Vendetta

seventeen

DEVON

“Okay, talk.”

Frank looks around the room, as if drawing inspiration, but I know he's just avoiding looking at me.

I wince in pain as I reach for the glass of water, getting his attention. My uncle looks pointedly between me and the pill bottle on the bedside table, but I ignore him. I'm not taking anything they give me until I get an explanation of what's going on.

If the pills knock me out, there's no way of getting out of bed, either. And Leighton is out there . . .

Finally, he makes eye contact. “Eleven years ago, my—” he begins, then swallows hard, looking away. “Your father called me to tell me we're finally out.”

My father wanted out? But that’s ridiculous. The only way out is in a coffin.

When he doesn't say anything else, I nod, urging him to continue.

“He didn't want this life for you kids. Hell, he didn't want this life for me. Our parents died young in a car accident, and he was left, barely legal, to take care of me. Joe didn’t want the legacy of our father, or to end up the same way he did.”

I frown, thinking how familiar that story is. My dad was a kid taking care of a kid.

“He was always taking care of me.” He smiles affectionately, his features taking on a boyish appearance. Then his eyes go blank. “All my life I resented him for sending me away, away to boarding schools, away to travel abroad, away to college . . . until I got it. When he did the same to you, I got that he didn't hate me or didn't not want me around.”

This also sounds awfully familiar. My mother liked to travel, or so I thought, always taking me with her wherever she went, and we would be gone for so, so long. Dad was always busy, had work, and he never came with us.

When I was ten, I was told I was going to an all-boys school. I remember the temper tantrum I threw, like a spoiled little brat, punching air and slamming doors. Joey was just born, and I thought they were getting rid of me because they got a new kid. The jealousy was eating me up.

My father wasn't a man that showed emotion. He did things, rather than said them, to make you feel loved. A new toy, a pat on the head, letting me play in his office. And when he said I'd only ever be home during school breaks, well, I thought it said a lot about their love. Child logic.

“Your mother knew what he was doing when she married him, but after you came, she wanted out as well. So, he did what he had to do, and he made it happen. Almost. He worked out a deal with Keith Moore.”

“A deal with Keith Moore,” I repeat, disbelieving.

“Yes. When he told me I didn't actually think it would happen. For so long our family has been in the business—” He makes air quotes and it strikes me as so out of character when it comes to him. “—the idea of getting out was just impossible. Once you’re in, you’re in. He made it happen for me. He sent me away and I had a normal life, for the most part. I got through college and had a bright future ahead. Mac—Hayley’s father, he helped, but still.” His voice turns sad, almost wistful. He shakes his head, as if to clear it.

No wonder he resented me. I pulled him out of his life, even though it wasn't my fault.

“What kind of a deal did he make?”

“He would just hand it all over, and in return he'd get protection for his family,” he says, as if that explains it all.

Then it dawns on me. The warehouses in Chelsea. It's definitely something a Moore would bargain for with an Andre, if only to prove they were right. That, and giving up all that power. The lesser the players in this game are, the more powerful you are.

“That's all there was to it,” he continues. “We had money, dirty as it was, but we were good with that. All we needed was for everyone to know we've got the Moore protection.”

“And what of our men?” Because I know with all of them set loose, there would have been anarchy, free, out-of-control players doing whatever the hell they wanted.

He looks at me knowingly, then reaches for the bottle of water and drinks from it. “The day after it happened, I got a call from Mac. He said to drop everything, go straight to your school and pick you up, and then come and see him.”

I remember that day, too. The numbness I felt as I looked out of the car window, the passing scenery a dizzying blur. Walking by my uncle and wanting so bad to reach for his hand, but his cold eyes telling me not to do it. Sitting against the wall, listening to the hushed voices that told me nothing.

“I needed you,” I tell him quietly, looking down at my own glass of water. It feels good to admit it, to tell him this. I pretended, even to myself, that I didn't need him, that I was man enough to deal with it on my own, but I was a fucking kid who’d just lost everything, and the only person I had left rejected me.

“I was always here, looking out for you, Devon. It's—I was advised to keep my distance. Not to show preference.”

“So what then? Do we know who did it?”

For a moment he doesn't say anything, then he nods, continuing the story. “When I came to see Mac, he wasn't alone. Keith was there, himself. I've never been allowed near the man, let alone spoken to him, but what he told me that day, well. Something big was going on, something that went beyond the rivalry of two families. It’s true, it was Keith’s men who did the dirty work.” He gives me a funny look. “You can imagine that didn't go so well with Keith.”

