FIVE
ZETH
The Italians aren’t like normal crime bosses. Their loyalties and family connections are complicated, confusing, and as changeable as the wind. One second a player will be sided with one family, willing to steal, kill, fight and die for them. One perceived, ridiculous slight later and they’re defecting to pledge their allegiance to another family—a family that, until only days before, they would have burned down half the city to avoid or outright attack.
In the same vein, their bosses can sometimes sleep with their wives, kill their children, raze their businesses to the ground, and still nothing can cause them to deviate from their paths. They’re a strange, incestuous bunch. You’d need a series of fucking venn diagrams to even begin to understand Italian politics. I don’t hold for charts and hearsay, though. I have Michael. Over the past few weeks, he’s been watching… waiting…
I’ve been preoccupied with Sloane and the baby, so I haven’t been riding him for information every five seconds like I might have done otherwise. But still… I haven’t forgotten. You don’t come into my city and attack me without consequence. You don’t burn down my home without there being a price to pay. I have no idea who the Barbieri family sent to Seattle to do their dirty work, but I aim on finding out exactly who lit that match. I’m just hoping it was one of the sons. Both Theo and Sal are bad news. Worse than bad news; they’re ill omens. Harbingers of chaos and ruin. It would suit me down to the fucking ground if I got to take both of them out on this trip. I’d sleep better at night knowing they weren’t out there, even on the other side of the country, plotting and planning, generally causing trouble.
I stand in the arrivals lounge of JFK airport, questioning my own sanity. Is it madness to go and collect this bag from Sandra? She was on the flight—handed me scotch on the rocks at regular intervals with a benign smile on her face, until I told her to leave me the fuck alone—so I know she’s around here somewhere. I can picture it now, though: Sandra approaching from the other end of baggage claim, inappropriately high heels making obnoxious, loud clicking sounds on the polished flooring as she bee-lines straight for me, airport security flanking her like the motherfucking Gestapo. And my response? I couldn’t turn and run from the bastards. I’d rather fucking die. I don’t even know if I’m lying to myself at the moment. Things have changed so much for me in the past few months. There was a time when I would have grabbed Sandra, sliced her neck open from ear to ear for fucking with me. Just to make a point. But now… Sloane’s changed everything. I used to wake up, covered in sweat, panicking, my heart pounding out of my chest from fighting off the demons in my sleep. These days I wake up, my heart barely beating at all, paralyzed, pinned to the mattress. Fear used to be something I embraced. I knew it intimately. I could use it to my advantage. The adrenalin fear brought would sharpen my senses. I could see better, hear better, think faster, react so quickly I wouldn’t even realize I’d made a decision to move until the action was complete. Now I second-guess everything, because there are consequences I have to live with. If I slit Sandra’s throat, it won’t be as simple as me heading directly back to Chino, or whatever hell on earth equivalent they have here on the east coast. It won’t just be the loss of my freedom I’ll have to endure.
There are two other people I have to consider.
Sloane on her own…
My child, without my protection…
The prospect of either of those eventualities is enough to fuck up my sleep pattern altogether.
“Mr. Mayfair?”
I jump, my nerve endings alight, my fists ready to swing. Sandra Wilder is standing next to me with a bottle of Bruichladdich scotch in a clear plastic duty free bag swinging from her index finger. She grins at me, baring her teeth in the weirdest way. I still maintain that there’s something fucked up about this woman. She’s not quite right. She’s…unhinged. The photos of her kids that were taped to her computer monitor were a little odd, too, though. Three bland looking children wearing horrible Christmas sweaters, all with the same buck teeth and vacant, glassy eyes. They were carbon copies of their mother, robotic-looking and bizarre. Maybe it’s in their genes. How unfortunate.
I don’t know how she snuck up on me, but I’m not fucking happy about. I growl under my breath, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. “Someone needs to put a fucking bell on you, woman.”
