Chapter 9
TOMMY
Turn her over. Sante’s lucky we have so much history together, or I would have beaten him to a fucking pulp for suggesting such a thing. The savage rage that I felt was so overwhelming that it took all my willpower to keep myself under control.
Even now, I can still feel it slithering under the surface, waiting to strike.
My temper has always been a struggle, but this is unlike anything I’ve experienced in the past. Like a feral alternate personality has clawed its way to the surface and refuses to stay quiet. It could be problematic since I’m already a surly asshole with questionable morals.
Maybe I’m being hard on myself.
I always send my mother flowers for Mother’s Day. It may not fully offset the lives I’ve taken, but it’s got to count for something, right?
What the actual fuck is happening right now?
I’ve never in my life worried about my reputation or conscience.
This is all her. My desire for her is twisting me inside out until I don’t recognize my own thoughts.
All it took was the flash of a mental image of her green eyes framed in ugly purple bruises, rosebud lips split and bleeding, and my visceral reaction was instantaneous.
Biba cannot get his hands on her. I won’t allow it.
Where does that leave me?
I have no fucking clue, except I know I need more information before I can make any decisions, which is the reason Sante is back at my place babysitting, and I’m meeting up with a colleague.
DiAngelo Farina is a capo that I would normally avoid because of his reputation for being impulsive and because he’s my brother’s closest friend.
But in this case, he has contacts in unlikely places from doing time when he was younger.
He’s my best shot at getting info on the Russians from the inside.
I want to know if what Danika says is true—is Biba hunting a thief?
What did she take? How badly does he want her?
Does her nightmare have anything to do with why she’s on the run?
That last one should be irrelevant, but I can’t erase her haunting cries from my mind.
Not even the best actress performs when she’s asleep.
That anguish was real, and I want to know the source.
Maybe it has nothing to do with Biba. It’s possible.
It’s also possible that she’s in a whole lot more trouble than she’s letting on, and I want to know the truth.
It takes me a few minutes to track down DiAngelo.
He told me which pier he’d be at, but that still left some ground to cover.
I find him overseeing the docking of a giant cargo container ship.
It’s important to be present even though we don’t play an active role in the daily functions of the ports—if only to make sure the workers know we’re watching.
The cranes slowly lumber overhead in preparation to unload while tugboats help position the rig for docking. It’s impressive to watch, no matter how many times I see it happen.
DiAngelo gives me a brief, dismissive glance when I stand at his side. “Gotta admit, you got me curious.”
“Why’s that?” I ask coolly.
“You haven’t been back from Sicily long. Can’t imagine what you’d need to talk to me about.”
“I know you’re a man with connections, and I’m looking for information.”
Finally, he gives me his full attention, his formidable stare taking my measure.
Our fifteen-year age difference would give him a notable advantage if we were to square off.
He’s built of solid mature mass that can’t be duplicated with creatine and trips to the gym.
Of course, spending your final teenage years in prison has a way of maturing a person.
I had it tough in Sicily, but not that tough.
I imagine securing allies was the only thing that kept him alive.
Or sane. I can respect his grit, but I’m still not interested in being his friend.
“Your brother know you’re digging?”
I have to take a deep, even breath before I can answer because fuck him for treating me like a child. “Can’t say that he does. He doesn’t know I took a shit this morning either, but that’s because he’s not my babysitter.”
DiAngelo drops his chin a degree, a tiny hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Alright, so what sort of information are you after?” He looks back at the ship, signaling his willingness to hear me out.
“I hear Biba’s crew has been under attack.”
“It would seem that way.”
I think carefully about what I say, not wanting to give away any more than necessary. I have to assume anything DiAngelo hears will go straight to Renzo, and I’m not sure I’m ready to tell him about Danika.
“I also hear it’s this Reaper character behind it. They any closer to figuring out who he is?”
He eyes me, probably surprised I know as much as I do. “Don’t believe so, but I haven’t asked either. You know something?”
“Not about The Reaper. I’ve heard someone stole something from Biba, though. Heard he’s pretty pissed—that’s what I’d like to know more about.”
“What’s it to you?”
