NINE
ZETH
Michael: She’s good. She just went downstairs to do a consult, and then I’m driving her home. Nothing to report.
I tuck my cell away as I head across the street, toward the warehouse where the Barbieri family have set up their restaurant. I need to focus. Like, really focus. I have a better chance of doing that now I know Michael’s had eyes on Sloane in the last ten minutes.
I’m about to walk into the lion’s den here, and I have no means of knowing what will happen as soon as I’m inside. I’m risking everything. If I can’t get through the kitchen, I’m going to have to find another way in and that’s not gonna be fun. That either means shinnying up a drain pipe, or going balls to the wall and just walking in through the front door like a motherfucking boss. A part of me would prefer things to go down that way. It’s more dignified than trying to sneak in, but I’ve got to be fucking real about this. This is me against, what, thirty? Forty men? I’m a badass, but I’m not a fucking superhero. There has to be some element of stealth involved, otherwise I’m going to find myself being murdered very quickly and very painfully. These Italians are almost as inventive as I am when it comes to inflicting pain on others.
It’s not easy traversing the perimeter of the warehouse. There are cameras all over the place, I’m sure. They wouldn’t want someone sneaking up on the place and setting it on fire, after all, right?
I draw up my hood and I walk down my side of the street, keeping my head down. I walk until I hit a deserted cross street, then I cross and take a right. Eventually I loop back on myself, coming up on the other side of the warehouse, to the north, close to river. There are no entrances here. No drainpipes or fire escapes I can climb either. It’ll have to be the kitchen entrance around the other side then. I jump and pull myself up and over the high wall separating the street from the dark, narrow alleyway that leads to the restaurant’s kitchen.
I half expect to run into a group of huge, heavily armed guys, sitting out here smoking cigarettes or something, but the dingy, sour smelling alley is deserted.
Is kitchen door looked? I try the handle, and it doesn’t budge. Makes perfect sense. I came prepared, though. I take out the slender set of lock picks I’m carrying in my back pocket and I flick through them until I find a suitable tool. I have the thing swinging open in less than five seconds. I should enter competitions for busting open doors; I’d be a national fucking champion. Slipping inside, I find myself inside a dry store room. The door at other end of the store is open, and a broad shaft of yellow light slices through the darkness.
I peer through the narrow gap, assessing the situation beyond: a large, industrial kitchen, with polished steel benches and ranges. Large, commercial ovens and fryers. Five men dressed in chef whites, standing at stations around the room, chopping, stirring, basting, frying, plating. They talk amongst themselves in Italian; I know a little of the language, but not enough to keep up with them. They’re all clearly distracted by their tasks. I push the door open, reaching for my gun, ready to shoot any of them if they so much as look at me. But the weird thing is, they don’t. They must register my presence, but none of them lifts their heads as I make my way through the kitchen. One of them says something, practically shouting over the noise they’re all making, and the other four burst out laughing. I keep walking. As I walk out of the other door, the guy plating the food finally looks up, acknowledging me.
“Here. Take this,” he says, holding out a plate of steak and artfully arranged steamed vegetables. “The table at the far end of the restaurant,” he tells me in a heavily accented voice. “Mr. Barbieri is expecting you.”
Well, fuck me dead. I’m beginning to feel a little predictable over here. I arch an eyebrow at the plate, using the barrel of my desert eagle to scratch at my cheek. I should tell this punk to go fuck himself. I’m not a goddamn waiter. I’m not Barbieri’s errand boy, either. That’s the whole reason why I came to New York, to tell him as much to his face. I am never going to be his bitch. So carrying his dinner to him seems counter productive. On the other hand, if he’s so obviously expecting me then carrying a plate of food to him is certainly going to be easier than trying to shoot my way through a busy restaurant to get to him.
Fuck it.
I snatch the plate from the guy, rolling my eyes. The desert eagle goes back into the waistband of my pants. I exit through a set of swinging doors, then head through another, following the sounds of chatter and laughter toward the restaurant floor. The space is packed, every seat at every table occupied with beautifully dressed men and women, conversation bubbling over like the champagne from their glasses. Waiters buzz from one table to the next, topping up wine, clearing tables, delivering food. They’re dressed formally, in white shirts and black waistcoats, with crisp black bowties at their throats. If anyone thinks it strange that I’m forging my way across the floor carrying a single plate, wearing a black leather jacket, ripped jeans, and a deep scowl, then I don’t see it on their faces.
