Chapter 18 Dominic
Chapter eighteen
Dominic
I pull into an empty lot beside a rundown bar on the outskirts of the city. The building looks abandoned… with paint peeling from the walls, windows patched with plywood, and a neon sign that’s missing half its letters.
My chest aches with a memory I can’t shake off…Isabella was bleeding in my arms because I’d been so fucking distracted I didn’t notice the fucker aiming at me. I failed to protect her.
It dredges up emotions I buried the day my mother died. I swore I’d never feel that guilty, that helpless again. But with her, I do.
And then there’s the part that messes with my head even worse. Letting her sleep in my bed. No woman has ever been there. Not once. That space has always been mine alone. It’s easier to keep women at arm’s length...to fuck and forget, than to have someone in my space, in my bed, in my head.
My teeth grind together, but I shove it all down, telling myself it isn’t about her. It’s guilt. Nothing more. She’s hurt because of me...because I fucked up. That’s the only reason I care. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
Matteo waits near the door, shoulders squared. He doesn’t speak until I kill the engine and step out, forcing myself to breathe through the guilt.
Focus, Dominic. She’s alive. She’s still alive. Don’t fuck this up.
“Capo.” He dips his head.
We’d successfully traced the fucker who rammed into Isabella’s car. A street CCTV caught the truck’s plate number, and Matteo sent it to a contact in the precinct. He ran it through the state’s database, which gave us the information we needed.
The truck was registered to a hauling company on the west side, and their logs showed that same truck had been signed out under one name: Frederick Ramirez.
The bastard had a long list of arrest records—petty thefts, bar fights, trespassing, and resisting arrest. A mugshot accompanied the file sent on him.
It was grainy, but clear enough to show the tattoo on his forearm, which matched the tattoo on one of the bodies cleared from the accident scene.
When we pulled up to the address in his file, the place was empty. The neighbor said he moved out a week ago, and claimed he didn’t know where we could find him until Matteo slipped a hundred-dollar bill into his palm.
The door groans when Matteo pushes it open...and the smell of stale beer and cheap cigar hits my nostrils instantly. Light leaks in through a grimy blind.
Behind the counter, a woman is drying glasses with a rag.
Her blonde hair is packed into a messy bun, and the shirt she’s wearing leaves half her breasts on display.
Dark eyes track us with lazy interest. “Well, hey there,” she drawls in a thick southern accent.
“Ain’t often I get gentlemen droppin’ by this early. What’ll it be?”
Matteo clears his throat, taking the lead as I lower myself onto the stool.
“We’re looking for someone. Man with a tattoo. Skull inside a wheel, with the initials F&E just under it. Have you seen him around?”
She quirks a brow. “Mm. Lots o’ men walk in here with ink. I don’t keep track of every little picture on their skin.” Her tone is light, but her eyes are assessing. They move over me, like she’s deciding what kind of man I am.
I lay a stack of bills on the counter.
She snatches it quickly, folds it once, and tucks it down her blouse. “That mark is trouble. Belongs to the Lupi boys.” She leans an elbow on the counter. “Y’all friends of them? Or enemies?”
“Enemies,” I say flatly.
She chuckles, a low sound that rasps the edges of the air.
“Thought so. You talkin’ about Frederick, ain’t ya?
That boy’s been nuthin’ but headaches. Always owing tabs, stirrin’ up shit.
Told boss we should cut him loose, but no one listens.
” She shakes her head, lips pursed. “Ain’t seen him in a day or two now, which sure as hell ain’t like him.
Freddy’s the kind that crawls in here at least once a day, beggin’ for a pour on credit. ”
He’s dead. The bastard gambled with the wrong side, and I hope it’s my bullet that ended his life.
What I need right now is the hand that pointed him in my direction…
I need a name and face attached to the fucking mole because I’m certain the information about Isabella’s whereabouts came from him, and I’m already investigating my men, especially those assigned to protect her.
She smiles slyly, like she enjoys having information men like us want. “Truth is, if there’s anyone who can tell you where Freddy’s at, it’s his identical twin. Edwardo. The two of ‘em—thick as thieves. Eddie was here jus’ last night. Didn’t look much like himself.”
Matteo and I exchange a look. We’re both thinking the same thing…the possibility that Edwardo has the information we need.
“And where can we find him?” Matteo asks.
The woman shrugs, rag still circling the rim of her glass. “Now, that I can’t say.”
Smacking my lips together, I toss another stack of bills on the counter. Her eyes dart down, then up again, her smile settling into something neutral.
“You want Edwardo?” she says, voice low.
“You’ll find him by the old diesel yard.
He’s got a dented Fiat he calls Pride, parks it under the grey crane when he wants to be quiet.
If he’s not there, check The Sparrow ‘round closing. He likes the back booth where the light’s dim and the keeper looks the other way. ”
Matteo gives a short nod. “Appreciate it.”
The woman smirks, her eyes moving between us, then settling on me. “That’s all you boys need?” Her tongue sweeps across her bottom lip suggestively.
I push back from the bar, rising to my full height. “We’re good,” I say, sliding the stool back into place. “Keep this between us.”
She snorts softly. “Honey, ain’t nothing round here that stays secret for long. But I got mouths to feed.” She jerks her chin toward the door. “You didn’t see me. You didn’t come by.”
***
Rolling to a stop in front of the diesel yard, my eyes quickly scan the perimeter before I step out. Three men stand under the shade of a crane, sizing us up as we walk toward them.