She laughs. She laughs like I’ve just told a joke, and the sad part is that I’m deadly serious. “Come on. Your bag’s being kept to one side in oversized luggage. If I go with you, they’ll hand it over without a fuss.”
“Let’s just get this over with.” I’m beginning to regret not just buying a new gun here in New York. The inconvenience would have added an extra day, but there would have been none of this bullshit creeping around the airport, holding my breath. I love that goddamn Desert Eagle, though. I feel like I’m administering righteous justice every time I pull the motherfucking trigger.
I follow Sandra across the airport. A short, olive-skinned guy grunts unhappily as he hands over my bag. Like the baggage he handles, he is oversized and oddly shaped, wide-hipped and narrow shouldered, squeezed from the top like a tube of toothpaste. His hair is abnormally thick and perfect—definitely a hairpiece. I mean, why bother with vanity when the rest of you looks like that?
I sling the duffel bag’s strap over my head, resisting the urge to check inside and make sure everything is where it ought to me.
“Michael has taken care of everything,” Sandra tells me. “This here ends our time together, I suppose you could say. I wish you the very best of luck with your business here in New York, Zeth. If you need anything in the future…” She reaches up onto her tiptoes, places a hand on my shoulder, then does something very confusing: she leans in and plants a kiss on my cheek.
What the fuck is this woman’s deal?
Outside, the sky is overcast and looks leaden. Heavy. Weighted down, lower than it should be. There’s electricity in the air. A storm. Shakespeare coined a term back in the seventeenth century. Charlie used to talk about it all the time. Pathetic Fallacy. Macbeth is the perfect example. When the three witches are gathered around their cauldron, something wicked that way a-coming, the sky was roiling with storm clouds. Thunder shattered the night air, and lighting split the darkness in two. That’s what this feels like right now. Dread hangs on the horizon. I don’t know if that dread belongs to the Barbieri family, or to me. If I have anything to do with it, it’ll be visited upon the heads of the largest, most violent mob boss in the city. I guess time will tell.
I rent a car.
That’s a lie.
I steal a car.
I’m like a kid in a candy store; the long-stay parking lot at JFK is packed end-to-end with Lincoln town cars and other five-door monstrosities. I pick something a little sleeker: a BMW 740i. Michael’s pre-packed some of my favorite toys in my duffel, but he’s also provided me with some brand new toys, too: a tiny black box, with a yellow wire protruding from its base. On the other end of the wire: a generic car key. I slide the key into the BMW’s lock, and I hit the button on the device. A series of numbers appear on a dim analogue screen, flashing red, cycling through alpha-numerical sequences until the first number turns green. Then the second. Then the third. It takes seconds for the computer to crack the car’s security system.
I climb inside like I own the damn thing, throwing the duffel bag onto the passenger seat. My cell phone buzzes in my pocket.
Michael: All three of them are at the restaurant. Some sort of wedding party. Tonight’s no good.
Fuck.
Well, that changes things. A wedding party means guests. Lots of guests. Especially if it’s an Italian wedding. I’ve seen The Godfather. I know how these things go down. There won’t be a single member of that party who isn’t armed and dangerous. A more subtle approach is required. I need to wait until later, after everyone’s left. I need to get into the Barbieri household somehow. Killing Roberto in his sleep isn’t going to be very gratifying, but I’m on a schedule. I have a return flight tomorrow at noon and I aim to be on it. I leave an inch of rubber on the blacktop as I burn out of the parking lot.
The Hilton hotel Michael booked for me isn’t really a hotel, nor is it a part of the Hilton chain. It’s a more of a safe house, if you will. A place where the more suspect members of society might stay if they were planning on attending La Cucina Del Diavolo for an evening of debauchery and sin. I have a suite on the top floor—ought to give me a good vantage point of the building opposite. The Barbieri family restaurant is hidden behind the façade of an industrial warehouse, much like my warehouse those bastards burned down in Seattle. Same setting. Same idea. A place close to the water where goods can be shuttled to and from storage—guns, drugs, women in their case, I’m sure. The police have no jurisdiction inside the Hilton, the same way they have no jurisdiction inside La Cucina Del Diavolo. The second I check in at the front desk, the receptionist is going to notify Robert Barbieri of my presence. Sure, there are a thousand other places I could stay in New York, but none share the same proximity to my quarry. And besides. I like the idea of those fuckers knowing my exact location. It shows the lack of fear on my part. It shows them I mean business.
