Chapter 36
BEA
Victor’s angry footsteps fade down the hallway until they’re swallowed.
Then it’s just me and the guard.
He’s already back on his phone. The whole exchange of the last ten minutes might as well not have happened on his end. He’s waiting for the next thing to be his problem.
My ghost of a grin fades, replaced by a more focused frown.
He didn’t help Victor. In fact, he almost actively seems to loathe the man. Could that give me an opening?
“Hey.”
He doesn’t look up.
“Hey. You.”
A long sigh out of his nose, like I’m an annoying child.
“What?”
“I need your help.”
He laughs. Not really—more of a snort, I guess. Incredulous. Dismissive.
“Sure you do.”
“I’m serious.”
“Lady.” He finally looks up. “Listen. I don’t help Victor. I don’t help you. I collect my check at the end of the night, and I mind my own business, and that’s how I’m still alive at forty-three. So whatever pitch you’re about to make, skip it.”
I’ve got one card. I’m going to have to play it now, because there isn’t going to be a better opportunity for me.
“Text Raffaele for me,” I gulp, trying to force confidence into my voice and soul.
If there’s a chance Raffaele is still alive, then I have to believe he is. It’s my only hope. My only reason for even trying to survive.
“Excuse me?”
“Raffaele D’Amico. You’ve got a phone. I’ve got his number. Text him. Tell him where I am. That’s it.”
“Lady. The guy’s dead.”
“No, he’s not.”
“You just heard—”
“Victor is lying.”
I lean forward. The rope at my wrists tightens painfully, but I get a few extra inches.
“Think about it,” I say. “Why were the bodies burned?”
He shrugs. “Some sadistic sons of bitches love burning bodies.”
“Are you?”
“What?”
“That kind of guy. Would you have done it?”
“Personally? No. Too risky. Once you start a fire, it’s out of your control. You don’t burn a body unless you’ve got a reason that’s more than just liking the smell.”
“Exactly.”
I sit up as straight as the chair lets me.
“You saw the way Victor was acting. Tell me with a straight face he’s a leader. Someone you want to spend the rest of your life following.”
The guard doesn’t say anything. My mind races as my pulse quickens.
“So, why the fire? Not because Victor ordered it. So, either someone on his side made a sloppy decision he didn’t authorize, or the man supposedly under those bodies burned them himself on his way out. To make sure Victor doesn’t see a face. To buy himself time.”
The guard laughs. “That is a stretch, lady.”
“It’s a stretch I’m betting on.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“Then I’m wrong, and you’ve spent thirty seconds typing on a phone, and you go back to scrolling. You’re out a thumb tap. But if I’m right—“
I let it hang.
If he isn’t dead, you helped him. And helping him is the only way you survive his vengeance.
The guard watches me carefully. But I can’t get a read. Not yet.
I press.
“He promised you things. Right?”
“Who?”
“Victor. He promised you. Money, rank, a step up. They all promise the same things, right?”
“So?”
“Has he delivered?”
The guard glances at the door Victor just stormed out of and rolls his eyes.
“That’s a man who’s going to get someone killed and then blame the someone for getting killed,” I continue. “You want to work for that?”
His face twitches into a momentary sneer. My heart jumps.
I’m getting through. I can see it.
“Raffaele D’Amico runs the firm. Vincenzo’s whole operation.
He’s been doing it for fifteen years. He doesn’t promise you anything because he doesn’t have to.
He delivers, and the delivery is the contract.
When shit goes down—and it will go down soon”—God, I hope that’s true—“do you want to be on that side or on Victor’s?
This is the door, right here, right now, and it closes the second that sniveling bastard gets back. ”
The guard looks at his phone. At me. At the door. I can see the gears turning. Please, I silently beg. We both know I’m right.
God, I hope I’m right.
“If this blows up,” he finally mutters.
I straighten. “It won’t.”
“If it does, I’m the one who comes back in here for you.”
I nod as fast I can. “Fair. That’s fair.”
He hesitates a second longer. Then he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a different phone. Not the one he’s been scrolling on.
“What’s the number?”
I tell him.
He types it in as he crosses to my chair and crouches down. He works the rope at my left wrist with his thumb until there’s enough slack for me to bring the hand around to the front, and he sets the phone in my palm and steps back.
“One message. Then it goes back to me.”
“Okay.”
My hand is shaking. My thumb skids twice on the keyboard before it lands a letter. I look around the room while I type. Quickly. There’s a stack of mail on the side table next to Victor’s chair—a long envelope on top, the address bar facing up. I read it once, fast, and lock it in my head.
I type.
Victor has me. 86 Buckhorn Drive, Alpine, NJ 07620. Victor is behind everything. The warehouse. The traitors. Vincenzo. All of it. Please.
I hit send before I can second-guess it.
The message goes through.
A tiny Delivered under the bubble.
I watch the bubble. I watch the bubble like it owes me something.
A second later: Read.
The room seems to pop. Like the entire world was holding a dark breath and just sighed in relief.
He’s alive.
Then a second thought intrudes on the hope: Or someone has his phone.
No. Happy thoughts only. He’ll respond any second now. Confirm it all.
I wait for a reply. Now I’m the only holding my breath.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
A minute.
The bubble just sits there. Read and nothing else.
He thinks it’s a trap.
Of course. Unknown number. A vague address. Please. I wrote please, like a hostage in a movie. I’m going to be embarrassed about that one for a long time, assuming I’m around to be embarrassed.
I have one more shot.
“One more. I promise. One more.”
The guard turns to the door and listens. When it’s clear no one’s coming back anytime soon, he shrugs.
“Sure. Why not.”
He almost seems amused.
Fine. Have a fucking laugh. I don’t care.
I need to give Raffaele a clue that it’s me, and that I’m doing this on my own free will. Victor isn’t over my shoulder, setting another trap. This is me, Raffaele. Only me.
I think. My mind flipping through all the memories we’ve made, good and bad. Eventually, the flipping slows, then comes to a stop.
Really, that’s what comes to mind first? My cheeks flush with heat as I remember.
The penthouse. The kitchen. When he spanked me for questioning his devotion to anything but me…
I scroll. Emoji keyboard. Food row.
There.
The little orange saucepan.
I tap it. I send it.
The bubble appears under the first one.
Read.
Two seconds. Three.
The little three-dot bubble appears.
He’s typing.
I don’t breathe.
The bubble disappears.
It reappears.
It disappears again.
The guard is watching me watch the phone. He doesn’t say anything.
The bubble comes back one more time.
A reply lands.
One word.
Coming.