Chapter Twenty-Six

Landon

I don't know why Rossi called this meeting with me, but it has me feeling nervous and on edge. I've got a feeling he's going to demand his money and if I can't come up with it – which, I can't – he's going to put a bullet in me. I'm hoping that's not the case, but I just don't know what to think.

I did a couple lines of blow before I left my hotel room to get myself psyched and ready for this. And I'm sitting here wishing I had more. If he's going to try and take me out, I'm not going down without a goddamn fight. He may get me in the end, but he and his boys are gonna pay a heavy fuckin' price, I guarantee you that.

I'm sitting in a booth at the back of the little dive bar I insisted we meet at. No way in hell I'm gonna meet him anywhere but in a public place. If they want to kill me, they're gonna have to drag me out of here kickin' and screamin', that's for sure.

But, I also note ruefully, that it's also the kind of place that's anonymous. Where people come to avoid being seen and who want nothing more than to drown their miseries in a beer.

Which makes me think I should have set this meet at a Starbucks on Hollywood and Highland where there would be a guaranteed massive crowd of witnesses. But, hindsight is twenty-twenty.

It's only noon, but in the half hour I've been sitting here waiting, I've managed to put down three beers. Just a little something to take the edge off. But I'm growing impatient and fidgety. Part of me thinks I should just get up and leave now because fuck this guy.

But there's still that rational voice in the back of my head telling me to calm down, find out what he wants, and then figure out how to turn it to my own advantage. It's difficult, but I calm myself down enough to realize that voice in the back of my head is right.

If I'm ever going to get out from under Roberto Rossi, I need to start making the situation work for me instead of just reacting to what comes up.

“Finally,” I mutter to myself when I see him walk through the doors.

And, as always, Rossi is being trailed by two of his goons. Unfortunately for me, it's the same two goons who spotted me tailing him and took my gun away from me. But, I have to believe that they didn't mention it to Rossi – otherwise, if they had, I'd probably already be in a shallow ditch somewhere.

“Landon,” Rossi says. “Nice bar. Very – rustic.”

“Whatever,” I snap.

Rossi slides into the booth across from me. His goons don't take a seat – they just stand at the end of the table. The Mexican guy is eyeballing me closely – watching my hands. He catches my gaze and I can see his thoughts as plain as day. The way he's looking at me lets me know that if I make one wrong move, he's going to put a bullet through my skull. But, I'm not the one who called this meet, so he can go fuck himself.

Besides, he took my gun and it's not like I have another one sitting around. Unfortunately.

“What do you want, Rossi?” I ask.

He looks at me closely, narrows his eyes, studying me. I sit back in the booth and stare at him – unsure what he's looking at.

“What?” I finally ask.

“You're strung out,” he says.

“What?”

“What are you on, Landon?” he asks. “I can see that you're high on something.”

“Fuck off,” he says.

“Whatever it is, it's making you a lot mouthier these days,” he says. “Really pumping you up and giving you a false sense of courage.”

“Lose the goons and we'll see how false my sense of courage is,” I hiss.

“Oh, now that's something I might take you up on,” he says, his eyes boring into mine.

“Boss,” the Mexican guy says, a note of caution in his voice.

Rossi gives him a small nod and leans back in his seat. I force myself to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Force myself to calm down and try to maintain my composure. It's like he's baiting me to blow up, but I've still got it together enough to know that it's not going to do me a whole bunch of good to lose it right now.

“What do you want, Rossi?” I ask, when I feel calm enough to speak.

“The first thing I want to know is whether or not you have my money.”

“Nope,” I say. “I don't.”

He nods as if he expected that answer – he probably did.

“Any idea when you're going to get it.”

I sigh and shake my head. “I'm working on it.”

He nods as if he expected that answer too. “Okay, I'm going to tell you how it's going to be,” he says.

“How it's going to be?” I ask.

“That's right,” Rossi says. “I'm going to lay it all out for you. I'll even use small words, just to make sure you fully understand.”

“Go fuck yourself,” I snap.

When I feel a hand on my shoulder, I look up at the Mexican guy, my eyes burning with anger. Burning with hate.

“Watch your mouth,” he says. “Sick of listening to your disrespectful bullshit.”

“Like I fucking give a shit,” I snap, enunciating each word just to annoy him further.

I feel the sting in my cheek a split-second before I hear the sound of the slap. My head is rocked to the side and my skin feels like it's on fire. I wheel around and start to get up, the rage in me boiling over. The Mexican guy pushes me back down with one hand and unobtrusively opens his coat to show me his gun.

“What, you think I'm afraid of you and your gun, Pedro?” I seethe.

“Yeah, actually I do,” he says. “I think you're very, very afraid. That's why you needed to coke yourself up before you came here. You needed that little extra juice, am I right?”

I narrow my eyes and glower at him and then look at Rossi. He's sitting back, watching all of this happen with a smug expression on his face – an expression I want to slap right off him. His goon takes his paw off my shoulder and, his eyes still on mine, holds up a finger as a form of caution.

“Watch yourself,” he says. “And show Mr. Rossi the proper respect.”

“Whatever,” I mutter.

“I want you to apologize,” Rossi finally says.

“What?” I ask.

“Apologize for that bullshit racist slur,” he says. “His name is Miguel. Mr. Nunez, to you. Not Pedro. Unlike you, Mr. Nunez is a good man who makes a positive contribution to this world.”

“The fuck I will.”

Rossi moves so quickly that I don't even have time to react. His grip around my wrist feels like a steel band and he's bending it backward. Slowly. Methodically. His eyes locked on mine. The pain shooting up my arm as he bends my wrist back is intense. Excruciating.

