Chapter 1 #2
I’m not worried. Neither is the city. They’ve turned out.
Hundreds of people are filing in, anxious to see how it looks inside now, anxious to see an original performance, staged just for them.
We’re not Boston or New York, but this was the birthplace of Bam Company, a small group of singers, dancers, and musicians who were legit talented and hardcore driven.
They eventually got invited onto some of the biggest stages in the world.
Those original performers from the fifties and sixties are mostly gone, but people still talk about them.
It’s still a point of pride around here.
Sylvia Tornado, one of the originals, came out of retirement to run this show, so the people are here and they’re ready.
Anvil raps his knuckles on the window to let me know it’s all clear, and I get out. My gun rests against my side. I put my keys in my pocket and leave my hands there. Anyone who glances over will see what I want them to see. We’re relaxed because there’s no threat we’re not ready for tonight.
Anvil and I circle around back.
“Trick says he thinks he’s found a contact for whoever hit the van two weeks ago. Some of the stuff is in an apartment four blocks from here. He’s had it marked. It’s a woman’s apartment.”
We both know there was no woman on the scene when one of our vans that was carrying guns and cash was robbed. If part of the take is in a woman’s apartment, she must just have ties to one of the guys.
“How old is the woman?”
“In her twenties and doesn’t have any brothers. So must be a girlfriend or friend of one of them. She’ll be here tonight.”
I don’t ask how he’s sure of that. I guess Trick must’ve been able to check whether she’d gotten a ticket to the show. I nod as we approach the guarded stage door.
“She’ll have seen the mark by now. Maybe when she sees you, she’ll come talk to you after the show. Come clean and make amends,” Anvil murmurs.
“Maybe. What’s the girl’s story? Do we know?”
“Yeah, some,” Anvil says, but pauses when we’re in earshot of our guy on the door.
Anvil, Trick, and I came up together. We learned to trust each other through anything. We also learned to trust no one else. I’ll find out more about the girl later; we don’t put ourselves in a position where our private conversations can be overheard.
“Hey, C. All clear,” the guy says, pulling the door open. “Only musicians and dancers back here so far. Had one in a cloaked hood. Thought it might be something, but she had a violin in her case,” he says with a laugh.
We enter, the warm air hitting us. The lightbulbs are caged in metal sconces and their light reflects off the gloss of the sealed charcoal concrete walls.
I wouldn’t have bothered to do up the backstage hallway, but Trick’s got a taste for the finer things and an eye for detail.
The hall makes an impact and it promises another thing he doesn’t back off from…
drama. That goes for women. That goes for life.
Trick’s got a quicksilver smile and pretty boy looks, but underneath, his will is a blade that can whittle the world into a different version of itself to suit him.
“She grew up here,” Anvil says in a low voice, picking up where we left off now that the sound of performers getting ready is background noise. “She’s finishing school at Hughes University this year. Trick says we’ve met her. Zoe something. She’s one of the dancers.”
My gaze cuts to Anvil. He doesn’t miss the look I give him.
“You remember meeting her?” he asks.
“What’s the last name?”
“Can’t say. I’ll text him and get it,” Anvil says, pulling up his phone.
Arantes? I wonder, but I don’t say the name out loud. To him, I add, “Nah, it’s all right. I’ll find out soon if she’s the one I’m thinking of. Where’s Trick?”
“Probably getting his dick sucked,” Anvil grumbles.
I smirk. Trick does not operate on the same timetable as Anvil.
It’s a point of contention. Anvil, our monstrous enforcer, and I move with precision and dark purpose when things call for it.
Trick rolls in like the wind, which is to say when it suits him.
This doesn’t bother me because Trick never misses anything and he’s talented in ways that mean I’m willing to cut him a lot of slack.
But on dangerous, important nights, Trick’s games grate on Anvil.
Sometimes I think it’s why Trick plays games in the first place.
As we pass, the door to the community dressing room cracks open.
My gaze is drawn in like it’s pulled by gravity.
