Chapter 24
DANTE
I just found Frankie’s note.
I’d been so mad at her earlier for breaking her promise, and now I find the goddamned note she laid out on the desk for me.
Still, I’m glad she left it. As much as it annoys me that she’s gone out without getting the okay, it’s nice to know she didn’t just disappear into thin air.
And this isn’t exactly unexpected—during dinner, I saw Donovan out in the driveway getting the Escalade ready for her, so I’d assumed she was planning another burger run.
At least she’s taking protection when she leaves the house.
Donovan won’t let anything bad happen to her.
Wandering onto my balcony, I realize a whole mess of dark, angry clouds have rolled in. There’s a mineral scent on the air, a humidity to the breeze that portends a storm. I watch the clouds shift, feeling the first few light drops of rain pelting me.
Now that I’ve had some time to cool down, I feel a little bad about how I acted this afternoon, especially in front of Candi.
Frankie really had seemed surprised about her sister planning the babymoon in Montana.
But in the moment, I was too angry to reel my emotions in.
Controlling my temper is still a work in progress, and all I could think of was Frankie’s apparent betrayal.
The way it seemed like she’d lied right to my face just so she could sneak off for a weekend with her sister. But I think I was wrong.
I think Frankie really didn’t know about the plan.
That even if Charlie had gotten the chance to spring the surprise, Frankie would have backed out with a polite excuse.
She’s worried about her safety—the safety of the baby—too.
She wouldn’t have gone. Unfortunately, once again, I yelled first and asked questions later. She didn’t deserve that.
God, I fucked up.
A sudden gust of wind blows, spraying me with cold, hard rain. It’s starting to come down stronger, so I go back inside and make sure all the windows are closed. Restless, I wander downstairs to the living room, where I find Armani watching football highlights on ESPN.
He’s leaning back on the leather couch, a beer in his hand. The sound of the sportscasters arguing blares from the television. He doesn’t acknowledge me as I sit on the other end of the couch and try to relax. When the TV switches to commercials, Armani grabs the remote.
“Yo. You have to watch this play.”
He rewinds the DVR, but I’m not focusing. My neck tingles. I roll my shoulder to brush it off. Something doesn’t feel right. The restlessness—it’s creeping all over me. Something’s got me itchy, in a way I can’t explain.
“Did you see that?” Armani settles back in his seat.
“Yeah.”
“Pfft, you didn’t even look at the screen.”
I grunt noncommittally in response as I pull out my phone to check for messages from my wife. Nothing. Not that I blame her.
“Where’s Frankie?” Armani asks. “She still feeling sick?”
Ignoring the question, I get up and head for the kitchen. “Want a beer?”
I don’t wait for an answer; I’ll grab him one anyway.
His question nearly made me jump out of my skin.
I don’t know where the hell she is, but there’s no way a burger run is taking this long, even if the line was backed up all the way down the street.
And now that it’s raining, I can’t stop a wave of nightmarish images of car crashes from assaulting me.
I have my phone in my hand and am just about to hit the call button when the crunch of tires on the driveway outside pulls my attention. It’s Donovan, coming around the bend with Frankie’s car. Thank God.
The tension inside eases some. She’ll probably come sauntering in with a bag full of In-N-Out burgers and fries, slurping a strawberry shake in that obnoxious way she does just to annoy me.
I swear, that woman has a hollow leg when it comes to fast food hamburgers.
Or at least, she has since getting pregnant.
Returning to the living room, I hand my brother his beer and take a long drag from mine, waiting for the sound of my wife’s steps echoing in the marble hallway. Eh, maybe the house is a tad ostentatious.
I put my eyes on the TV and sit, waiting.
And waiting.
Silence. Except for the rush of my pulse in my ears, which grows stronger with each second that I don’t hear Frankie come in.
“Dammit.” I burst from the sofa, ignoring Armani calling after me. Where the hell is she?
Running through the rain, I round the corner of the house and head to the garage, where I find Donovan having a cigarette with another one of the hired security men. Donovan does a double take when he spies me dashing through the downpour.
