24. Vinnie
24
VINNIE
H e’s here.
I feel his presence.
I just have to ferret him out.
Someone is here for Raven. Is her life in danger? I doubt it. But her freedom is.
If she’s dead, she can’t be used as a chip to bargain with. And someone here wants to bargain with me.
Or with Mario.
Perhaps even with McAllister.
And that person is here.
Evil is something that can be smelled. When you’ve been around it your whole life, you learn to recognize it, even if it’s not physically present. It slinks like a shadow, weaving in and out of consciousness. You can smell its foul odor, like something rotting beneath the floorboards of an abandoned house.
I move through the crowd, scanning faces, studying body language, listening to whispered conversations. I catch a whiff of that stench. The scent isn’t strong enough to pinpoint the source, but I know he’s close.
Luckily, I have Raven’s seating chart. I make my way to the table where Jack Smith is assigned. There are three middle-aged women dressed lavishly sitting at the table, but that’s it.
“Pardon me, ladies,” I say. “Was there a gentleman seated with you this evening? A Mr. Smith? I’ve found one half of a pair of monogrammed cufflinks that I believe belong to him, but I don’t know what he looks like.”
The lady in the center, wearing a mink stole over a light-green gown, shoots me a smile. “Goodness, we certainly are getting our fill of handsome gentlemen tonight, aren’t we girls?”
The other two ladies giggle.
“You’re very kind,” I say, “but I am serious about the cufflinks. They look very expensive. I’m sure Mr. Smith would hate to be missing one of them.”
The woman on the right, wearing purple and a diamond necklace, runs her hand through her platinum blond hair. “Are you talking about Jackie?”
I press my lips together. “Jack Smith? Possibly.”
“Yes, he was here,” the woman on the left—this one in crimson and wearing an enormous star-shaped sapphire brooch—responds. “Gladys, Henrietta, and I were so happy to have him at our table. Very handsome, very tall, very charming.”
The woman in green—Gladys, possibly—takes a sip of champagne. “Prudence here might have just found her fourth husband.”
All three of them erupt into laughter.
God, they’re drunk.
“Was he wearing anything special?” I ask. “Most of the men here are in tuxes, but if he had a colorful bow tie or something…”
“No special bow tie.” Henrietta wrinkles her nose. “And what a nice change of pace to see a man in traditional black tie. These days you have all these wacky fashions?—”
“But he did have that lovely pocket square, Henny,” Prudence retorts.
There’s my in. “What did the pocket square look like?”
Gladys bites her lip. “Black and white. A… Oh, what do you call it? A dogleg pattern?”
“Houndstooth,” Henrietta says.
“That’s it,” Gladys says. “Houndstooth.”
“Thank you,” I say. “That should help narrow him down. How long ago did he leave the table?”
“Not long ago.” Prudence checks her slim Rolex. “Maybe ten minutes ago. He was headed to the dance floor, I believe.”
“He invited us, of course.” Gladys fans herself. “But these old knees have danced their last polka.”
The three of them start cackling again.
“What about his hair? Was it dark, blond, gray?”
“Not a gray hair to be seen, darling,” Prudence says. “Very dark hair. Couldn’t be more than thirty-five.”
“Thank you, ladies. Have a pleasant evening.”
I give them a wink, and that of course sends them into another fit of laughter.
I head to the dance floor. People are moving and grooving to the beats of some disco song. I keep my eyes peeled. Finally I catch a fleeting glimpse of a man on the corner of the dance floor. He’s tall, dark. Handsome in a dangerous sort of way. His eyes meet mine across the room.
Sure enough, his pocket square matches the ladies’ description. I’ve found Jack Smith. My target for the evening.
A chill runs through me as a wicked grin spreads across his face. He knows that I know.
Is that him? Is he the threat to Raven?
He disappears into the crowd before I can get a better look at him. But I’ve seen enough. Something about him raises the hairs on the back of my neck. An animal instinct that warns me of imminent danger.
I push through the crowd, trying to follow his trail, but the sea of bodies surges around me and I lose him. I lean against a wall, scanning the room once more. Then I see him again, standing on the fringes of a group, watching me. He lifts his glass in a mocking toast and then turns away.
