“Well this place is fucking ritzy. Feel like I should’a wore my tuxedo.”

Duke’s smart-assed comment comes through the earpiece as clear as if he was standing beside me and not riding an elevator up hundreds of feet into the air. This is the part I’ve been dreading the most since dragging them into my shit, the reason I second-guessed Operation Fuck My Family. But we’re in too balls-deep to back out now. I can only wait in my Jeep down the road from the downtown San Francisco skyscraper, fists clenched as I pray to whatever gods may be listening that I’m not sending my two closest buddies out to be slaughtered on home soil by one of the most dangerous men ever to join the mafia. They’ve been through hell and back completing missions overseas—I’ll be damned if I let them go out this way.

Quinn left a message while we were on the airplane. As relieved as I was to hear she’s ready to talk, I don’t plan to call her back until I’ve made a real gesture to fix what my family broke.

There’s a ding in my earpiece before I hear the guys shuffle onto the elevator that will take them to where Joseph Agron’s front as a legitimate investor is based. It’s a good thing it didn’t work for me to join the guys when meeting with him, because once we were able to uncover all the information we’d need on my father’s partner in crime, I was out for the taste of his blood.

While Quinn was scraping to get by after her dad’s murder, Agron was floating in a brand new yacht on the Amalfi Coast—something Scott Quinn would’ve done anything to experience. Remembering the little sailboat Quinn tattooed on her wrist, I swallow the hot lump rising in my throat.

---

Our first unofficial date was the weekend before Valentine’s Day, freshman year. It was “unofficial” because as much as I liked her, I knew I couldn’t ask her out as a girlfriend. I knew my old man would lose his shit if he knew I was with Scott Quinn’s daughter. She didn’t have money to do fun shit, so I had to get creative when making plans.

There wasn’t much to do in her neighborhood and I didn’t want her taking the bus, so when I overheard our senior assistant basketball coach say he was spending the day in the Bay area with his older brother, I convinced him to give us a lift.

Quinn was quiet the first few miles we rode in Shannon’s car. I was pretty sure it was because she had him pick her up a few blocks down from her apartment where low-income housing faded into middle class. From the first day we met, she had tried her hardest to hide where she came from, and I knew she was worried I’d discover the truth. I wished there was a way I could tell her that I already knew and I couldn’t give a shit less, but nevertheless I continued to play her game.

After taking her to the arcade museum for the first time, we stopped for her favorite soft pretzels with cheese before taking a walk along the pier. I’ll never forget how fucking beautiful she looked that unusually warm winter afternoon as she stopped to lean over the railing, hair blowing around her face as she watched the sea lions sun themselves on the docks.

“My dad loved the water,” she told me, her cheeks stretched with a wide smile. “He worked at the yacht club in high school, and was on a college racing team. A few times when I was little, he took us for rides on rental boats, but I never got to see him sail anything. He told me that when I was big enough, he’d teach me to sail. He even said that one day he’d buy his own boat, and we could take it sailing around the world.” Then her smile slipped at the same time there was a hitch in her voice. “By the time I was old enough, he was working late hours…I hardly ever saw him.”

My heart took a brutal beating every time she mentioned her dad. It wasn’t often, but she told me a few weeks after we met that he was killed while being mugged, and there were a few times after when she’d slip and bring up memories of him. I wanted to know more about the life of the man my father took, even if I didn’t have the right.

Reaching down to squeeze her hand, I whispered, “I’m sorry, Quinn.”

But I wasn’t saying that I was sorry that she never learned to sail. I was apologizing to her because my father took hers away in more ways than one. It was my way of telling her I was sorry that her dad had died, and I was sorry that I hadn’t done anything to stop it. I was sorry that I was too much of a coward to tell her the truth.

When she turned to face me, the wind blew strands of her hair across her face, and it stuck in her tears. “I miss him so much. It’s been two years since he died. I keep waiting for it to hurt less, but it doesn’t.”

I wanted to cry along with her. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, and beat my father with my fists. But out of all the things I wanted, I didn’t want any of them more than I wanted her.

That afternoon, when I brushed the hair away from her face and looked into her watering eyes sparkling in the bright sunlight, the truth hit me with blinding clarity. I hugged her in the only awkward way a fifteen-year-old boy knew how as my heart raced. I nearly choked on the feelings I was trying to avoid.

I was madly in love with a girl I’d die for.

---

In my earpiece, the elevator doors slide open and Duke clears his throat. “Good afternoon, sweetheart. I’m Christopher Hofield and this is Clay Warner. We have an appointment with Mr. Agron.”

“You’re right on time,” a woman replies. From her sickly sweet tone, I imagine she’s batting her eyelashes at the guys, Duke in particular. Women flock to the asshole even when he’s wearing his wedding band. “Go ahead and have a seat. He’ll be with you gentlemen in a minute.”