“Mr. Bellanti?”
“Where’s my wife?” I bark out.
Donovan flicks away the cigarette and stands. “I haven’t seen her since this afternoon.”
My scalp alights with painful pricks. “Didn’t you just…take her to get dinner?”
“No, sir,” he says, shaking his head. “I took the car to get an oil change from a buddy. He gives me a cheap rate after business hours.”
Frantic, I feel a churning in my gut. “Fuck.” Something is wrong. I knew it.
My phone rings. It’s Clayton, Charlie’s husband.
“Clayton,” I say when I pick up.
“Yeah, I just got a tip—Papa Abbott’s been spotted at a local motel. The Vintner. Oh, and is Charlie at your place? She said her trip with Frankie got called off, but she’s still not home yet, and either her phone’s dead or she isn’t picking up.”
“Frankie’s missing, too. They must’ve snuck off on that trip anyway.” I keep my tone in check, but inside, I’m fucking furious.
I can’t believe Frankie skipped town after our fight earlier.
“I need to make some calls,” I bark into the phone. “Grab a few men you can trust and meet me at the motel.”
After I hang up, I call Officer Bryant, telling him to put out an unofficial APB on the women and explaining what we know so far. “One more thing,” I add. “Maybe it’s best if Napa police stay out of the vicinity of the Vintner Motel tonight.”
“Understood,” Bryant says. “Talk soon.”
Donovan’s crestfallen expression fades as I turn to him, but not quickly enough that I don’t catch it. I know what he’s thinking. He failed in his job to protect my wife. All his years of loyalty are down the toilet.
Yes, I could think of it that way, but it wouldn’t be fair to him. This isn’t his fault.
“This isn’t on you, my friend.” I clap him on the shoulder. “But I do need you to help fix it.”
“Of course. Anything.”
“Call Farman and tell him to start getting together some manpower. We’re gonna need to coordinate a raid on the motel.”
Donovan’s already got his phone out, scrolling through his contacts. “Yes, sir. On it.”
That’s when my own phone vibrates with a text from a blocked number. Huh.
I open the text, watching something download slowly, and then a photo finally appears on my screen—and suddenly the whole world goes sideways.
“Jesus fucking Christ…”
It’s a picture of Frankie and Charlie, tied up on the floor, a plain white wall behind them.
Frankie has a look of fear and pain twisting her features, and Charlie’s expression is one of worry.
There’s dried blood near Charlie’s ear, and my wife’s neck and cheek are blotchy and red, like someone has manhandled her.
“Boss?” Donovan says, his hand going to my shoulder.
I realize I’ve fallen to my knees on the concrete of the garage, the phone shaking in my unsteady hand. My temples pound, and my jaw aches from clenching it so hard.
A second text comes in: Pay Abbott’s debts or these two die after we’re done with them. Painfully.
If Abbott has my wife mixed up in some ransom gig…I’m going to fucking kill him. Hell, I might kill him anyway.
“Get the fucking car,” I tell Donovan. “We roll. Now.”
The Escalade squeals out of the garage as a steady stream of big black vehicles appear in my driveway. I throw open the door and climb in the back—seconds later, Armani bursts in and slides onto the seat next to me.
“Donovan filled me in,” he says, slipping a gun into the back waistband of his pants.
We don’t talk as we race to the motel. It’s all I can do to keep my composure. My body thrums with pent-up rage and fear for my wife and child.
I see Clayton’s group pulling into the lot just ahead of our contingent, black SUVs fanning out around the front of the motel.
We fill in the spaces so no one can come in or out of this dump without being spotted by our brigade.
When I get out of the car, Clayton is waiting for me, an automatic rifle in his hands and rage in his eyes.
“You get a text from a blocked number?” he says quietly.
I nod. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but this motherfucker better talk.”
He signs the number 12 and we take off across the parking lot, weapons at the ready as one of Clayton’s men kicks in the door.