“Who was it?"

He slumps in the chair, running his hands through his hair. “That's easy. It was Stevie.”

I would have bet on Stevie, too, but it still hurts. Family, loyalty . . . it means nothing.

“But?”

“But it goes deeper. There are Keith's men involved, George for sure, but we don’t know how many others. Again, Keith is not happy. And we don't know how many of ours have turned. That's why we brought you here. In a way it's the most convenient thing we could have done. Everyone thinks you’re dead.”

“What is this place?”

“A safe house, of sorts. Keith set it up for his family, knowing they’d need to be away while the whole thing blows over. This is where I was supposed to bring her. Her mother’s here as well, has been for a while. To everyone else, they're both in Ireland.”

Finally, I ask the million-dollar question. “So why keep me in the fucking dark? I spent half of my life hating the wrong man. You let me bring Leighton straight to the wolves. I had the fucking right to know this.”

“What would you have done?”

“Killed the bastard.” I would have. The first time he stuffed that fucking gun into my hands, I would have killed him if I had known.

He shakes his head, but it's not condescending, more like he expected me to say that. “And that's why you didn't know. Do you think I didn't want to do exactly that? I had to work all these years with him, look at him every day knowing he took something I loved. He was my brother, your mother was like a mother to me, practically raised me. You think I didn't want to see him pay? What if he's not at the top of it? As long as there's one of them left, you're in danger because it's all yours, Devon. You own it all.”

“I don't want it,” I say without thinking, realizing I haven't said many truer words in my life. “I just want them dead and then I'm done. You can have it all, Keith can have it all. I'm done.”

Stevie, George, none of it matters. Sooner or later they'll be done with. Justice will be served, one way or another.

It's Leighton. I just want her.

This whole thing is a major fuckup. How did I not notice she took the gun? What was I thinking, bringing her to the guest room and not remembering it was there? Well, I know what I was thinking. I wanted to take her out of that room so bad. Her trembling thighs, her fingers tangling in my hair . . .

My uncle always said to keep my wits about me, and I was drunk. I was drunk on her. My head falls into my hands, realizing I really have no one to blame but myself if anything happens to her.

“I fucked up, Frank,” I mumble into my fist. “I wanted to save her, and I only made it worse. You should have told me. I almost fucking killed her myself.”

“You wouldn't have killed her, Devon. You love her.”

My head snaps to his.

“Yeah, we know,” he says, amused. “It's not like either of you were subtle about it, with your longing looks and sneaking around like teenagers. We even made sure no one else knows, because that put her in danger, as well. But I knew you wouldn't have hurt her, that's why I let her stay. She wouldn't have been safer anywhere else.”

“You killed Izzie, didn’t you love her?” I argue.

“Izzie was planted by Stevie. It’s nothing like this situation.”

“Leighton fucking escaped and was almost raped by our own men. Do you even hear yourself?”

“I had it under control,” is all he says. I want to punch him, remembering how bruised and shaken she was after it happened.

“And Keith is okay with this? With the two of us?” I ask, hopeful.

“Are you really asking me that? No, he's not okay with this but it's not the Stone Age. What can he do?”

I can think of many things he could do, and most of them include decapitation and castration.

His hand lands on my shoulder, squeezing lightly. “We'll find her. If she gives them any trouble she gave you, she's still holding up.”

I smile to myself, knowing he's right. “Yeah, she is. Do we have any idea where she is? Anything at all?”

“No, Devon,” he says, his voice turning stern. “Even if we did, you will not get involved, not with that shoulder and being a walking target at this point. Besides, Keith is on it. He'll find her.”

I open my mouth to argue, but his phone rings and he pulls it out of his pocket, frowning. My eyes are glued to it as he brings it to his ear. It's a short conversation of a couple of yeses and a no, and then it ends.

“How did you find me?” I ask him when he hangs up, hoping he tells me what I want to hear.

“A woman called the police, saying she heard a gunshot.”

She called the cops? She was probably thinking I was safer with them than with my own family.

“It wasn't her,” he says sadly. “The phone call came from a payphone nearby.”

“And my phone, did you find it?” Say no, I plead in my head. She's smart enough to have taken it with her, or at least done something to leave a trace.

