids on the way, and I would never jeopardize his job or their lives.

“Hormonal,” is his short answer, but he laughs. She’s due any day now. “It’s been a while, Andre. How’s the business?”

I laugh nervously, though I was never afraid of Justin busting my ass. It’s just my natural instinct; he’s still a cop and I’m a criminal. I motion for him to follow me to the back office. He sits in the chair while I open the safe and pull out the bag I filled earlier from it. I sit opposite him, emptying the contents of the bag on the large table in front of us and look at him expectantly.

It’s a hundred grand in Benjamins.

He gives me a dubious look. “So, we’re talking business?”

“Unfortunately," I say.

“What’s going on?”

I run my hand through my hair, wondering if I should just spill the whole story to him as well, but decide against it. “I need to disappear. There’s—”

“Yeah, I’ve heard,” he cuts me off.

I frown. “Heard what?” If anyone knew about Leighton being at our house, she’d be gone already, safe home. And I know they have police contacts as well, it’s a no-brainer. If Justin knows, their people know it as well.

“Gino Fermi?” he says, referring to one of the bosses. When I shake my head because I have no idea what he’s talking about, he continues, “Heard the kid—” he gestures with his hand, snapping his fingers, “What’s his name?”

“Angelo,” I help him.

“Yeah. Heard he took over. The old man’s nowhere to be found. That’s just the word on the street; no one is actually saying anything. Bet ya he’s at the bottom of Mystic.”

“Huh,” I say. I had no idea, but someone in my family must have. Frank and Stevie would have known for sure. Why didn’t they say anything to me? I mean, this is not a small thing. “Didn’t he just turn eighteen? That’s a big step for a kid.” It’s a huge step, actually. And Angelo Fermi isn’t that smart either, so he probably won’t last too long.

“You really didn’t know?” I shake my head, though I hate to admit I was being kept in the dark about it. “And that’s after someone car-bombed Anthony Potenza,” he says.

I nod, because this I do know. Only his driver died, so it wasn’t a big deal. Word was he dealt with it, but I know these things are said just to keep the pretenses of being in control. I didn’t think much of it then, but if two bosses have been targeted, something is going on.

“I think we have a mob war on our hands,” he continues, the implication in his voice obvious. Immediately I think of my uncle and Stevie and our conversation the other day.

I put up my palms in surrender. “It wasn’t me,” I say, laughing nervously, and hoping he doesn’t see right through me. I had nothing to do with it, but if my family is behind it I’m as good as guilty, despite not knowing anything.

“Okay.” He leans his elbows on the table between us, his eyes calculating. He points at the money in front of him. “I don’t want that.” I go over the list of other things I can offer him. I’m about to open my mouth to ask what’s it going to cost, when he says, “No, man. I don’t want it. We’re friends.”

“I know you could use it.”

“Frankly, I’m insulted,” he says, crossing his arms against his chest. “Okay? So just tell me what I have to do.”

I smile at my friend. “I need a John and a Jane Doe, and that's it.”