We burst in and surround Abbott, who’s sprawled on the floor of the motel room with his face looking recently beaten, one eye swollen shut, a bloody scab formed over a gash in his temple.
He’s clutching a nearly empty handle of cheap rye and is trying to maneuver it to his mouth without sitting up.
Amber liquid sloshes over his face as we point our guns down at him.
“Where are Frankie and Charlie?” I demand, stepping one boot on his wrist so he has no choice but to let go of the bottle.
He laughs. Just once, and then again, longer and louder. “Lost your wives, eh?” He pushes himself up a few inches on one bloody arm. “For a bunch of big, tough men, sounds like you can’t control your women very well.”
Clayton lets loose a kick, square in Abbott’s ribs, that has him choking and coughing.
“The fuck are they, Abbott?” Clayton roars. “Talk!”
“I don’t know! I swear I don’t know,” Abbott says, finally realizing we’re serious.
Clayton grabs him by the front of his filthy flannel shirt and launches him onto the bed. “All signs point to you, asshole. Where are they?”
Abbott falls back on the mattress. “I don’t know! It wasn’t me! That wasn’t the plan.”
This time, I grab him, punching him in his already-thrashed face with my fist. He sputters and spits blood, the smell of stale alcohol rolling off him as I get closer.
“What the fuck you two wailing on me for?” he says, dabbing at his split lip. “I said I don’t know!”
I glower at him. “It’s the least we owe you for the years of abuse and neglect you put your daughters through.”
Clayton joins me, looming over Abbott with his gun displayed menacingly. “Charlie asked me to kill you, you know. And I do like to please my wife. So if you don’t tell me where she is, I’m going to make her very, very happy.”
“And I’m going to make sure it happens real slow,” I add.
“Oh yeah,” Clayton says. “Very slow.”
Abbott swipes a rumpled sleeve over his mouth. “I don’t know. Jesus Christ. How many times I gotta say it? You’re asking the wrong person. I swear I don’t know. It’s the truth.”
“I think you’re a fuckin’ liar,” I say. “But I got a brother who’s a genius with a pair of pliers, and I bet he can fix that.”
Clayton pulls back, ready to strike again, but Marco’s voice stops him.
“Wait! Someone else worked him over first,” he says. “Who got rough with you, Abbott? Maybe that’s who we should be looking for.”
We step back and Abbott slides onto the edge of the bed, hunching over. Suddenly he looks a million years old, but I can’t muster up any pity for the son of a bitch.
“Some of my creditors found me,” he admits. “They roughed me up. Beat me until I agreed to an insurance scam.”
“How? The winery isn’t yours anymore,” I say. “Didn’t you tell them that?”
“The house is still mine,” he says, looking up at me with defeat in his gaze. “It’s insured for a lot of money. They’re supposed to burn it down tonight. Then when I collect on the policy, they get it all.”
Marco turns to Farman. “Didn’t you say one of the UTVs wasn’t turned back in to the vehicle pool yet?”
“Oh my God,” I hear myself say. I look over at Clayton. “They never left the property. They went home.”
And now Frankie and Charlie are tied up in a house that’s about to be burned down.
When all of our manpower is split, either here at the motel dealing with this bullshit, or following my orders to search for the women in town and at every airport and train depot within a fifty-mile radius of Napa, including Oakland and SFO. Motherfucking…fuck.
“We’re not done here,” I hiss into Abbott’s face. “Not by a long shot.”
I point to Farman. “They’re at the Abbott house. Get over there. Take as many men as you can. And you.” I turn back to Abbott. “We’re not done here. Not by a long shot. We’ll be having a reckoning, and that’s a promise.”
Abbott shakes his head. “Ah, come on, Bellanti. We all got what we wanted in the end, didn’t we? Don’t be such a woman.”
“My woman is twice the man you are, you sad sack of shit.”
With one more punch—to his good eye—I take off, racing to my vehicle alongside Clayton and Armani, all the while praying that we aren’t too late.