“Yeah,” he says, destroying that last shred of hope I had. “We found your phone in your car.” He takes it out of his pocket and hands it over to me. It's my phone, not the phone.

Hope flares once again. I let out a weary sigh, and then grab the pill bottle from the nightstand, making a show of taking one, then another. “Will you let me know if you have any news?” I ask him, a plan already forming in my head.

“I will. And call Hayley, she’s been calling non-stop. We didn’t let her in here, it’s best she doesn’t know everything.”

Patting me once more on my good shoulder, he nods, and then leaves the room. I spit out the pills and grab for the phone, searching through the phone book for a number.

“Didn't expect to hear from you again,” a voice says on the other side of the line.

“I promise it's the last time you’ll hear from me. I need you to write down a number and find out its last location.”

I figure the phone has turned off by now but as long as there's a possibility she had the phone on her when she was taken, I can find her, whether they let me or not.

LEIGHTON

Stevie punches me across my probably swollen face, back in the same room I was before.

“Fucking bitch,” he yells, wiping the spit off his chin. I don’t have it in me to move or resist. Everything hurts. “That was my flesh and blood you killed.”

He didn’t tie me to the chair, or anything. He’s been hitting me, landing punches everywhere for the last hour.

I’m glad I killed the bastard. He deserved to die. I tell him so. Another punch, so hard my vision blurs for a moment. My heavy lids are barely staying up. I feel like I’m about to pass out any second.

George comes in, carrying a bag in his hand. "Boss said to sedate her."

Sedate me? Fuck, no. I didn’t hold on for so long only for them to drug me. If I'm out, there's no way I can get out of this place. I shake my head violently, and start thrashing against the chair. Stevie’s hands grip my shoulders tightly, holding me in place. It fucking hurts but I don't give him the satisfaction of knowing that. He brings a knife to my neck, and leans into my personal space, his foul breath fanning across my cheek. “Stop it or I'll kill you. I am so fucking close to just ripping you all apart,” he says.

I slump in defeat, just hoping he doesn’t keep punching me. I don’t doubt his words for a second.

“Boss said not to touch me,” I say, enunciating the word, but it comes out mumbled. “When Devon finds out what you did—”

“Of course, Devon,” he mocks me. “Your Romeo is dead, he won’t save you this time. You killed him.”

I break out in cold sweat. My heart is pounding so loudly, I'm sure everyone in the room can hear it. “No.”

“Yup, froze to death.” He laughs, a maniacal sound. “Serves him right, the motherfucker. He's been a thorn in my side that just wouldn't go away. And I didn't even have to get my hands dirty in the end. Looks like you did the job for me—princess. Is that what he called you?”

Seconds pass, but it seems like hours until I return to reality, and the buzzing in my ears stops. I hear the sound of sobbing, and then I realize it's me. My heart squeezes at the thought of him lying there. The last thing he saw was me, on the other side of the gun.

I killed Devon.

George nears me with a glass of water, dropping some powder in it and swirling it with his dirty finger. I consider just letting him do it. I deserve it for what I did.

But I still have to warn my father about what's going on. I still have family left. I killed Devon, and I'll bear it forever on my conscience, but I need his death to have meaning, at least. I can't give up now.

I back away from George as much as the chair lets me, trying to see what he's going to give me. “George,” I say through tears, the hysterical note in my voice more than obvious. “Please, don't do this.”

“Leighton,” he says as if he's talking to a child, “it was going to happen all along. It's what happens when your own boss chooses to protect enemy bastards instead of finishing them off, all at the expense of his own.”

“My father's been nothing but good to you,” I say, indignant. George was his advisor, his second in command. Nothing ever happened without him being included in it.

“Yes, but he's gone soft, you know. Times have changed; we need a stronger hand. And Dom, he's got a future ahead of him. You understand.” He has the nerve to sound apologetic about it.

I shake my head violently, jerking away as Stevie grabs for my shoulders, holding me still in place. He grabs my jaw and squeezes my cheeks. “Keep still, bitch.”

George brings the plastic glass to my mouth, holding my jaw down so I drink it. I spit it out of my mouth. He shakes his head at me, and then nods to Stevie. Stevie grabs for my head and tilts it back, pinching my nose, while George pours the rest of the liquid in my mouth. I choke on it, trying not to swallow it, but in the end I run out of air and let it slide down my throat.