Chapter Nine #2
Not while I’m holding my breath, caught in the stunning symphony of his. Not while his scent is making me dizzy, or while I’m wrestling the reckless urge to turn my head and press my lips to his.
Eventually, he straightens, grabs his phone and walks out without a backward glance.
Only when the sound of the bedroom door clicks shut behind him, do I let myself breathe again. Deeply. Inhaling every lingering trace of him left in the air.
My gaze drops to the jar of chocolate almond spread he left behind. Slowly, I reach for the golden spoon from the jar and slide it between my lips, licking it clean, laving up every last vestige of his DNA left behind.
Jesus, I need help. Badly.
But first, there’s a life to save.
~
I ROLL MY neck from side to side, stretching my arms above my head as a yawn escapes.
The digital clock on the vanity reads 1:15 PM.
Ten hours. Ten hours straight of digging, and I’m no closer to a name.
The surveillance from Liquid Blue has been tampered with.
That much is clear. I’ve concluded that the package is always left in the bartender’s locker between 6 PM and 7 PM on Thursdays, because the hallway footage during that window shows consistent signs of altering.
Piecing together a suspect from other angles, combing through endless hours of footage—it would take days, not hours.
Too much ground to cover. Too little time. Impossible.
Someone got to a member of the surveillance team. Someone who lives at this villa.
My bet is that it’s an Upperman.
Uppermen—also “Uppers”—are the highest ranking and most trusted soldiers in the organization.
The bulk of them are blood-related, and they all have the privilege of residing at the villa.
The ultimate goal for every soldier down the line—Mid Troopers, Soldati, Footers, Grunts, Tyros—is to become an Upper.
Whoever’s behind this knows exactly how to cover their tracks.
For faster results, I’ll need a different approach.
I shut down my laptop and take a quick shower. Get dressed in black cargo pants, a loose-fitting tee and sneakers, then grab my phone and head out.
Tazi is just stepping out of a golf cart as I exit the house. She stops, gives me a once-over, then shakes her head. “I don’t get you. You’re more confusing than trigonometry.”
“That’s all right.” I hop into the vacated cart and honk. “We can’t all be good at math.”
Her snarky retort trails me as I drive off toward Diner Hall.
A good number of Uppers on duty will be at lunch right now.
Diner Hall has the feel of a five-star restaurant, with gilded matte-black walls, golden sconces, and tasteful furniture. Always spotless, well kept, and rich with the aromas of something decadent.
As I walk in and head to the order station, I cast casual glances around. Most on-duty Uppers are usually here at this hour, followed up by the Brioso Hubb.
My scanning gaze finds them, gathered around a long group table toward the back, half-hidden behind the order station. But I pretend not to notice and instead tilt my head to read today’s lunch menu. Better for them to spot me first.
“Hey, Ray Ray!”
That was fast.
I make a show of jerking my head around, searching for the caller, then flash them a small wave.
“Come over here!” one of them beckons. “Eat with us.”
Signaling that I’ll be there in a bit, I place my lunch order.
Winning over the Uppers was a walk in the park. Took less than a week. All I had to do was make sure they didn’t see me as a woman and become “one of the boys.” And I have a ton of experience with that.
Once my tray is ready, I head over and slide into a seat between two broad-shouldered Uppers.
“Right choice,” the Upper across from me rumbles, nodding at my plate. “The honey-roasted yams are slapping today.”
If there’s one thing I remember about this one, it’s that he’s a lickerish foodie. Which makes my response easy. “You say that about everything I’ve seen you put in your mouth.”
The others break into chuckles and nods of agreement, even him. “True that.”
As we eat—talking, jabbing, jeering—I study every face at the table. Every posture. Assessing. All while throwing in a well-timed jab or two, never missing a beat.
Not hard to do. Men’s group conversations are usually chaotic and unfocused, a mess of overlapping voices, bouncing from topic to topic with no clear thread. Perfect for me to listen, observe, and decode.
Once everyone is full, sated, and relaxed, their guards down, I ease in. “Any of you on rotation at Liquid Blue? I’m being temporarily assigned to work the bar. But I’ve never been up there before, so I’m hoping I’ll see a familiar face.”
“Nah, we’re off those rotations once we become Uppermen,” one of them replies. “The Soldati and Mid Troopers handle the clubs.”
“Man, I hated those rotations,” another groans. “Was like the Garden of Eden. All that ass and tits everywhere, but you can’t even look. Gotta be watching for threats instead. Shit was torture.”
“Yup,” someone else chimes in. “You let a piece of ass distract you for even a minute, and—” He clicks his teeth and slashes a finger across his throat. “That’s it. You’re done.”
“Rough,” I say with a laugh.
“Wait, you’re working the bar at Liquid Blue now? Isn’t that Tina’s gig?”
The question comes from the one I’ve been assessing the closest. He’s seated at the far end of the table and has been quiet and detached the whole time.
Until now.
