Chapter 21
“Every man has a line he won’t cross. The trick is remembering why you drew it in the first place when everything goes to hell.”
— ROBERT MONROE
Maximo
The first cold early morning light creeps across my room, brushing Constance’s face. She sleeps curled toward me, hair loose across the pillow, her breathing even. I lay still, watching her, feeling something I hadn’t expected taking root inside me, deeper every day.
I’m falling for her.
In my world, that’s a weakness men like Kirill could exploit. My father warned me many times over the years to guard my heart, and failing that, to keep those I loved out of the city and away from the hazards of our business.
Constance truly is a chink in my armor. But knowing all of that doesn’t make the pull any weaker.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. It’s just after six a.m., and only force of habit has awakened me from my exhaustion. I click on the notifications and pull up a text from Paul.
We intercepted a truck leaving the port last night. Russian driver. No papers. Tattoos say he’s high up. What do you want done with him?
I’ll be right there, I reply, sliding from the bed without waking Constance. I pick out fresh clothes and then close myself into the bathroom to avoid bothering her as I shower and get dressed.
I leave the estate before the sun has completely cleared the horizon, certain I’ll be back in time to have breakfast with Constance.
Paul sends me a warehouse number, and after the long drive into the city and across town, I find him there with three of his crew.
The Russian sits tied to a chair, his head bowed, hands bound behind him.
“He’s pretending not to speak English,” Paul says as I approach.
“What have you done to try and loosen his tongue?”
“Nothing much yet, just slapped him around a little and restrained him. I wanted to wait on you to get down to specifics,” Paul replies.
“We cracked open a few crates before you arrived,” he adds, jerking his chin toward the stack behind him.
“Didn’t want to waste time if this turned out to be nothing. ”
I reach down and grab the man’s head by a fistful of his short, greasy blond hair.
Tilting his head back, I stare down at his blank and disinterested expression.
When I let his head go, he leans over to the side and spits on the concrete floor.
For some reason, that simple act of disrespect sends me into a rage.
“I. Have. Had. ENOUGH,” I yell into his face as I punctuate each word with a punch to the bridge of his nose. “Of. You. Fucking. Russians!” By the time I get to the last word, his nose is a bloody, misshapen mass, sitting off-center on his right cheek.
“What was he hauling?” I turn to Paul and demand. The rage isn’t just business anymore. Every weapon they sneak into my city feels like a threat aimed straight at Constance.
In response to my question, one of his crew walks over to a nearby crate and lifts the lid, then reaches inside.
He pulls out a fully assembled AK-47, the stock folded neatly against the body, confirming what I already knew.
Someone high up is preparing for something big, and we’re behind the curve.
“This is the smallest caliber we’ve found in the load so far,” Paul remarks. “He also had a crate of hand grenades. Those could come in handy.”
“Really? For what, a Fourth of July party? Dammit, Paul, we’ve worked with the Irish on and off for years, and even they aren’t bringing explosives into the city. What the fuck are these crazy bastards planning on doing with all this shit?”
“That’s a good question for our new friend, eh? Here, let me get the blowtorch.”
The bastard holds out longer than most, his jaw clenched, his eyes dead.
We have to move him deeper into the warehouse as the dock comes to life later in the morning, eventually locking ourselves away in a long-forgotten office while we work over our reluctant informant.
Constance
I’m so exhausted from the last two late nights that I sleep until almost noon.
I wake up to the buzzing of my cell phone on the nightstand.
I blearily pick it up and rack my still-partially-sleeping brain trying to recognize the number on the caller ID.
It looks vaguely familiar, so I accept the call and mumble, “Hello?”
“Ms. Monroe. This is Alex Crispin, calling about the insurance claim on your restaurant.”
“Oh, Mr. Crispin, of course,” I reply as consciousness slams back into me. “I’ve been hoping to hear from you.”
“I wanted to let you know that I received a call from the fire inspector this morning. He’s hoping that he can meet the two of us down at the restaurant. He’d like to go over the layout with you, to help him piece together where and how it all started.”
Something about how smoothly he says all this like it’s scripted sends a tiny ripple through my nerves, but that’s probably just the exhaustion talking.
“Will meeting with him help move the claim forward and get the insurance payout?” I ask.
“As soon as the inspector has completed his investigation, I can submit all the information to the claims department,” Alex replies. “How about meeting us there at two p.m.?”
I glance over at the bedside clock. I should be able to get ready and get over there in two hours. “That should be fine. I’ll see you then. Thank you, Alex,” I tell him as I throw my legs over the side of the bed and end the call.
I go back to the guest bedroom where all my new clothes and the few belongings I salvaged from the fire have been kept.
I still haven’t really unpacked. The last few weeks have been such a blur that I’m just grabbing what I need as I go.
I gather up a change of clothes and shower before heading downstairs to try and find Maximo.
I don’t see him, but Enzo is in the foyer talking to someone on his cell phone.
As I walk down the stairs, he ends the call and turns to me.
“Maximo had to go out this morning, but he asked that I have the chef prepare you whatever you want for a late breakfast or lunch. What can I have him make for you?”
“Oh, nothing for now, thank you.” I wave him off. “I actually have to leave as well. The insurance adjuster called. He asked me to meet him and the fire inspector at Monroe’s. Apparently, the inspector wanted to go over the layout of the restaurant while he finalizes his report on the fire.”
“I’ll let Maximo know. Will you be back for dinner this evening? Some of the family, including his mother, are going to stop by to eat with us tonight.”
Meeting Maximo’s mom already? Things are getting serious between us.