There’s a pause and the sound of shuffling feet, then Duke whispers, “If this whole Quinn thing doesn’t work out, I can get this sexy little secretary’s number for you, Twitch. She’s smoking hot.”

“Quit dickin’ around,” I snarl. “This is serious business. You’re about to meet with a key player in the Russian mafia.”

“Speaking of, how do you know if someone’s Russian?” he replies without missing a beat. Before I’m able to tell him to shut his trap before he gets us all killed, he says, “Their blood has a permanent vodka content level, whether they’ve been drinking or not.”

I hear Rogers snicker beside him.

Running my hands over my face, I sigh. Thank fuck I know these idiots can be dead serious when called for, or I’d pull the plug on this operation right this minute.

Duke passes the time by humming along to an obnoxious pop tune playing in the lobby. About the time I’m ready to rip my earpiece out, I hear the receptionist call them back, and they’re in motion.

“Showtime,” Duke whispers.

A few moments later they’re greeted by a man with a deep, booming voice, and a faint Ukrainian accent. After the guys exchange their bogus names with Joseph Agron, he tells them, “Gentlemen, have a seat. What was so important that you needed to meet on a Sunday morning?”

“As I told you on the phone, we’re private investigators, hired by someone with an invested interest in Luxco Industries,” Duke tells him, sounding as professional as I’ve ever heard. “I apologize for bringing you in on the weekend, but we recently came across some time-sensitive information that we thought you’d be interested in.” A temporary lapse of silence is filled with the sound of the 8x10 photographs we printed sliding out from the manilla envelope. “The man in this picture is Kellen Farrington, son of Howard Farrington, the former CEO of Valicorp. From what we understand, you have a history with Valicorp and the Farrington family. You’re even listed as the majority shareholder with Luxco.”

Adrenaline spikes my blood when I imagine Joseph Agron hunched over, eyebrows scrunched together as he studies the pictures Rogers took of me in the Cayman Islands the day before. With any luck, Agron fears he’s about to get his ass busted.

After a drawn-out moment, the Russian grunts. “That is correct. I’ve invested in several software companies. What’s this about?”

“I’ve got this,” Rogers says, presumably to Duke. “Mr. Agron, based on Valicorp’s financial records and several offshore accounts that have been subsequently uncovered, our employer has reason to believe Howard Farrington was embezzling money from Valicorp while he was under your employ.”

“There must be a misunderstanding,” Agron replies, the even tone of his voice giving nothing more away. “I have worked with Howard Farrington for years. He’s a commendable businessman. Are you quite sure?”

“My partner and I met with him on Friday,” Duke answers. “He was more than willing to cooperate with our investigation. However, he claims he knew nothing about missing funds other than what the company’s lead accountant—a Mr. Quinn, I believe—stole before he killed himself.”

Agron chuckles quietly. “Ah yes. Mr. Quinn…quite the coward.”

I bare my teeth, ready to charge inside and throttle the son-of-a-bitch. Agron’s the fucking coward. He had my father and Vito do his dirty work. Scott Quinn was brave for nutting up, wanting to protect his family.

Rogers jumps in again. “These pictures of his son Kellen were taken less than twenty-four hours ago in the Cayman Islands. As you can see, he was observed withdrawing a considerably large amount of cash. From what we’ve gathered, the account was opened under the name Trevor Benkin, using Kellen Farrington’s picture on a falsified form of identification. After attempting to contact both Farringtons regarding this matter, we received a message from Kellen early this morning. He claims to have vital information regarding Mr. Quinn and the missing funds. He requested that you be present when he divulges everything he knows.” Rogers stops with a long, dramatic pause, likely giving the Russian a quizzical look. I can even picture him stroking his chin like a damn clown. His acting skills are lacking, to say the least. “Any idea why he would want you there?”

“Maybe he wants to follow in Mr. Quinn’s footsteps,” Agron says with a deep grunt. “How would I know?”

“We’re hoping you’ll consider joining us for the meeting he requested,” Duke says. “Tonight, ten o’clock, Luxco Industries headquarters. Obviously you’re not under any obligation at this point to comply since this is a private matter, but should our client decide to formally press charges, there may be a subpoena issued in the future.”

“Who’s this client?” Agron demands with a growl.

“Like my partner here said, our client is someone who has an investment in Luxco,” Rogers answers. “I’m afraid we can’t divulge any further information. Here’s a number where you can reach us. Why don’t you go ahead and give us your cell phone number in case anything were to change?”

I inwardly cringe. Why doesn’t he just fucking tell him this is all a setup?

“I’m interested in what Mr. Farrington has to say,” Agron tells them. “I think I will be there.”