Barbieri is sitting along at a table at the far end of the restaurant. A plate sits in front of him already, complete with steak and mashed potatoes. When I arrive in front of him, considering simply pulling out my gun and shooting him in the face here and now, the emaciated looking fuck gestures with his fork to the chair opposite him.
“Sit down,” he says. “Eat. I couldn’t wait to begin, I’m afraid. You took far too long to show your face, Mr. Mayfair.”
I look down at the plate in my hand. Great. So I just carried my own dinner to the table, not Roberto’s? How fucking presumptuous can a person get? I dump the food down on the table, growling under my breath. “I’m not hungry,” I inform him, taking a seat.
He wipes his mouth with the corner of his napkin, chewing. He swallows, then finally looks up at me. “You’re a difficult man, Mr. Mayfair. When someone tells you to go left, you go right. When someone tells you stay, you go. When someone tells you go, you stay. It’s very frustrating for a man like me to try and communicate with a man like you.”
“The problem is you’re communicating all wrong.”
“Oh? How so?” He seems genuinely interested, his dull brown eyes watching my intently.
“For a start, no one tells me what the fuck to do.”
“I see. Didn’t Charlie Holsan tell you what to do on a regular basis?”
I smirk, tapping the steak knife next to the plate in front of me. “And look what happened to him.”
Roberto shrugs. “You’re right. He died. But at great cost to you, no? Namely, your sister, Lacey? Would you not say your disobedience to your master caused the death of someone you loved?”
I go tense, my skin prickling all over. “Don’t fucking talk about my sister. It’d be best if you never say her name again.”
Roberto cuts into his steak, blood pouring out of the almost raw piece of meat. He pops a forkful of food into his mouth, his eyes rolling back into his head as he chews. “You really should…eat your steak,” he says. “It’s our specialty. The secret’s in the beef. Slaughterhouses these days use stun guns and bolts to kill their animals humanely. Not the place we buy from, though.” He waves his fork from side to side at me as he shakes his head. “They are old school. They still stun the beasts with a hammer. They cut their throats and drain them while their hearts are still beating. We have it shipped here all the way from Louisiana. Everyone’s always going on about how the animal’s fear sours the meat, but personally I think a touch of fear actually tenderizes it perfectly. Tell me, didn’t a certain DEA agent recently exhume your precious dead sister?”
Fire charges through my veins, my entire body reacting violently to his words. I have to fight to keep myself from vaulting over the table and wrapping my hands around his goddamn throat.
“I see that I’ve upset you,” Roberto says. He puts his knife and fork down neatly beside his plate, bridging his hands together. “I apologize. I’ve never been known for my tact.”
Understatement of the goddamn century. I grip the edge of the table with my right hand until my knuckles turn white. “I didn’t come here to talk about Lacey, or Lowell.”
“No, you did not. You came here to kill me. Now how am I supposed to take that, Zeth? Lying down, with a happy smile on my face? I don’t think so.”
“You should have thought about that before you started fucking with my shit back in Seattle.”
He grunts. Running his tongue over his teeth, he stares at me for a moment, not saying anything. It’s almost disturbing. Roberto Barbieri is very different to the crime bosses I’ve had dealings with in the past. When his gaze meets mine, I see none of the drug-induced madness that plagued Charlie. I see none of the ego and arrogance that Julio suffered from. Roberto is a clever man. Incredibly intelligent. When I look into his eyes, all I see is a blank, vacant wall staring straight back at me, and that’s more dangerous that insanity and ego combined any day of the week.
“If you’re not going to eat the steak,” he says slowly, “then perhaps we can skip ahead to some desert.” He raises his hand, motioning to one of the waiters. A guy standing by the door notices him immediately; he doesn’t come over, though. He turns and hurries out of the room, returning seconds later and rushing across the floor toward us. There are no plates in his hands. Instead, he places a thin manila envelope down on the table next to me, inclining his head respectfully to Roberto before he hurries off again. I eye the envelope, huffing.
“What’s this?”
“This is a gift from me to you. Think of it as an apology for our previous misunderstandings. Go ahead. Open it.”
“I’m not interested in gifts from you, asshole.”