A stunning half naked body is being pinned into a blackbird costume.
I catch a glimmer of body glitter and the tip of a luscious breast and its mocha nipple before I see a pair of deep brown eyes, wide with surprise, looking back at me.
I recognize her instantly. Zoe Arantes. This is how Trick knew she’d be in the theater.
Not from ticket sales, but because she’s one of the performers.
She’s definitely got the body for it. My cock sends a message to my mouth that says, why don’t you suck on that nipple? It’s out and waiting for you.
A guy with a handful of pins darts out, and the door closes behind him. He freezes at the sight of us and then nearly genuflects.
Hell, I think. That’s taking it pretty far.
“They’re almost ready,” he says, exhaling. “We can’t wait for you to see it!”
I nod.
“Is it only girls?” he asks me in a whisper.
For a moment I don’t get what he’s asking. My mind’s still on the dark-haired girl behind the door.
“Because I’d love to do… whatever, whenever you want.” He’s small and dark, with sculpted brows that rise to emphasize the offer of sex as kinky as we want.
“Only women,” I say, wondering how far talk of our wild nights has spread. It’s not something we advertise, but hot rumors travel far and fast.
“Too bad. I’m in love with you. Just so you know,” he jokes suggestively. Then he zips past us toward the back exit. “Gotta get something from my car!” he announces to the guy at the door.
“Do we know him?” Anvil asks, looking after him.
“Not until now,” I say, wanting to open the door that’s swung shut so I can stare at the blackbird. I don’t though. I don’t want to rattle the performers.
We continue moving forward until we reach the end of the hall and emerge through a door into the packed house. We’re on the left side of the theater’s main aisle, and I look approvingly at the rows of red-cushioned chairs that are nearly full already.
The place sparkles with ornate gilded plasterwork, imported marble, and huge crystal chandeliers. I don’t know what it looked like when it opened the first time a hundred years ago, but it can’t have looked better than it does now.
Sylvia Tornado wears a champagne-colored pantsuit and leans on a gold-handled cane, surveying the crowd and the orchestra pit. She smiles when she sees us, one of the few who ever does. Most people aren’t that comfortable.
“Welcome to your new house,” she says with a clever little smile. Her gray hair is pulled into a bun that’s circled by small purple flowers. She gestures for a female usher, who rushes up and gives us each a program. “The center seats, please.” To me, she adds, “I’ll be on your left.”
“Trick should sit front and center,” Anvil says, glancing at the crowd. “I’ll be in the balcony.”
“Patrick thought otherwise,” Sylvia says.
My gaze shifts.
“We text,” she says, patting her pocket where her phone is obviously concealed.
The idea of Trick and this wizened octogenarian texting each other nearly makes me laugh, but I see Anvil’s scowl. He doesn’t want to sit with the back of his head available to a mass of people.
With a sharp shake of his head, he says, “I’d block the view.” He adds in a low voice to me, “If Trick wants the balcony, let him have it. No one could be better up there than he could, assuming he shows up before the last act. I’ll take the wing.”
He doesn’t wait for my nod, nor does he need to. The three of us aren’t exactly equal partners, but we’re as near to it as it comes.
“Just you and me, beautiful,” I say, putting out my arm for Sylvia.
She puts a hand on it and lets me escort her to our seats.
A hush falls over the crowd, and I turn, expecting to see Trick looking like a model in a designer suit, but it’s not him. There’s a surprise guest—an unwelcome one.
As Frank Palermo strolls down the main aisle, he’s all smiles. Given the chance, he’d put a bullet in my head; he’s sent plenty of guys to try to do just that. Tonight though, he extends a hand.
I stare at it for a beat, my fingers itching for the gun I can’t pull.
I register two of his guys. One’s older than me by a decade and also a prick.
His name’s Pauly Mangia. He hated taking orders from me when I rose up the ranks like a rocket.
The other guy with a red mop of hair worn in a stupid man bun must be a couple of years younger than we are. I’ve never seen him around.