“You boys got problems with your cars?” the biggest of the three asks, arms crossed like we just invaded his territory. He’s got a scar running down his cheek, and the same skull inside a wheel tattoo Frederick had is inked on one side of his shaved head.
“Edwardo here?” I ask flatly while studying the nuances in their behavior.
The question changes the look on their faces. Scar-face steps forward until we’re close enough to share the same breath. His grin pulls ugly. “Who’s askin’?”
“We are,” Matteo cuts in.
Scar-face snorts and tilts his head. “Hear that, boys? They’re looking for Edwardo.” His laugh fills the air, joined by the other two. Then, he pulls a knife from his belt and levels it at my throat. “Well, then… how about you get your asses back in your cars and get the fuck out of here.”
The other two circle us, drawing out their own knives.
Scar-face lunges with the knife, a sloppy forward thrust meant to intimidate.
I catch his wrist mid-air, twisting it hard until the bones grind under my grip, and the knife drops to the ground.
Before he can recover, I shove him back and jam my Glock against his temple.
His grin vanishes, sweat already breaking along his head.
“Drop your weapons,” Scar-face screams. “Drop them. Please, I don’t wanna die.”
The boys look at him—then at the gun pointed at his head.
“I’d listen if I were you,” Matteo mutters, clicking his pistol.
They drop their weapons immediately, sinking to their knees.
“Now,” my voice comes out coated in fury. “Where is Edwardo?”
He jerks his chin toward the far end of the yard. “Under the grey frame. By the Fiat. Don’t-don’t shoot.”
His pathetic sigh of relief irritates me. My Glock lowers to his thigh and I pull the trigger. He folds with a raw, animal howl, clutching at the wound as blood darkens his jeans.
That’s for wasting my time.
Edwardo spots us approaching and immediately bolts toward a line of trucks. A man with nothing to hide doesn’t run.
“Fuck,” Matteo mutters, already moving.
I take the long angle around a rusted drum and step out in front of him, blocking the path to the trucks.
Edwardo skids to a stop, then spins to slip through the narrow gap between two stacked containers.
Matteo meets him there, shoving him so hard his teeth rattle.
Edwardo snarls, throwing a wild swing at Matteo’s ribs.
For a skinny bastard, he fights like a dog.
Closing the distance, I grab him by the collar and drive my fist into his gut.
He doubles over with a wheeze, clawing and cursing in Spanish.
Matteo grabs his arms, pins them back, but Edwardo keeps kicking, until I punch him across the jaw.
His head snaps to the side, and he collapses in Matteo’s grip.
***
When Edwardo wakes up two hours later, he’s flat on his back, stripped down to his undershirt, wrists and ankles bound to a metal table. His breathing comes rough, eyes feral as he tugs against the restraints. “Let me go! I don’t know shit!” he screams.
I stand at the edge of the table, staring down at the bastard. “Then why did you run?”
He shoots me a glare, thrashing against the table. “This is illegal. You can’t hold me against my will.”
“You were in the truck with Frederick.” It’s a wild guess, but he goes still, confirming my suspicion.
My hands twitch by my side, aching to squeeze his throat until he knows what it’s like to choke on his own life...I want him to feel the same pain Isabella felt when the bullet hit her.
But rage won’t get me answers. I lean in, close enough that he sees the murder in my eyes, and knows he’s alive only because I allow it. My voice drops, venom dripping through every word. “Your brother made the worst mistake of his life when he tried to hurt my wife.”
He jerks his head. “No one was supposed to get hurt. I swear—that wasn’t the intention.”
“Explain.”
“They wanted to poke you. Just a dent in the car. That’s all… I swear. I wish I could go back—”
“But you can’t.” The words come out as a growl. “What you can do, however, is tell me who gave the orders.”
He inhales, hiccupping. “I don’t know names.
Freddy…Freddy said he got a deal. He was just supposed to drive the truck to South Pier, make a scene, and come back.
” His eyes widen, like he’s just realized his brother was involved in something far more than merely driving trucks.
“I didn’t know—” The sentence breaks into an ugly sob.
“When he hit the car, I panicked and ran…”
“You have to believe me.” He tries to force himself upright against the straps.
“Freddy’s only crime was mixing with the wrong crowd.
He just wanted to pay off his debt—he was going to stop—he tried to stop, man, he tried to—” The grief on his face twists into the look of a man who understands he has nothing left.
Such emotions are useless here. What I need are answers, not tears. “Looks like I have no use for you.” The implication is fucking clear. He’s a waste, and there’s no need to keep him alive.
His head shakes violently, the sound of his harsh breathing suddenly the only thing in the room. “Wait—” he rasps, then jolts, as if remembering something too late. “There was a man. He used to come around, asking for Freddy.”
I don’t say anything. If he’s lying, I’ll find out eventually, and he’ll wish he had died along with his brother.
“He’s called Rino,” Edwardo says finally. “Always wearing a leather jacket with a wolf patch at the back. Last I saw him, he dropped a burner with Freddy about three nights back. Said it was already paid for. Said that’s how he’d reach him.”
“Where’s the phone now?”
“I don’t know. I swear I don’t know. I tried to find it, you know…to contact Rino…but it was gone.”
I slam my hand on the table, my patience thinning. “Did you ever see the number that called?”
Edwardo swallows hard. He stares at the ceiling like he’s trying to see the memory from another angle. “I don’t remember the whole thing. But it ends with —1347. That’s all I got...I’m telling you, I didn’t know Freddy was armed.”
“Keep talking, and maybe I’ll let you live.”