“Thank you, Mr. Agron,” Rogers says with the same bullshit air of authority he uses when trying to impress women. “We appreciate your full cooperation.”

“I’m happy to help.”

After fifteen minutes of listening to Duke’s shitty whistling, the two jokers appear beside the vehicle, grinning with pride. I can’t decide which one of them looks more ridiculous in a suit and tie, though I’m leaning toward Duke. It’s like someone tried to stuff a mattress inside a pillowcase.

“The Russian fell for it hook, line, and sinker,” he brags, slipping into the passenger’s seat.

I meet Rogers’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “Sounds like you've watched one fucking spy movie too many. Half the shit you said back there sounded like it was straight from a script.”

“What can I say…I have a photographic memory. I remembered everything you wrote on the flight back, word for word.” Rogers sets his arm over the back of my seat and leans in between us. “What now?”

“We grab burgers in San Jose and chill,” I answer as I’m starting the Jeep. “Then we sit outside Luxco and wait for all hell to break loose.”

If luck’s on our side, this fucking nightmare will be over before the day’s done, and Quinn will finally understand just how far I’m willing to go in order to make her happy.

I half expected Agron would’ve taken care of Kellen and my father before the scheduled meeting was to take place, but I’m glad I didn’t miss the show when my brother’s sedan pulls into the belly of the Luxco parking lot. Ten minutes later, at exactly 9:30 p.m., the lights of the seventeenth floor flicker to life, cutting through the dark sky like a beacon. Inside my earpiece, Duke and Rogers acknowledge the movement from their locations as I’m checking to make sure my pistol’s ready in the event of any unwanted surprises. Based on the info Rogers was able to dig up on Agron’s role in the mafia, his method of resolving issues has been inconsistent and can vary from car bombs to execution style.

From my position across the street, I shift my weight from one foot to another, anxious to roll. Somehow this mission doesn’t feel any less dangerous than the usual involving terrorists, yet my heart’s taken on a calm, steady beat, knowing karma’s about to pay my family a well-deserved visit. I only hope I’m around to witness the delivery when it comes knocking.

The next twenty minutes roll by painfully slow. Right when I’m convinced Agron isn’t going to show, a black SUV pulls into the garage and an identical one parks one klick north of me by the curb. I retreat into the shadows, even though I’m damn near invisible dressed head-to-toe in black.

“Looks like our Soviet friends have arrived,” I say into my hidden mic.

“What does a Russian bride get from her husband on her wedding day that is long and hard?” Duke whispers. He breaks out chuckling as he answers himself. “A new last name!”

Grumbling at his stupid humor, I don’t take my eyes off the SUV parked nearby. The driver kills the engine, but the doors to the vehicle stay closed. Must be Agron’s lookout.

Through the binoculars Duke brought, I watch for movement on the lit floor of the skyscraper. From my position, my father’s office is partially obscured, but I have a clear visual of the elevator, and I’m able to watch as Agron steps onto the seventeenth floor surrounded by a handful of “associates.”

My father appears to greet them.

What was Kellen planning that involved all three of us? Although my old man’s expression remains stoic, thin beads of perspiration line his forehead. If he knew what the guys told Agron, he’d probably be pissing himself instead of sweating. A sadistic laugh rumbles in my chest.

“We have company,” Rogers reports.

I tear my eyes away from the seventeenth floor, surprised that I missed the car pulling up in front of the building across the street. A petite figure in a hoodie emerges from the passenger’s side of a bright blue compact car. The person heads for the building, but stops to glance over her shoulder. Air deflates my lungs with the sight of the sparkling blue eyes.

Quinn.

What the actual fuck is she doing here?

Ice fills my veins when she turns and starts for the building.

If she goes up there, they’ll kill her.

“Uh…Twitch?” Rogers asks, his voice tight with panic. “Isn’t that your girl?”

Fingers twitching uncontrollably at my sides, I start for the curb. “I’m on it.”

“Like hell you are!” Duke snaps. “Agron’s thugs in that SUV will recognize you! I’m heading in after her.”

Before I can interject, I catch him slipping from the darkness and entering through the building’s side door before it closes all the way behind Quinn.

Rogers lets out a forced breath. “Did you know she’d be here?”

“Fuck no!” I bark in response. My brother must’ve somehow convinced her to come.

When Duke’s mic remains quiet for several minutes, I begin to pace back and forth on the sidewalk. He must not have gotten to her before she made it onto the elevator. Temples throbbing and icy fear spreading through my chest, I’m unable to breathe. What if she makes it up to the seventeenth floor before he can stop her?

“Talk to me, Heavy D,” I say with a low growl. When Duke doesn’t respond, I sprint for the street. “Fuck this, I’m going in.”

Despite Rogers’s protests, I storm the building, silently praying that I’m not too late to save Quinn this time.