Frank’s dropped his hand since I took too long to react to it. That’s wise since I wouldn’t have shaken it. He’s a snake who’ll shake your hand then put a bullet in the back of your skull when you turn to walk away.
Tonight, he’s wearing an easy smile, the big man without a care in the world.
Sylvia speaks first. “Hello, Mr. Palermo. We’re delighted you could make it. If we’d known you were coming, we’d have reserved a seat for you.”
“I thought I heard this one’s open,” he says, dropping into the seat between Sylvia and the aisle seat. “Why don’t you sit at my right hand, C, for old time’s sake?”
“Why not?” I reply, my gaze as hard as stone. It’s not been six months since we buried the latest casualty of our war with him, but he’s buried guys even more recently, so who am I to balk?
C Crue is winning the war. I know it, and apparently, so does Frank. Or what’s he doing here, pretending everything isn’t blood and death between us?
“I’m here for Zoe,” he says casually.
Now that’s interesting. It may even be true. Does she work for him now? Is that how she ended up with our mark on her door?
I exchange a look with Anvil, who I bet is sorry he chose a spot out of reach of the main aisle. Anvil’s gun hand is out of sight; that probably means the Glock is in it. With a small shake of my head, I take my seat.
“Who’s Zoe?” I ask.
Frank opens the program and flicks a finger on a name. “Zoe Arantes. You know her, right?”
Do I know her? Yeah, I know her, I think.
Not as well as my cock would like to. Zoe with the dark curly hair, banging body, and naturally luscious lips that look like they’ve been pumped up from too many rough kisses?
The quick-talking girl with the ass that won’t quit? Yeah, I know exactly who she is.
“Remind me,” I say.
“She’s one of Rachel’s friends. The one who wore the green bikini to Rachel’s graduation party and had all the guys drooling over her. Didn’t she have a run-in with you?”
“Not me,” I lie.
I remember that day well, but I’m surprised he heard about it.
Did Zoe tell Rachel? Probably. Had Rachel told her dad?
Maybe. Things between Rachel and her old man were tense back then, but it’s been awhile, and things are probably different now.
She’s living in his place. And she’s letting his people dress her like a doll, whitewashing his image, at least for people outside the city.
How close is Zoe Arantes to that action? I need to find out.
“Something about Zoe being where she wasn’t supposed to be?” Frank adds.
At the graduation party, I’d told all the kids to stay downstairs because our guys were upstairs drinking and talking and I didn’t want anyone to hear anything they shouldn’t. Zoe broke the rules, and we had… an encounter.
“I don’t recall,” I say.
“Sure. Always lots of girls around you and Trick. Hard to remember them all. And it’s better anyway. Now that we’ve parted ways, some girls are off limits. You’ve got a mother. Trick’s got family, right? You boys understand.”
Boys, yeah, right, I think. I let his threat and the jab go unanswered.
I was eighteen when Frank recruited me, so yeah, young.
But Anvil, Trick, and I were never really kids, not even back then.
Life burned the innocence off us way before Frank Palermo found us.
In fact, seeing the hardness in me is exactly why he wanted me in his crew.
As for families being off limits, yeah, they normally are. Except if a family member gets themselves involved. Mine never would. Trick’s wouldn’t. But apparently a friend of Rachel’s would, and she’s interfered with our business. That can’t be left unanswered.
We take steps to protect our families and I’m not looking to put a target on their backs, but I’m not going to back down just because Frank’s mentioning them. Instead, we’ll double security around them, maybe send them on a trip. Because I don’t consider Zoe Arantes off limits if she stole from me.
“We understand a lot of things,” I say as the house lights dim. The sooner there’s only one king of the city, the better it will be.
I have no idea if Trick is in the theater yet, but I can predict what his outward reaction to seeing Frank will be. Nothing. Trick’s got a game face that’s better than anyone’s.
I also know exactly how Anvil will react if Frank decides to shove a blade through my ribs sometime during the show. A knife wound would almost be worth it to see ‘Vil tear Frank apart with his bare hands.