Chapter 8
Alessandro
I’m in my home office, finishing up some emails before getting ready to go change for our excursion tonight, when an email comes in from Caelian.
The subject is “Putting You Out of Your Misery.” The attachment is “Lennon Kelly.”
Funny, asshole.
I sit up, click it open and begin to read.
She returned to Tampa to attend the fall semester at the University of South Florida’s School of Social Work. An unfamiliar warmth fills my chest. I rub it.
Maybe it’s heartburn.
She did it. Got her master’s in social work. But that means she only stayed with her aunt in Chicago for three months. She’s been here in Tampa this whole time?
I keep reading. And apparently, she’s also been living in the same apartment. Her address is the same. If I would’ve just looked, she would’ve been easy to find. I still have a key to that apartment for fuck’s sake.
Then what? Force her to be a part of the bloody world she hates? The world that took her mother?
No.
I keep reading. She works full-time as a counselor at Safe Haven, a women’s domestic abuse shelter.
So why was she working at the Vault?
She also works on Saturday nights at Metro Diner. Which means she’ll be there tonight. I memorize the address, then move to the list of acquaintances.
Oh, that explains it. Her best friend Sloane Kohen owns the company that catered the event that evening. What are the odds?
My jaw clenches as I scroll through the list of relationships. Robert Maroney. Freshman year of college. Dated four months. Had she forgotten about us so quickly?
Robert Maroney just earned a place at the top of my shit list.
I scroll through the names, my fists unclenching as it seems that was her longest relationship. There is a psychiatrist from her work, Dr. Evan Becker, who she’s recently had a few coffee dates with, but it seems nothing has come of that.
I shouldn’t be happy. I should want her to have someone in her life, someone to love her like she deserves. But I’m apparently a selfish bastard.
I stare at her driver's license photo. She’s young. No one ever looks good on these things. But she does. Her hair is down, eyes sparkling, a wide grin captured like the person behind the camera had told her a joke.
With her image burned in my mind, I close the file. Time to head out.
Gunnar and I borrowed a beat-up Buick with tinted windows from one of our soldiers to keep off the Bratva’s radar. We get to the docks half an hour before the scheduled shipment is to arrive. Then we sneak into the container terminal on foot and climb on top of a shipping container.
There’s no moonlight and the East Bay channel waters are black as ink, but there are floodlights on top of the warehouses and lights along the dock.
Lying flat on our stomachs, we keep an eye on the ships coming in. I smack a mosquito that lands on my neck. Fucking bloodsuckers. They’re thick tonight. I’d rather deal with an armed Russian.
“There,” Gunnar grunts.
We watch the small container ship round the bend and move into the channel.
“Six containers,” I say. I move my attention to the semi-truck parked in front of the dock as the doors open and three men hop out. They stroll to the back and roll up the door. A few minutes later, two black Escalades pull up and four more men pile out.
“Anatoly Romanov,” I murmur. “In the flesh.” That’s new. He’s the Captain’s son and hasn’t shown up at the previous shipments we’ve scouted.
Gunnar watches through binoculars. “Must be an important shipment if he’s here.”
Toly shakes the guard’s hand, and they have a brief conversation.
Toly is a broad-shouldered guy, early thirties, wearing black slacks and a black silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up to showcase his beefy, inked forearms. A thick gold chain and chunky gold watch reflect the dock lights when he moves.
He’s flanked by two soldiers with rifles slung over their shoulders.
Toly is more brawn than brains. If it was him running the outfit instead of his father Oleg, I would’ve had my proof already.
Their soldiers are gripping their weapons, glancing around like they expect trouble.
Interesting.
Some dock workers get busy bringing the crane over and soon the ship docks. A few men hop off and shake hands with Toly. They make quick work of lifting the containers off the ship and unloading the crates into the back of the semi-truck.
Toly cracks one of the crates open with a crowbar and I lift my own binoculars to get a closer look. There are indeed semi-automatic rifles packed beneath car parts.
I want to move in closer, but the soldiers are on high alert and actively searching the area. This is new behavior.
When only the last container remains on ship, Toly and three soldiers follow one of the ship workers to it. The ship worker opens it up and the soldiers step inside.
Seconds later they emerge, clutching the arms of six emaciated half-naked women.
“Fuck,” Gunnar barks under his breath.
Toly grasps the chin of one of the women with one hand, his other hand reaching into her shirt to grab her breast. When she struggles, he laughs and backhands her in the face.
