Chapter Ten
Raya
AN HOUR LATER, STEFANO is glaring down at me with eyes full of disdain and distrust.
His unbuttoned shirt, suit pants, and damp, slicked-back hair tells me I’ve caught him in the middle of taking his sweet time getting ready for the evening ahead.
From what I know, his sleep schedule is erratic. His concept of time is warped and he sleeps wherever and whenever he can steal a break from his criminally long days. And yet, somehow, he always looks so damn refreshed, sharp, and alert.
Must be nice.
A “crunch” slices through the intense silence as he bites into a bright red apple.
“Do you have a name for me?” His voice is lazy, almost bored. “Or are you here to steal something else?”
“Ricky Garro.”
He nods once, as though the name makes sense. “Proof?”
“Kind of.”
He starts shaking his head, but I cut in quickly.
“Peter Rogers, head of surveillance, was doctoring security footage at Liquid Blue. Gio went to pay him a visit, but someone else got to him first. He’s dead.”
Stefano’s expression doesn’t change, so I press on.
“About an hour before that, I casually mentioned at a table of on-duty Uppermen that the bartender at Liquid Blue was nixed. Ricky Garro was the only one who showed interest and immediately left.”
I pat my trusty laptop under my arm. “I suspect Garro’s the one who took out Rogers, so I scoured all surveillance footage around Staff Valley within the timeframe he left Diner Hall.
He did a great job avoiding the cameras, but I still caught him—barely—on distant feeds, heading up to Peter Roger’s apartment. ” I shrug. “So…that’s my ‘kind of.’”
He stares at me, openly irritated.
So ungrateful.
To annoy him further, I grin.
He takes another bite of his apple. Chews. Swallows. “How often do you fail in life?”
My grin widens. “Want to know what you’re up against?”
Glacial dark eyes narrow on me. Oh, how he hates me.
He grips me by my upper arm and shoves me out the front door. “Wait out here.”
Before I can mouth off, the door’s slammed in my face.
Who knew the great Stefano Castello was such a sore loser?
Biting back a laugh, I make my way to the golf cart and fire off a quick text update to Lorenzo. If he’s still alive.
A few short minutes later, Gio pulls up beside me and honks.
“Hey, hey.” He swings out of his Ford Raptor golf cart and strides over. “You waiting for Lo? He probably won’t be back for a while.”
“No kidding,” I laugh out. “It sounded like he was on a battlefield when we talked earlier.”
Gio’s hand settles on the nape of my neck, massaging gently. “Eh, that’s a normal Monday for Lo.”
I lean into his touch. It’s been a while for me. “Stefano kicked me out here to wait like a dog. He really enjoys putting me in my place.”
Gio chuckles. “You really get under his skin.”
“Just by existing?”
He shrugs. “Found what you were looking for?”
“Yeah. It’s Ricky Garro.”
“Why am I not surprised?” he mutters with an edge of disappointment.
“No one seems to be. Is he known to be errant or something?”
“Not exactly. But he’s racked up a lot of strikes with us this past year. Kept committing acts that don’t align with who we are,” he says. “He was turning into a loose cannon, but we’ve been trying to avoid putting him in the ground. He’s blood.”
“That’s the mistake,” I comment. “One warning should be the max. If at all. This is what happens when you give too many chances.”
Gio smiles down at me, dimples flashing. “You’re a ruthless little thing, aren’t you?”
“Who, me?” I give him a saccharine-sweet smile. “I’m an angel.”
“Far from it.” His hand drifts from my neck to my shoulder, the other settling on the opposite side, kneading, massaging. “I see you, Raya.”
Doubt it.
“Hmm,” I groan. “What’s your hourly rate for these hands?”
He chuckles. “For you? Gratis.”
A door slam pulls my attention.
Stefano emerges from the house, now fully dressed in a slim-fitting three-piece suit. Sharp, clean, flawless.
He looks bored. Dapper. Dangerous. No one should look this damn good while the sun is still up.
As he approaches his gaze drops to Gio’s hands on my shoulders. Something unreadable flits across his face. Too quick to decipher.
“The body?” he asks Gio when he reaches us.
“Handled. Quietly.”
“Good.’’ He smooths a hand down his jacket sleeve. “Come with us. I’m in the mood to be loud.”
Gio starts to get into the cart with me, but Stefano elbows him aside and folds in next to me instead. Then points Gio to the other cart. “Take that one.”
Gio looks at me askance, but all I can offer him is a “no idea” shrug.
Why the hell would a man who hates me voluntarily choose to share a cart with me instead of driving his own?
Gio wipes away a smirk with his hand and slides into the other cart.
“Garro,” Stefano bites out. “Take me to him.”
Why me? I’ve done my part. Isn’t this where they step in and handle things?
