6. Lourdes
Lourdes
The late afternoon sun shines through a large plate-glass window into my office at Juniper Trading. I watch dust particles float through the light as a distraction from the screaming coming from Nathan's office.
Ten minutes ago, with quitting time on my mind, a tall, handsome, dark-haired, olive-skinned man stormed into the office.
Following right behind the man in an impeccable suit and polished shoes were three monstrously large men in black leather jackets in a tight formation.
The man in the suit marched straight into Nathan’s office with one of his henchmen, while the other two told everyone in the office to stay calm and that no one would get hurt.
My female coworker and I gasped when they pointed their guns at us, and again when they grabbed Nathan’s assistant, Kayla, who we all know is his mistress, and dragged her into his office, too. His door closed with a firm click that silenced the room.
Despite their menacing presence, they didn’t slam the door behind them in a show of any emotional anger, despite their clear intent to choose violence.
Everyone is still motionless and silent. I don’t make eye contact with my co-workers.
I just sit and stare at the dust, listening to raised voices and loud crashes that sound as if furniture is being overturned.
Muffled shouts seep through the thin walls and cheap wooden door, but I can’t make out what’s being said.
The thuds are mixed with male cries of pain, female shrieks, and then the sound of something, or maybe someone, hitting the door.
I look up and expect it to be cracked or half hanging off the hinges.
No one moves to help Nathan. Not even my other co-worker Benny, even though he claims to be some kind of Jiujitsu black belt guy. The men guarding us keep their eyes and guns trained on us.
I let my gaze drift to my hands. To my crappy wedding ring. I hate my life right now. I can’t wait to get out of this city and away from David.
Suddenly, Nathan’s office door flies open, and the two men file out. The man in the suit doesn’t have a lock of dark, glossy hair out of place. The guy in leather, however, comes out rubbing his knuckles, looking like he worked up a sweat.
The gunmen patrolling us in the main office put their weapons away and follow the suit man. They all leave quickly and efficiently, in the same controlled formation as when they had arrived.
The glass door shuts, and the hum above my head from the fluorescent bulbs in the water-stained ceiling can be heard again in the room.
“Those men were mafia,” Marisol whispers. “That one in the suit? That was Nico Scava. He’s a don.”
My chest tightens, and I think of Ares from the other night.
He wore the same kind of suit. It wasn’t just how he dressed, though. It was the same kind of precise, effortless tailoring held together despite bulging muscles. The way he projected himself, so confident and sure.
I also remember Ares had the same ink on his hands as this mafia boss, Nico Scava. From spending time in Winterhall with David, I know enough about that world to recognize a brand of dangerous power.
Mafia…
I lift my eyes to Marisol. “What does the Italian Mafia want with Nathan?”
She gives a humorless laugh. “They run the ports. If something goes missing, they shake down importers.”
Guilt creeping into my bones, I stare down at my laptop.
It’s the only device with a link to the shell account.
The getaway money I’ve been building from customs date changes, currency finagling, and the quiet rerouting of unclaimed refunds.
It’s been one small transfer at a time, a slow siphoning that no one should notice. That’s how Dad taught me.
I stand before anyone else and amble toward Nathan’s office, not sure what I’ll find. Or what I can do. The door is ajar, and up close I see faint cracks in the wood.
I knock lightly, then push it open enough to peer inside. “Nathan?”
The office is empty. My heart pounds, and I rush to see if the window is open. Maybe he and Kayla were flung out, and they’re bleeding down on the pavement.
“I’m fine.” A weak voice from his private bathroom is followed by the guttural sound of spitting. “Go home.”
I’m about to go in there when Kayla comes out of the bathroom. Whimpering, she runs past me.
I creep toward the bathroom and see my boss bent over the sink, one hand gripping the porcelain edge. He spits again, and this time I see red swirling down the drain.
My stomach drops. “Do you need an ambulance?” I ask stupidly.
He straightens when he sees me in the mirror. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he says, “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing.” He reaches for another paper towel and presses it to his lip. His voice is steady, but the skin beneath his eyes is already starting to bruise. “They made a mistake.”
“Mistake?” I mumble. “What do you mean?”
He hesitates but figures he can trust me. And now I feel more guilty for what I’ve been doing.
“Someone’s been stealing crates from the Italians,” he says.
My pulse pounds in my ears. Nico Scava is looking for missing crates. That shakedown has nothing to do with me.
“Only theirs?” I ask carefully.
“Only theirs,” he says, gaze sharpening. “They are land-locked kings of Las Vegas and don’t know too much about the ports since taking over from the Vitales. Somebody thinks they can get over on them, I guess.”