“Who?” I feign ignorance. “No idea who that is. All I heard is that the bartender got zapped for being a rat or something, and now my ass has to fill in.” I gesture to myself. “Look at me. Do I look like I can cut it behind a bar?”
The men laugh, feeding off my self-deprecation.
“Just don’t be giving away free drinks to every tits and ass that flashes a smile at you,” one warns. “Boss doesn’t mess around with his dollars and cents.”
I’ve never corrected their immediate assumption that I’m a lesbian because that works in my favor. To them, I’m another Tazi.
Just as abruptly as he spoke, the quiet Upper shoots to his feet. “Hey, I’ll meet you all back on patrol,” he says. “Need to go handle something while there’s still time in the hour.”
“Yo, don’t take forever like you did last time,” one calls after him. “I’m not getting reamed out for you again!”
As the conversation shifts to wild stories from their Soldati days, I lean back in my chair and pick my teeth with a toothpick.
I think I’ve found my culprit.
~
WHEN I GET back to my room, it’s to the unwanted visual of Luca getting a sloppy blowjob.
“Jesus, Luca,” I groan. “Don’t you have your own place for this shit?”
To be fair, he’s been crashing here almost every night since he escorted me to the villa. At this point, he’s practically my roommate.
The woman scrambles to hide her face, but there’s only one bobbed blonde with purple highlights in this place.
Eleni. Tazi’s wife.
“Keep going,” Luca urges her, throwing me a wink. “She’s chill. She won’t talk.”
Grabbing my laptop, I toss him a reprimanding glare and head back out.
Once outside, I slide into a golf cart, drive to an empty, sloping stretch of land, and call Lorenzo.
He answers on the first ring. “Raya.”
“Hey. Are you at the villa?”
“On the road. Why?”
“Are you aware that I have until six this evening to give Stefano a name for the Liquid Blue situation? And that if I don’t, I’m getting booted?”
“Bullshit. I’ll talk to him.”
“No, no, I don’t want to be an issue between you two,” I say quickly. “I have something, but it’s not concrete. Do you think he’d accept a hunch?”
“No. He’d never go after his men based on a hunch. If you give him a name, you need to be certain.”
“Figured as much,” I muse. “Okay, I’ll find solid evidence. But I need your help.”
“Tell me.”
“Someone on the surveillance team has been tampering with footage from Liquid Blue. Specifically, the hallway leading to the lockers,” I say.
“Every Saturday, between six and seven in the evening, the recordings are altered to erase whoever’s been leaving the packages.
If I can get the ID of the team member responsible, I might be able to retrieve the deleted data. ”
A pause, then… “I’ll look into it. Hang tight.”
~
LORENZO CALLS ME back an hour later, while I’m knee-deep in my search for concrete evidence.
“Rogers,” he says without preamble. “Peter Rogers.”
“Nice work, bossman. You got him to confess?”
“Nope. He’s not even in today. But the surveillance team knows I don’t have my brother’s patience,” he replies. “One of the juniors clocked him deleting footage but was too afraid to speak up. Rogers is the head.”
“Ah. Good to know. I’ll see what’s recoverable. Fingers crossed.”
“You do that. Gio’s heading to Rogers’ place to pick him up. I’ll keep you updated.”
A sudden eruption of gunfire crackles in the background. Like a raging shootout.
“Are those gunshots?” I ask. “Where the hell are you?”
“Uh-huh.” He’s as cool as cucumber. “Don’t worry about it.”
Before I can tell him to be careful, the line goes dead.
~
TEN MINUTES LATER, Lorenzo calls back. “Rogers is dead.”
Of course he is. “Dead men can’t talk.”
“Yeah. Gio found him in his apartment with two slugs to the chest. Whoever was paying him off must’ve caught wind of something and silenced him.”
“Is Gio able to determine if the kill is fresh?” I ask. “Like, within the last hour or so?”
There’s a pause.
Rapid gunfire blazes in the background.
Lorenzo breathes sharply. “Alright, tell me. What’s your hunch?”
“Okay, don’t be mad at me,” I start with caution. “I know I’m not supposed to share anything with anyone outside of us, but given the time constraint Stefano put me under, I had to try a different angle.”
Shouts and curses echo in the background.
“Explain.”
“I had lunch with the Uppers and let it slip—on purpose—that Liquid Blue’s bartender was picked up for being an informer. Only one of them knew her by name, and he immediately excused himself to go ‘handle something.’”
“Who?”
“Ricky Garro. He has a cross tattoo on his clavicle.”
“Not surprising.”
Another pause. Then, to someone in the background, he barks, “Bust it in!”
He’s multitasking what sounds like a war zone, and I’m here playing detective.
“Raya, babe,” he says, voice lower now, more serious. “Try to find something, anything, that definitively points to Garro. If it were up to me, he’d be dead within the hour. But Stefano won’t act on just that.”
“I’ll do my best,” I promise. “And Lorenzo?”
“Mhm?” he responds, distracted.
“Don’t get shot.”
A deep, dark chuckle. “I’ll do my best.”