“You’ll be interested in this one, I promise,” he tells me, smiling ever so slightly. I push back from the table, rising from my seat. I fucking refuse to engage in game playing with this man. I point blank refuse. Roberto’s smile broadens. “Are you sure you want to do that?” he asks. “A series of events have been set in motion back in Seattle. It is within your power to control these events should you wish to, but only if you remain seated at this table. Only if you open the envelope and see what is inside. Once you walk away, there will be no stopping what is to come.”
I know an empty threat when I hear one. He’s bullshitting me. He has to be. He just wants to tug on my strings, make me bend to his will. He’s spinning me a line. If I sit back down, I’m giving him exactly what he wants. I need to go back to go back across the road and rethink how I’m going to approach this problem. Turning, I begin to walk away.
“If you love her, you’ll stay,” Roberto calls.
I stop dead in my tracks. Spinning slowly on the balls of my feet, I about face so that I’m staring at the sick fuck once more. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I snarl.
“It means you need to sit back down and survey the contents of that envelope, Zeth. I’m sure you’re going to find it a very interesting read.”
Damn him. I am going to enjoy gutting him from stem to sternum so fucking much. If he’s hurt her…If he’s so much as breathed in her general direction, I’m going to unravel his intestines from his body through his fucking mouth and I’m going to be laughing like a fucking psycho while I do it.
It kills me to sit back down at the table. Fucking kills me. But I do it.
Inside the envelope is a DEA report. A short one. I scan the pages quickly, my eyes scanning over the information, my blood pressure rising by the second. Lowell’s been at it again, but this time she’s not gunning for me. She’s doing something far, far worse. She’s going after Sloane. Lacey’s autopsy report is difficult to read. There are photos. Photos of her body. I slide them back inside the envelope, face down, refusing to look at them.
Cause of death: overdose.
A series of records, showing Sloane checking an extraordinarily large number of morphine vials out of the dispensary follows in the next report. There are a list of dates, all only a couple of days leading up to Lacey’s death, showing exactly when Sloane requested the morphine. Unlike all of the other entries in the report, Sloane’s requests for the painkiller don’t have a patient’s name or case file number next to them, which leaves the reader of the report left guessing the purpose for such large quantities of the drug.
“Lacey was shot,” I say slowly. “She wasn’t poisoned.”
Roberto pouts, his mouth drawing down at either corner. “The coroner’s report indicates otherwise, it appears.”
“Did you do this?”
“No, I did not. It seems your friend at the Drug Enforcement Administration has grown tired trying to pin something on you and appears to be pursuing other avenues.” He continues eating. “You know how long a new mother is allowed to spend with her child after she gives birth inside a state facility? It varies from state to state, prison to prison. Maybe the lovely Doctor Romera will be lucky and find herself remanded in a liberal establishment. She might be allowed to keep your bastard with her for a month or so. Maybe even three, before he or she’s taken by the state.”
Ice is forming inside my lungs now; it’s almost impossible to breathe. “Sloane did nothing wrong. There’s no way she’ll be convicted of murder.”
Roberto shoots me a pitying looking. “I’m a criminal, Zeth. I spend a lot of my time breaking law. I also spend a lot of time reviewing police reports, assessing whether I need to have one of my men killed because he is likely to go to jail and can’t keep his fucking mouth shut. I can recognize a concrete case when I see one. I know exactly what’s going to happen to you girlfriend. As soon as that file hits any judge’s desk, a warrant for Sloane’s arrest will be issued. Following her arrest, her bail will not be granted. There will be public uproar. A caregiver in a position of power, murdering a fragile, mentally disturbed young woman, poisoning her and then burying her body out in the woods? The media will have a fucking field day.
“There will be a trial, an unsuccessful appeal process, and then Sloane will be sentenced to life imprisonment if she’s lucky. If she’s not lucky, she’ll be given then death sentence. They’ll want to make an example of her. Did you know, the preferred method of capital punishment in the state of Washington is hanging? I thought it was lethal injection. Turns out I was incorrect.”
There are no words to describe my fury. I can’t seem to see beyond it. My vision is strobing, lights flashing, and a sharp, stabbing pain is lancing through my head. I don’t know what to do first—leap across the table, grab hold of Roberto and repeatedly smash his head against the table until his skull cracks open, or head straight back to the airport so I can find Lowell and torture the ever loving shit out of her.
“I can understand your anger,” Roberto says. “But I’m showing this to you so it can be avoided. There’s a way to make this case file disappear. There’s a way to make sure it never even makes it in front of a judge. I can make that happen.”