“Apologize,” he says. “I won't sit here and tolerate your bigoted bullshit.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and grit my teeth, trying to break free from his grasp, but can't. He's just too strong. And if I don't do something soon, he's going to snap my fuckin' wrist.

“Fine,” I hiss. “I'm sorry.”

“You're sorry – what?” Rossi presses.

“I'm sorry – Mr. Nunez,” I gasp. “I'm fuckin' sorry.”

Rossi holds his grip a moment longer before finally releasing me. I sit back and hold my wrist, wincing at the pain shooting up my arm. The hatred in me is burning brighter than ever before and if I'd a gun in that moment, I would have thrown down and tried to put one between his eyes – damn the consequences.

“Okay,” Rossi says. “Now that we have that stupidity out of the way, let's talk.”

“I don't have your money,” I say. “And I don't know when I'm going to have it.”

“I know that,” he says.

“Then, why are we here?” I ask. “Are you gonna drive me out to some vacant lot and put two in my head?”

“As tempting as that is, no,” Rossi says.

“Then what the fuck do you want?”

“I'm here to tell you that you won the lottery, Landon.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I'm going to forgive your debt to me.”

I hear the words but don't quite comprehend them at first. Forgive my debt? Why would he do that? Unless...

“And what do I have to do in exchange for this act of benevolence?” I ask.

“Leave town,” he says simply. “Get out of LA and never come back.”

Great. So, that's two major cities I've been banned from. That has to be some sort of goddamn record.

“What about Harper?” I ask, although I have a feeling I already know the answer.

“You're going to walk away and forget you ever knew her.”

I shake my head. “That ain't gonna happen.”

“If it doesn't, then your debt is not forgiven,” he says. “And you're still not going to see Harper again.”

“The hell I'm not.”

Rossi leans across the table, his eyes narrowing and dark anger coloring his features. He holds my gaze for a moment and I feel an icy fist of fear grip my heart, give it a vicious squeeze.

“Do you really think I'm going to let that girl go anywhere with you?” he asks. “I don't trust that you won't try to sell her off to Max again. And because I don't believe you won't – regardless of whatever you might say – I'm not going to let her go anywhere with you. Period.”

“That's for her to decide,” I hiss.

“You're right, it is,” he says. “And I'm sure the decision will be much easier for her once I tell her what your plans for her were.”

“You motherfucker,” I spit.

I lunge across the table at him, but a split-second after I start to move, I feel two hands on my shoulders, shoving me roughly back down against my seat. I struggle against the Mexican's hands, but his grip is like iron and I can't move. The next thing I feel is the cool steel of a gun barrel pressed firmly to the side of my neck. When I look up at the Mexican, I see him looking back at me, his face expressionless – as if pulling the trigger would be as commonplace for him as blowing his nose.

A few curious eyes turn our way and then turn back to their own problems a moment later. Nobody's gonna help me. Not even if this goon shoots me in the neck. I'm alone.

Slumping back against the seat, I let the feeling of defeat wash over me. The bitter taste of resignation fills my mouth. And yet, the hatred in my heart has never burned so bright.

“Are we calm now?” Rossi asks, condescension dripping from his every word.

“You can't tell her,” I plead.

“Oh, but I can,” he says. “And I will. She's a good girl and she deserves the truth. She deserves to know what a reprehensible piece of shit you really are, Landon.”

“You're such a prick,” I say, my voice barely more than a whisper.

“I've been called worse by better than you,” he says. “But yes, I don't deny that I can be a prick. In this case though, it happens to be justified.”

“Fuck you.”

“If, after Harper learns the truth, she decides that she can't live without you and wants to go with you anyway, then, so be it,” he says. “But, I have a feeling that's not going to be the case. Once she learns that you tried to sell her into sex slavery, I have a feeling her view of you is going to radically change.”

“Please don't,” I say, despair washing over me. “I – I won't come around. I won't bother her. Just – please don't tell her, Mr. Rossi. I'm begging you.”

“Like I said, Landon,” he says, “it all comes down to trust. And given your current drug-fueled state as well as what you were planning to do with her before I intervened, I don't trust you. I don't trust that you will do right by here. And she deserves to know the truth.”

A tear rolls down my cheek and I feel like crawling into a deep, dark hole. It sounds crazy, but I don't want to lose Harper. And maybe even crazier, I don't want her to hate me. It's nuts, but I care about Harper and part of me hopes that one day, we can be together.

If Rossi tells her though, that's never gonna happen.

“So, the choice is yours,” Rossi says, interrupting my thoughts. “Leave LA today – for good – and your debt to me is cleared off the books. We're square.”

“And all I have to do is give Harper up.”

“You already did, you piece of shit,” he hisses. “But yeah, no matter what you say or do, Harper is off the table. You're never going to see her again. Period. You can choose to leave LA, debt free, and never come back. Or you can be an idiot and stay here. If you do that though, you'll probably have something – unfortunate – happen to you.”

He stands up and turns to go and then turns back to me once more. I look up at him and see the imperious way he looks at me. Like he's so far above me and that I'm nothing but dog shit on his shoe.

“It's your call, of course,” he says. “But, think carefully, Landon. And think quickly. I want you out of LA by noon tomorrow – at the latest. And I'll have people watching you.”

He turns and walks out of the bar, his goons on his heels. They leave me sitting there alone, feeling nothing but resignation, despair, and anger.

I have one card left to play and I know it. Playing it though, comes with a huge risk. But, it's a gamble that comes with a big reward – Harper. With the added bonus of seeing Roberto Rossi getting put down like a dog – something I want to see more than anything.

It's a debate I've been having with myself for a couple of days now. But, with the clock running on me, I can't afford to keep debating.

Slipping my cell phone out of my pocket, I hesitate – and then punch in the number.