I know New York well enough to navigate the city and reach my destination relatively quickly. It’s after nine by the time I reach the Hilton.
I collect the duffel bag, leaving the engine running as I climb out of the BMW, and I hand the inconspicuous valet a fifty-dollar bill. “Make it disappear,” I tell him. “Do whatever you want with it. Just make sure my fingerprints are gone by the time you leave it.”
He gives me a curt, sharp nod, jumps in the car and burns off. In less than an hour, the vehicle will either be in pieces, welded to parts of another cut-and-shut, or it’ll be at the bottom of the Hudson and I will never see it again. Car thieves are masters of their trade in this town.
My plans of a grand entrance are thwarted by an empty reception desk. The place is literally deserted. What the fuck does that mean? This is the kind of place that is watched over twenty-four seven. I’m surprised there weren’t heavily armed, thick-skulled guards standing on either side of the door when I came in. The lobby, if you can call it that, is eerily quiet and cold, with rough cast concrete walls and recessed lighting that make the place feel like a morgue. Hanging around here is a bad idea. I can feel it in the air, thick and stifling: violence.
I’m just about to get the fuck out of here, when a tall, crane-like woman appears through a door behind the reception, polishing the lenses of a pair of glasses on the bottom of her sweater. She stops moving when she sees me, mouth open, glasses half raised to her face. “Oh no. No, you can’t be here,” she says. Her accent is English. Not a BBC accent. Not from London, like Charlie was. She’s from the north, I think. I don’t have a fucking clue where, though.
“I have a reservation,” I say bluntly.
“Not here, you don’t. You’re meant to be staying on the other side of town.”
“You haven’t even taken my name yet.”
She smiles primly as she slides her glasses onto the end of her nose. Her blonde hair is pulled back so tightly into a bun, it looks like it has to be giving her a headache. “You are Mr. Mayfair, and you’re meant to be staying at The Waldorf tonight. Mr. Barbieri organized the penthouse suite for you some hours ago. He did it himself.” She stresses her last statement, presumably to convey how abnormal this is.
I blink at her, taking this in. Barbieri booked me into a fancy hotel in Manhattan? He arranged it himself? And more importantly, he knew I was coming? None of this is good news.
“I won’t be staying at The Waldorf. I’m staying here, in the room I booked, with my own money.” If Roberto’s been paying attention, he already knows I don’t give a shit about high-end living. If I did, I’d have accepted his job offer and I’d be running Seattle in his stead for him right now. Instead, I spend ninety percent of my free time in a dimly lit, sweaty boxing gym, teaching kids how to fight.
“Mr. Barbieri won’t be happy with me if I don’t send you over to your other rooms, Mr. Mayfair. He won’t be happy with me at all.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I lean across the reception desk, trying not to seem threatening. Threatening is my resting state, though. It’s impossible to switch it off. No matter how hard I try, I always end up saying things like, “Now please give me my motherfucking room key, before I lose my temper.” Which is, of course, exactly what I say.
The woman doesn’t exactly pale. She tilts her chin up, looking down the length of her very straight, narrow nose at me. She isn’t impressed in the slightest, but I don’t give a fuck. “You’re an impolite man, Mr. Mayfair. I thought you’d be a little more respectful.”
“And why on earth would you have come to that conclusion?”
She lifts one angular shoulder in half a shrug. “The story of Zeth protecting his beloved Sloane is quite famous these days, even in New York. I suppose I considered a man willing to sacrifice everything for the woman he loves to be a feminist. Or at least a romantic. I get the feeling you’re neither.”