I grip the binoculars. “Get photos. Of all of them.”
After Gunnar gets the photos, and the women are shoved into the back of the truck, we carefully make our way back to the car.
“What now?” Gunnar asks, his bulky frame squeezed into the seat beside me.
I shove the beater car into drive, furious that the Bratva have obviously been trafficking here for a while, right under Santino’s nose. “Now we follow that truck.”
The truck navigates the roads slowly, moving east down Commerce Street to a nearby storage unit. We sit in the shadows and watch as the soldiers transfer the crates of car parts and weapons to a large outside unit, and the women to a black van.
Then we follow that van to a rundown house in an unsavory neighborhood, where they are shuttled inside.
One of the women falls and earns a kick in the head by a soldier. I grip the steering wheel to keep from pulling out my gun and ending his miserable life. Another soul that the Beast wants to send to hell.
“Their days are numbered, Sandro.” Gunnar’s videoing the whole thing.
“When did you become the level-headed one?” I tap the steering wheel. Something is bothering me. “They aren’t exactly discreet about the women. Makes me wonder why Zerilli couldn’t get proof in the nine months he’s supposedly been trying.”
“He is sick. Maybe he’s just not up to the task.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
We’re driving down I-275. I’m squeezing the steering wheel, in a full-out war with my thoughts. They should be focused on dealing with the Russians. But Lennon has once again consumed my attention.
“Fuck it.” I swerve across two lanes of traffic, earning an angry horn blow from a Cadillac I almost sideswipe, and take the next exit.
I feel Gunnar staring at my profile. His voice is tinged with amusement as he says, “Need to use the little boy's room?”
I rake my hand down my face. Fuck. What am I doing? “I just want to check on something.”
We pull into the Metro Diner parking lot, and I shut off the engine.
I shouldn’t be here. But as I watch Lennon through the window, standing at a table, talking to an elderly couple—the only customers—there’s nowhere I’d rather be.
She tosses her hair back, laughing and I want to hear that laugh again more than I want to breathe.
Gunnar shifts in his seat to face me, which I know is difficult in the small vehicle. “Sandro.”
“Yeah?” God, she’s beautiful. This animated, gentle, sweet woman I’m watching. My chest tightens uncomfortably. A tiny ember ignites in my cold, black heart. It’s a new and painful sensation.
“Remember when you asked me when I became the level-headed one? It was the day this woman left you and took your sanity. Your anger ate you alive. Why are you putting yourself through this again, brother?”
I just shake my head because I have no fucking clue. I’m still angry. And yet…
His sigh fills the car as his head hits the back of the seat. “Wake me up when you’re done torturing yourself.”
Lennon spins around and makes her way back to the counter, and I get a view of her ass swaying in a pair of tight jean shorts. My cock twitches.
I’m so fucked.
It’s not like I haven’t had sex in the last decade. But it’s always been at the Dungeon, in a room with a redhead that I could fuck from behind and imagine it was Lennon.
As I’m trying to talk myself into leaving, a man in a black hoodie materializes from the side of the building and glances around. I know he can’t see us sitting here inside the car because of the dark tint. He yanks open the diner door.
I sit up.
Lennon is at the cash register. She does a double take and her body stiffens.
I smack Gunnar in the chest. “Head’s up.”
We watch as the man’s long strides take him straight to Lennon. He pulls a gun from where it was tucked in his jeans beneath the hoodie and points it at her face.
Her hands shoot up, her green eyes wide with terror.
The elderly couple in the booth squeezes themselves further against the window.
I pull the glovebox open, smacking Gunnar’s knee with the door, and grab my gun. I nod at Gunnar and step out of the car, shoving it into the back of my pants.
Wrong night. Wrong girl, asshole.
Opening the diner door, I step inside and head right toward the dead man threatening Lennon.
He spins around, but I’m already five feet from him. He’s now pointing the gun in my face.
Good.
I’ve got four inches and about a hundred pounds on this douchebag. I get a good look at his eyes. He’s not high. He’s just stupid. There’s a gang tattoo on the side of his neck over the tendon that’s now tight with anger.
“Step the fuck back or I’ll blow a hole in your face, motherfucker,” he yells, spit flying from his lips.
My gaze flicks to Lennon. Her face is so pale that the light dusting of freckles over her nose is standing out. I wink at her, and her light green eyes widen even more.