“If Biba’s facing threats on multiple fronts, the pressure could make him erratic. As someone who’s had run-ins with his men before, I’d like to stay informed as best as I can.”
DiAngelo considers what I’ve said, then gives a nod that seems to signal his approval. “I’ve got a friend not far from here. Let’s see what he has to say.” He takes out his phone, says a handful of murmured words, then disconnects. “Come with me.”
I’m not sure what I expected, but a grizzled old fisherman wasn’t it.
An arthritic hand gnarled with bulging knuckles holds a burning cigarette while he stares out over the water.
Long white hair and whiskers fly every which direction, and he wears a stained white apron over loose-fitting clothes that appear nearly as old as the man himself.
“Grisha, you’re still not dead yet?” DiAngelo’s greeting surprises me. He knows the man well, and the respect is mutual, judging by the grin that now lights the old man’s eyes.
“Not for lack of trying.” He raises a glass containing two fingers of clear liquid and downs it in one seamless swallow. “What’s this? You bring me a gift?”
I’m not sure what the fuck that means, but it sure as hell puts me on guard.
DiAngelo chuckles. “Not today. This is Renzo’s kid brother. He’s looking for some information.”
Grisha takes a long drag from his cigarette. “And what? You thought you’d bring him here, and I’d spill my guts, as they say?”
Without using his hands, he emits an ear-piercing whistle through his lips. Two men appear at our backs. No, not our backs— my back. DiAngelo steps aside like a bystander watching a street performance.
I’ve been set up.
He’s not even trying to de-escalate the situation, which tells me he fucking knew this would happen. I don’t understand and don’t have time to riddle through it. The second a hand clamps down on my shoulder, I shift into survival mode.
I grab the man’s wrist and spin around, twisting his arm and eliciting a cry of pain while simultaneously kicking the other man in the gut.
My quick reaction gives me the advantage I need to stay on the offensive.
I punch the first guy, dodge a jab from the second, then give him a wicked right cross.
When I look back at the first, he’s slipped a set of brass knuckles onto his fist.
Russians and their goddamn brass knuckles.
So uncouth, but they seem to love the brutality. Fortunately, I’m never unarmed. I slip a switchblade from my boot and stand guard.
The old man squeals with delight.
“That’s enough, Grisha. Call it before someone loses an eye,” DiAngelo says in a bored tone.
I don’t understand what’s happening, but I can’t afford to take my eyes off my opponents.
The old man laughs behind me. “Eh, you never were any fun, but I suppose he’s proven himself enough.
” He barks an order in Russian. The two men stand as if released from a spell and walk away like our fight had never happened.
“The fuck?” I lower my hands but keep myself alert as I look at DiAngelo for clarification.
He pats my shoulder. “Relax, kid. Grisha here doesn’t talk to just anyone. You have to prove yourself first.”
“A heads-up would have been nice,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Not how life works. You have to earn your place.”
“Trust me, I know that as much as anyone.”
“Ohh, yes,” the old man coos. “I think I like him. Come sit down and tell me what you want to know. I may not have any answers, but we can see.”
I watch warily as DiAngelo takes a seat on a large wooden spindle with rope coiled around it. Only after the two men stare expectantly at me do I relent and join them.
“I’ve heard Biba is looking for someone.”
“Is that what this is about?” Grisha says gaily. “You’re after the reward?”
Reward? Would Biba want Danika badly enough to offer a reward? Or have we miscommunicated, and he thinks I’m talking about The Reaper? That would make much more sense, especially after the triple murder.
“No, this is about a woman,” I correct him, ignoring DiAngelo’s stare boring into me.
The old man laughs. “Yes, the woman. Biba’s put out word that he’ll give a million dollars to the man who finds her.”
Fuck, this is bad.
Aside from the fact that Biba wouldn’t offer a million dollars to catch a simple pickpocket, I can almost hear DiAngelo’s teeth grinding together at my side. He’s probably dying to grill me about what I know and why I kept it a secret. He’ll have to wait.
“He say why he wants her?” I ask.
He gives me a patronizing look. “Biba does not explain himself to no one. You should know that. His business is his alone.”
Not what I wanted to hear, but at least I’m not leaving empty-handed. I nod and stand. “I appreciate your time.”