The argument sits on the tip of my tongue, but the dark energy radiating off him forces me to swallow it down.
I drive to Ricky Garro’s post on the east side of the villa. But when we get there, he’s MIA.
“Said he had the shits,” his patrol partner replies when Stefano inquiries of his whereabouts. “I’m covering until he gets back.”
“He won’t be back,” I murmur under my breath. “He’s running.”
Without hesitation, I speed off.
Stefano, surprisingly, doesn’t question me. Huh. He must trust me more than he lets on.
I navigate southeast, toward the most vulnerable section of the villa; where security is thin and surveillance is riddled with blind spots, thanks to the land’s uneven terrain.
An area I only know about from hanging around the Uppers, from their whispers about sneaking off during shifts for a “quick release.”
Leading Stefano there is essentially selling them out. But it is what it is.
As we close in, Ricky Garro comes into view, his shoulders hunched, moving fast toward the track, a duffel bag in hand.
At the sound of our approach, he glances over his shoulder, then breaks into a run.
I floor it and careen into his path, cutting him off.
He tries to pivot but trips and drops to one knee.
How apt.
Stefano steps out, smooth and unhurried. “Going somewhere, Ricky?”
Garro pales. And for a moment, abject fear etches into every crevice of his face. But just as quickly, acceptance takes its place, followed by bravado. A flicker of defiance. The determination to face his consequences like a man.
Climbing to his feet, he squares his shoulders, juts his chin up, and then hawk-spits at Stefano’s feet. “Do whatever you want to me. It doesn’t matter,” he sneers. “Your days as ‘king of Vegas’ are numbered.”
Calm and unaffected, Stefano rubs his jaw. “This is how you want to do it?”
“Might as well get it over with. Because I’m not telling you shit.
No matter what you do to me.” He spits at his feet again.
“It’s time for change around here. A lot of us agree.
Word is, you’re not even your own man. Someone’s been pulling your strings behind the scenes.
No wonder you’ve gone soft. He told us the truth—you’re no king.
You’re a puppet on a string.” His laugh is ugly, almost manic.
“And he’s gonna take you down. He’s gonna—”
“Is this your idea of not telling me shit?” Stefano asks in a flat, bored tone. “Because you’re saying a whole lot, and I haven’t even breathed on you yet.”
Ricky clamps his mouth shut, his jaw clenching. Then he hocks and spits again.
“Seems you have a phlegm buildup,” Stefano comments, cool and unfazed. “I’d offer you some lozenges…” A slow, deliberate pause. “But you have much bigger problems than a clogged throat right now, no?”
Ricky puffs up his chest, loosens his grip on the duffel, and shifts his stance.
Shit, he’s going to—
Stefano moves first.
Gun drawn. Fast and smooth. BANG.
A bullet straight through Ricky Garro’s wrist.
Ricky yowls, doubling over with a vicious curse.
Stefano closes the distance and swings the butt of his gun against his head.
Ricky buckles to one knee.
Stefano shoves his jacket aside, pulls the gun Ricky had been reaching for, and hands it off to Gio.
Then, gripping Ricky by the collar like a wounded animal, he hauls him toward the cart and dumps him onto the outward-facing back seats.
He settles beside him, gun pressed warningly against his neck, then calls over his shoulder to me, “Brioso Hubb.”
Freaking hell.
The last thing I want is for the Uppers to start being closed-lipped around me because they think I’m too close to the head boss. But if I try to explain that to Stefano right now, he’ll probably shoot me for the delay.
With a resigned sigh, I reverse off the terrain and circle across to the Brioso Hubb.
Once there, Stefano drags Ricky off the cart and throws him onto the pavement. He then raises his gun and fires off two rounds upwards at the orange-tinted sunset sky.
In seconds, men come rushing out of the bar, weapons drawn.
They grind to a halt at the sight of Stefano.
At the sight of Ricky—groaning on his knees, clutching his bleeding wrist.
Once the Uppers are gathered, Stefano tucks his gun away. A silent signal that he’s not there as a threat.
One of them steps forward, wary. “What’s going on boss?”
“Garro here says the lot of you agree there should be a change in leadership over everything I’ve built.
Well…” He spreads his arms out wide, in mock surrender.
“Here’s your chance. Your window of opportunity to prove yourselves to your new boss out there.
Take your shot.” He presses a finger to the center of his forehead.
“One little hole right here and I’m a goner.
” His gaze sweeps around. “There’s no honor in being a fucking coward.
So come on. Step up. Instead of hiding and scheming like sniveling wet rats. ”
What the hell is he doing?
This man is either the most narcissistic person I’ve ever met, or a complete lunatic.
When he said he was in the mood to be loud, this kind of madness is not what I expected.