Feminist? Romantic? Someone’s been reading too many books. “I just want my room key, and then I’ll be out of your hair. Can you make that happen, or do I need to come back there and find one for myself.”
The woman regards me coolly. “I don’t think I like you,” she says. Her tone is frosty, her gaze steady and even, filled with ice. She pivots and opens a drawer below the computer monitor she’s now standing in front of and withdraws an envelope. “Here. Mr. Barbieri said you might be difficult. The key to your room is inside. Along with your room key for your rooms at The Waldorf. If I were you, I’d take him up on his generous offer and move to the other hotel. A lot of our current guests are familiar with you. Let’s just say most of them haven’t been all happy to hear your name spoken recently. Mr. Barbieri’s just trying to keep the peace.”
I laugh. It’s almost too hilarious to bear. “Mr. Barbieri wouldn’t know peace if it leapt up and bit him on the ass.” I take the envelope and I head for the elevator. God knows what’s waiting for me in this room. Barbieri’s had time and opportunity to tamper with everything, and I’m betting he has. There are probably trip wires and incendiary devices in the walls. There are probably thugs hiding in the closets, brandishing knives and guns, ready to fill me with lead.
How fucking cliché. Maybe he expects me to leave, now that I know he’s wise to my arrival. I’m not going to bend to his will, though. He can go fuck himself.
I hit the call button on the elevator, stab the button for floor number seven once I’m inside, then I wait for the doors to roll closed, sending the shittiest look possible to the receptionist.
“It’s your funeral, Mr. Mayfair,” she calls after me. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”
******
If the suite is rigged with explosives, I can’t find them. There are no weapon-toting heavies in any of the closets either, or lurking behind the doors. The bathroom doesn’t even have a curtain for anyone to hide behind, and the bed is one of those ridiculous Japanese creations that’s only an inch off the ground, so no way there’s anyone secreted away underneath that.
There’s a mint on the pillow, just as there would be if this were a proper hotel, and tiny bottles of shampoo and shower gel sit on a marble dish next to the sink. On the antique wooden desk next to the window sits a bottle of something else entirely: Johnny Walker Blue, worth about five hundred bucks, if I’m not mistaken. It rests on top of a neatly folded slip of paper. I slide the note out from underneath the bottle, scanning the strangely neat, feminine handwriting that loops all over the paper.
Mr. Mayfair. Thank you for finally answering my summons. We’re honored that you’ve have chosen to grace us with your presence. I’m sorry it took such drastic measures to get you here, however I am not a man who likes to be ignored. You will learn this about me in time. Since I see you have obviously declined to accept my generous offer of rooms elsewhere, please make yourself comfortable here until I send for you. I hope you find everything to your liking.
R. Barbieri.
Please make yourself comfortable until I send for you? Bitch fucking please. Does he think I’ve come here to fall at his feet and beg for his stupid job? Does he think I’ve come out to the east coast with my tail tucked between my legs? Does he not realize I’ve come out here to fucking kill him?
I screw up the note and toss it in the trash, then I set my duffel bag on the end of the bed and I unzip it. I could up-end the bag and dump its contents out onto the comforter in less than a second, but I’m fuming right now. Instead, I remove the items from inside slowly, carefully, setting them out one by one in front of me, allowing myself the pleasure of imagining how I might use each one to end Roberto Barbieri’s life. It’s very fucking satisfying. Very satisfying indeed.
I take apart the Desert Eagle and I clean it meticulously until it’s gleaming. I load it, slide it into my waistband at the small of my back and head for the door.
Roberto Barbieri’s gonna wish he’d never been fucking born. I yank the door open, and there’s a woman standing directly in front of me with her hand raised, knuckles about to rap on my door. She jumps, leaping back.
“Shit! You scared me.”
“I’m good at that,” I growl. She’s young. Pretty. Her dark hair is curling around her face, and her makeup looks like it’s been professionally applied. She’s wearing a light, knee-length jacket, synched tight at the waist, and a pair of knee high black suede boots with ridiculously high heels.