I know where this is going, and I don’t like it. He’s going to want me to work for him in exchange for burying this and making it go away. So fucking predictable. Lowell is going after Sloane because she knows how much it will hurt me. Roberto is using Sloane’s safety as a carrot, so he can get what he wants from me.
Being with Sloane makes me weak. She is a weakness. I fucking fell in love with her though, and I wouldn’t, can’t change that, so these are the cards I have been handed. What’s going to happen when our child is born? Are people like Lowell and Barbieri going to go on the hunt, trying to kidnap him at every possible fucking turn? Woe betides the person who fucking tries.
“Say it,” I growl. “Name your terms.” It’s funny how a plan can change so dramatically in such a short period of time. Half an hour ago, I was wondering how many people were going to be witness to me planting a bullet into the head of the Barbieri family patriarch. Now, I’m wondering what I’m going to have to do in order for him to help me. I hate this. I fucking hate it so much.
Roberto cuts another piece of steak, spearing it, eating it, chewing it in the most infuriating, disgusting manner, his jaw working overtime. “I only want your help. A temporary solution to an ongoing problem. You see, I’ve had a change of heart. I know now that having a man like you working for me all the way across the other side of the country is a horrible idea. You resent me. I’d go so far as to say you hate me.” My expression must let him know he’s right on the money. He laughs softly. “So all I’m asking of you is this: you know the lay of the land in Seattle. You know the organizations and factions who are going to cause trouble during this shift in power. Instead of you keeping the peace and maintaining order yourself, I’m asking you to train my chosen representatives to run the west coast for me instead. Show them how things work out there. Introduce them to the people they’re going to need to know. Most importantly, keep them out of trouble.”
“You’re asking me to be a glorified babysitter?”
Roberto sighs, nodding just once. “If that’s what you want to call it, yes.”
“And how long exactly do you expect me to play nanny?”
Roberto appears to think on this, as if he hasn’t given it much thought until now. “I propose you help me in this way until the day your child is born. Once that day arrives and the lovely Doctor Romera forces your progeny from her cunt, I will release you from your debt to me.”
A low rumble of displeasure vibrates in the base of my throat. “If you talk about her like that again, I’m going to take that steak knife, cut off your dick and ram it down your own throat, motherfucker.”
Roberto’s laughter is loud this time—loud enough to startle the tables surrounding us into silence. I’m guessing hearing such a thing is a fairly uncommon event around here. Roberto grins, displaying a set of half rotten teeth that make my stomach twist. Wouldn’t take much to knock those fuckers clean out of his head. “You’re right, that was very rude of me,” he says. “Our Barbieri women are revered and respected. I shall make sure I refer to Sloane only in the most reverent of ways from here on out. Providing you are in agreement, and you are going to take this job?”
I know what I have to say. I know I have to agree, I don’t have another choice, but fuck…it’s so hard to part with the words. Part of me wants to kill this bastard right here and now and go back to Seattle, where Michael and me can figure out the Lowell situation on our own, but I’ve seen the file with my own two eyes. It’s a fucking miracle it hasn’t been placed in front of a judge already. If Sloane’s arrested, if she’s stressed, if she’s hurt when they take her, how will any of that affect the baby?
I can’t risk it. I just fucking can’t. “And what happens once I’m no longer working for you? I’m just allowed to go back to running my gym? You’ll never bother me or my family again?”
Roberto places his hands flat on the table. He looks down at them, apparently studying them. “Well. I’m not one to ever make a promise,” he says. “In my experience people are very upset if and when a promise is broken. The very best I can do is assure you that I won’t personally request your execution. But if you interfere with my representatives in Seattle once you’re done training them, I won’t stand in the way of whatever action they deem to call justice. My advice would be to leave Seattle altogether. That way, it will be impossible to consider you a threat.”
I laugh under my breath. “I won’t leave. I’ll never leave.”
“Then you are aware of the potential consequences.”
“And what if your representatives interfere in my business? Am I free to deliver the same kind of justice to their doorstep?”
The smile that slowly spreads across Roberto’s face is sickly and cold. “No, Zeth. That would be very ill advised indeed. You see, the men I have chosen to run Seattle in my stead are more than just representatives of the Barbieri family. They are the very life and blood of the Barbieri family.” He holds up a hand, palm up, gesturing behind me. “Zeth Mayfair, may I introduce to you my sons, Theodore and Salvatore Barbieri.”