Damn, I need this job. I can’t have someone killing Nathan before I’ve stolen enough money to get Sandrine out of that facility in Chicago.
“Go home, Lourdes,” he orders.
“Okay. I hope you…feel better,” I say, shaking my head, feeling dumb.
I don’t know what to say to someone who just got beaten up.
Back in the main office space, I see Marisol and Benny’s desks are abandoned, their laptop docking stations empty.
I return to my desk, my hands trembling as I shove my laptop into my workbag and leave the office as well.
The train ride home passes in a blur, my mind whirling with thoughts, one overlapping the next, and building up to a crescendo of a panic attack. I clutch my bag to my chest, my mind replaying Nathan’s words.
Selective shipments. Just the Italians. That isn’t random. And when men like that go to war, collateral damage doesn’t matter. The ports close and all shipments stop. That will put Nathan out of business. And me without a job while Sandrine is stuck in that awful place.
My stomach churns, and by the time I unlock the apartment door, my nerves are wound tight enough to snap.
I freeze at the sound of muffled gunfire and cursing in the living room. But it’s just David on the couch playing one of his stupid video games. No lights are on in the apartment, and the television casts a sharp blue glow across his face. He doesn’t even look up when I enter the room.
He stopped noticing me years ago.
“You’re late,” he mutters, eyes still on the screen. “I’m hungry.”
“Can I have a minute to decompress? There was this thing at work.” I drop my bag on one of the side chairs. The only place I sit, because he’s always on that couch. Even sleeps on it most nights. “These men came into the office and—”
“Don’t make me ask you twice for my dinner,” he snaps, interrupting me. “Make that beefaroni I like.”
Not bothering to argue, I slog to the kitchen and take out a frozen block of ground beef he didn’t even bother to defrost. Now he’ll have to wait.
I put the meat in the microwave to soften, and with David still playing his game, I take out my laptop to check my bank account.
“Is it ready?” David grumbles from the living room.
“The meat was frozen. That stupid meal you like takes time to prepare.”
David’s thumbs are still on the controller, but the character on the screen freezes mid-stride.
“What did you say to me?” He sets the controller down, then slowly rises to his feet with a muscle-tightening deliberation that makes my skin prickle.
When he steps toward me in the kitchen, I back up.
“You’re on this thing all the time.” He grabs my laptop off the table. “You using it to meet guys?”
I try to yank it back, but he’s stronger. “It’s my work laptop,” I reply, fighting to keep my tone even. “That’s Nathan’s private business.”
“I’ll look at whatever I want,” he says, waving it over his head like it’s a toy. “In my apartment.”
“Your apartment. Your dinner. Your money. My salary goes into an account I can’t even access. You give me a measly allowance like I’m a child.”
His jaw tightens, but when his cell rings, he looks back at it on the crumb-filled coffee table. “Careful how you talk to me,” he says through clenched teeth.
He waves the laptop again, and I reach for it. “Just give it back. I need it for my job.”
“Go get it.” He hurls it across the room.
It hits the wall with a tinny crack that sends ice down my spine. I want to throw up, seeing the cover is now cracked.
“Jerk,” I say because I’ve had it with him.
I hear his heavy footsteps before his backhanded slap hits my face, sudden and brutal. The room tilts, and my knees give out from underneath me. I put my arms out so my face doesn’t hit the hardwood floor first.
I stay down, tasting blood before the searing pain in my cheek flares to life.
“Never talk back to me again,” David says, standing over me.
Even though his phone continues to ring, he stares down at me, his chest rising and falling, as if daring me to speak.
“Pathetic.” He stomps back to the coffee table and answers the call.
His tone shifts instantly as if nothing happened. As if whoever the hell is on the other line is his best friend.
Then he’s moving toward the door, and without even looking at me, says, “Forget dinner, I’m going out.”
Minutes later, he’s gone.
Good fucking riddance.
The apartment is silent except for the ringing in my ears. I stay on the floor, not sure if I’m steady enough to get up yet.
It’s the first time David’s hit me. There’ve been harsh words and some shoving. But it’s clear that now we’ve escalated to physical outbursts.
I crawl to the laptop and open it with shaking hands. The crack distorts one corner of the screen, but the system loads.
Relief floods me so intensely it’s almost dizzying.
I open the hidden folders and log in to the account. Every number is the same. Every penny is accounted for. It’s not enough, but I’m close. Closer than I was last month.
Feeling stronger, I log out and get up. With the laptop now on the kitchen counter, I push the cracked cover back into place, relieved that it’s not causing any further damage.
I collect myself and look around this disgusting apartment. How did I get here? It was like one day melted into the other.
“Soon,” I whisper to myself.
Soon, there will be enough money to leave.
And when that day comes, I won’t look back.