“That sounds nice,” I tell him. “Is it, you know, safe to have his family meet here with everything going on with the Russians?”
“Out here in Scarsdale? Of course. The violence of the city never finds its way out here to the suburbs. I should warn you, though, my sister Cindy will be coming.”
“Why do you need to warn me about your sister?” I ask in confusion.
“Cindy is… special. I call her ‘Sippy’ when I want to get on her nerves. When we were growing up, we always had to drink from plastic cups because she’d destroy anything made of glass.
Drinkware, lightbulbs, the television, and oh god, the windows.
It was always drafty in our house,” he says completely straight-faced.
“Are you being serious? What made her break everything?”
“She’s schizophrenic, just like my mom was.
Cindy thinks ‘they’ communicate through frequencies that resonate with glass.
When she’s not medicated, she swears she can hear voices coming from anything made of glass.
I don’t mean to alarm you. I just wanted you to know in case you notice her acting strange. ”
“I appreciate the warning, but is she actually dangerous?” I can’t hide the concern in my voice.
“Not as long as she’s medicated. When she’s not, eh…
” He motions toward the side of his head and rubs at his scalp.
“You can’t see it because of the hair, but I’ve got a pretty good scar on the side of my head where she hit me with a pool thermometer while we were swimming.
You should have seen the blood in the water.
It looked like a shark attack. That was early on, right after she got diagnosed and they were still trying to dial in her medications. ”
“Did the pool thermometer tell her to hurt you?” I can’t help asking with a small smile.
“You know, I never thought to ask her if it was the schizophrenia or just normal big-sister meanness,” he replies with a grin. “Anyway, I’ll let Maximo know you had to step out, and we’ll see you tonight for dinner.”
“Thanks, Enzo. I’ll see you soon.” I say goodbye and head down the front steps, out to my old car which looks painfully out of place lined up among Maximo’s collection of exotic vehicles.
Someone’s taken the liberty of washing and waxing it, which only serves to highlight the deep scratches and dents across the side and rear of my ancient Camry.
I’ve been on the road for nearly an hour and am almost to Monroe’s when my phone dings with a text message. At the next stoplight, I check and see that Maximo has sent me a curt message:
Enzo should not have let you leave alone. Please go back to the estate and take a few guards or wait for me.
I quickly text back: I’m going out to Monroe’s to meet the insurance adjuster and fire inspector. I’ll be fine on my own and be back in time for dinner with your mom.
I tell myself he’s overreacting, but my pulse speeds up anyway. Lately, it feels like everything is moving faster than I can brace for.
When the light changes, I toss my phone down in the passenger seat. The sooner this claim gets filed and I get the insurance payout, the sooner I can start getting my life back to some semblance of normalcy.
Maximo is amazing, but the anxiety of living in his house while a gang war rages in the streets just outside is exhausting. I’ll be glad to have my own space again and begin rebuilding my life.
And yet, even as I think it, a quiet part of me knows I won’t feel entirely safe anywhere he isn’t with me.
Maximo
We finally get the Russian to admit he speaks English when he breaks and starts sobbing, snot and tears mixing in the bloody ruin of his face. My phone buzzes as he repeatedly screams that his name is Pyotr, and that he’s just a soldier sent out for a delivery.
I check the message from Enzo and am surprised to see that it’s already early afternoon. My surprise quickly sours into displeasure when I see the body of the text.
Constance just left. She’s gone to meet the fire inspector and insurance adjuster at Monroe’s.
A spike of cold dread hits me. Kirill knew her name. What if he also knows her movements?
I type back to Enzo: You shouldn’t have let her leave alone. Then another message to Constance telling her to come back to the estate to wait for me or take a few guards with her.
She responds a moment later to say that she’s fine on her own and that she’ll be back for dinner with my mom.
Dammit! Why does she have to be so fucking stubborn?
Paul raises an eyebrow at my mumbled curse. “Problem?” he asks.
“Constance is meeting her insurance adjuster out at the ruin of Monroe’s, and she went alone,” I explain quickly, keeping my voice low.
The Bratva soldier must have caught enough to understand, because he starts chuckling, a deep, racking sound that at first I mistake for a cough.
“Are you fucking laughing at something?” I demand.
“You don’t even know,” he says in perfect English. “Kirill, that stupid fucking cunt. He must have planned for her to leave. I was the bait to get you away from her. I wondered why he would send me out alone. Fucking bait! I’m just fucking bait,” he moans and trails off as he sags in his chair.
My pulse detonates. If he’s bait, then Constance isn’t just unprotected. She’s fucking exposed, already in their sights.
It could have been a bluff, a clever lie to distract us, to buy him some time. But for Constance, I’m not willing to take that chance. I try to call her again, but it goes straight to her voicemail, probably because she’s still driving.
Or because someone has already stopped her from answering.
“Get him in the car,” I order while sending her a text begging her to go back to the house and that it isn’t safe for her to be alone. “We’re going over to Monroe’s right now.”
Something in me snaps. If Kirill touches her, there won’t be a war. There will only be a goddamn burial.
Paul’s men cut the zip ties holding the Russian to the chair and then drape him over their shoulders as they haul him outside.
They throw him into the rear of the Escalade that Paul drove and take places on either side of him.
I climb into the passenger seat and Paul tears out of the warehouse and across the docks, tires squealing.
If our unfortunate new friend was telling the truth, then the leak is closer than I feared, and Constance could be walking straight into a goddamn trap. I refuse to give that bastard Kirill a second chance at her.