This time he doesn’t vanish into the crowd. Instead, he leads me out of the ballroom and through the corridor that leads to the first-floor suites. He turns to face me, that same smug grin still pasted on his face.
“Gallo,” he says, his voice smooth but laced with venom. “Or should I call you Little Cobra?”
Only Vega called me Little Cobra. So who the hell is this?
“Leave her alone,” I say.
“I have my orders,” he replies.
“I have new orders for you.” I pull a pistol out of my ankle strap and point it at his head. “Stay away from Raven.”
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” he says.
“I don’t particularly give a rat’s ass. Anyone who threatens Raven?—”
“You just don’t get it, do you?” he says. “That necklace wasn’t my idea. It was?—”
I close the distance between us, pushing the nose of the gun to his temple. “What necklace?”
“The raven pendant.” He grins. “The one she’s holding now in her trembling fingers.”
“Tell me everything you know, or be prepared to meet your maker.”
He sniffs arrogantly. “You don’t have it in you to kill.”
I can’t help a chuckle at that one. “Clearly you don’t know anything about me. I don’t know who sent you, but whoever it was hasn’t done his homework.”
He scoffs. “Are you kidding me? Of course he’s done his homework. We know all about that Russian you killed in Eastern Europe. We know about Puzo. Self-defense and a peanut butter allergy? You’ve never killed a man in cold blood.”
I push the gun into his temple. “Like I said, you didn’t do your homework.”
I’m bluffing, of course. Those were my only two kills. But I’m about to have a third, and it’s going to be tonight.
I came here knowing I might have to kill a man to protect Raven. I came here prepared, and I came here knowing that I can do whatever I want. My grandfather will take care of everything.
Because I have what he wants.
I have his Achilles’ heel.
“Who are you?” I demand again. “And who sent you?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Vega? McAllister? Agudelo?”
“Could be.” He twists his lips. “But it seems to me, Little Cobra, you’re not looking close enough to home.”
Mario?
As evil as my biological father is, I don’t believe he would kill someone who means so much to me.
Who else is close to home?
There’s Austin Bellamy, of course. But no way would he allow his own daughter to be harmed.
What am I not seeing?
“Are you supposed to take her tonight?” I ask.
He doesn’t reply.
I cock the trigger. “You’d better start talking.”
He cocks his head in mock contemplation. “If I talk, you’ll kill me anyway. If I don’t talk, you’ll never get the information you need. So not talking is my better option.”
I move the nose of the gun away from his temple and pistol whip him across the head. He grunts and falls to the ground. I stand over him, kicking hard at his abdomen.
He curls into a fetal position, choking.
“Still don’t want to talk?” I say.
He groans, gulping in air. His grin is gone now, replaced with a grimace of pain. He spits out a mouthful of blood and glares up at me with dark, feral eyes.
“No,” he gasps.
I kneel beside him, pressing my knee into his chest. “Maybe this will change your mind.” I place the nose of my gun against his forehead.
But he just laughs—a hollow, bitter sound. “Go ahead and shoot. It won’t change anything. You can’t stop what’s coming.”
The threat hidden behind his words sends a snake-like shiver down my spine. I pull back the hammer of my gun, but it’s not fear that makes me pause—it’s the warning in his voice. It awakens something deep within my gut.
“Last chance,” I whisper into his ear. “Talk or die.”
He laughs once more, a rasping sound that echoes down the corridor. I wait for a moment, looking for any hint of surrender in his eyes. But there’s only defiance.
“Die then,” I say calmly.
He doesn’t flinch as I ready to squeeze the trigger, but the shot never comes. An iron grip wraps around my wrist, pulling the gun just as I fire. The silencer eases the noise, but the bullet ricochets off the marble floor, missing its mark by mere inches.
My heart hammers as I turn to face the new threat—a towering figure whose face is hidden by shadows. I strain to get a glimpse of him, but the dim corridor offers little light.
“Not yet,” the man says, his voice a low rumble that barely registers above the ringing in my ears. He sounds familiar, yet oddly foreign. There’s a casualness in his tone that contradicts his harsh action.
I try to break free from his grip, but it’s strong, like iron.
“What the fuck?” I turn to see the face of the man who stopped me from shooting the asshole.
And I gasp.