She’s afraid. She’s also a hooker. I can tell just by looking at her. “I think you have the wrong room,” I say slowly.
She swallows, the muscles in her throat working overtime as she looks over my shoulder at the door. “No. This is the only suite on this floor. I was sent here specifically.”
“Well you can leave now. I didn’t order room service.”
The girl’s cheeks flush. She’s offended. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m not the kind of dish you can send back to the kitchen.”
I lean forward, running my tongue over my teeth, studying her face. She bears a passing resemblance to Sloane. I’m not stupid enough to think that’s a coincidence. These guys are fucking high if they think I’m this easily distracted. Or tempted, for that matter.
“Turn around. Walk back down the hallway. Get back on the elevator. Do not come up here again. Do you understand?”
The girl—she can’t be more than twenty-one, twenty-two—stares back at me defiantly. “You haven’t even seen what’s on the menu yet. Why don’t you take a look before you act so rashly?” She quickly unfastens her coat, allowing it to part, revealing a black lace bra and panties, both see-thru, both barely covering her tanned, toned body. She’s wearing a black lace choker around her neck—one with a shining steel loop attached to it. She’s prepped and ready to be abused, that much is clear.
A couple of years ago, before I met Sloane in that dark hotel room for the first time, my dick would have already been growing hard in my pants. I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself. I would have taken hold of her, my fingers biting into her flesh. I would have picked her up and carried her back into the room behind me, thrown her down onto the bed and I would have held onto her tight while I slid my cock into that pouty little mouth of hers.
A lot has changed since then, though. My dick doesn’t stir. Doesn’t even twitch. The only animalistic part of me that responds to this blatant sexual display is my temper.
I place my hand on her shoulder and I push the girl away from me, snarling. “I don’t care if your pussy is fucking gold plated, bitch. Get the fuck off my floor before I toss you back in the elevator myself. I’m not known for being gentle.”
She adopts a sulky, prettily frustrated expression. “But Daddy, what if I want you to be rough?”
Daddy? Did she just call me Daddy? I tip my head back and I laugh. I’m six months away from earning that title. It’s a sacred, precious title to me now, and the fact that this half naked prostitute it trying to use it to turn me on is both fucking hysterical and infuriating at the same time. I allow my laughter to die on my lips. Taking a step forward, I pull the door closed behind me, clear my throat, and then I reach up and grab hold of the girl. I take a handful of her hair in my hand and I grip onto it tight, pulling.
“Ow! Ow, stop, you’re hurting me!”
I set off walking down the hallway, pulling her along behind me.
“Fuck, asshole! I said stop!” she cries.
“And I said fuck off. Twice. You don’t appear to be listening, though.”
I stride down the hall, my footfall muffled by the thick, high-pile carpet beneath my feet. The girl stumbles, struggling to keep up as I pull her along behind me. “Slow down. Jesus, you bastard. Let me go!”
I release her just as we arrive in front of the elevator. She staggers away from me, holding a hand to the side of her head, wincing. “There was no need for that,” she hisses.
“Wasn’t there?” The elevator doors roll open. I gesture inside, giving the girl a meaningful look—get your ass in there right now, or I will put you in there. She scowls, cursing me out non-too subtly under her breath.
“You know I won’t get paid now, right?”
“It’s six-thirty. I’m sure you’ll be ridden hard and put up wet by someone else within the hour. Now disappear.”
I reach inside the elevator and hit the button for the lobby. The girl flips me off as the doors close and she vanishes. I wait for the car to descend. I’d rather stand here and waste five minutes than ride down to the ground floor with a hooker.
I look out of the window to my right, out into the darkness, and a bright dot of light catches my attention. Red. Small, yet noticeable. I make my way over to the window, and I see him: a dark figure standing on the roof of La Cucina Del Diavolo. He pulls on his cigarette one more time, standing there, staring back at me, then he tosses his smoke over the edge of the roof, turns and melts into the shadows.