Chapter 11
Two mornings later, after dropping Lou and Boyan off at their respective summer daycare centers, I rushed back to the Hayes house.
It didn’t take long to wrap up a jug of diesel reserved for Charlie’s old clunker and a spout in a plastic bag and tuck them into my backpack.
With the coast clear of neighbors, I rushed to the bus station ten blocks away that would take me to Santa Rosa, which was the only town or city in the vicinity where that street and number were located.
My knees bounced in place for the last half hour of the bus ride. I chewed on my lower lip and wiped my clammy hands down the sides of my jeans. Everything was going to be okay. I could do this. I was going to do it.
Renzo Iannelli said he didn’t hurt kids. Well, today I was going to put that to the test. Even if he never knew I had done it, he couldn’t just threaten and kill people without consequence. Not Noah, and definitely not Lou.
It took a while to walk from the bus stop to the street in question, then walk some more, past exuberant mansions worth at least ten to fifteen times my parents’ house.
My heels ached in my soft-soled tennis shoes.
Hair kept slipping out of my ponytail, leaving it a disheveled mess.
Finally, I reached the long driveway leading up to Iannelli’s manor.
Guards patrolled the area. You’d think they were protecting the president with how many there were. They all wore suits and scowled behind their sunglasses as they toured the property.
With my calf cramping from kneeling behind a bush, I tossed a rock at a far tree.
The soft thunk pulled two guards off the rotation, enough for me to hobble past them, hunched over.
I hurried through the yard’s vegetation to the Lamborghini at the end of the driveway, ignoring the assembly of fancy cars to the right of the mansion.
No yells to sound the alarm. No following rushed footsteps. I was in the clear. I sighed against the car in relief. Now for the hard part.
My plan was simple enough: pour diesel into his gasoline tank and fudge up his new high-end sports car. Then I would stop by the post office before taking the bus home and drop off my note.
I unloaded the jug, the spout, and a couple of things borrowed from the Hayes house from my backpack.
With a popsicle stick, I lifted the Lamborghini’s fuel door just enough to slip a flat metal icing spatula from Marlene’s kitchen through the opening to force the lock open.
When that didn’t work, I switched to a flathead screwdriver.
I almost had it, but the plastic underneath the flap kept snapping back into place.
Each time, I spied around the car to make sure no one heard.
On my fourth try, the plastic mechanism on the inside broke and clinked against the driveway cement.
Now the damn thing was open but wouldn’t close.
My sabotage plan was going to be found out before Iannelli even turned on his car if I left things like this.
Reaching under the car to retrieve the bit of plastic, my arm knocked the jug over.
The diesel gloop-glooped in gulps out of the container.
My head thunked against the undercarriage as I tried to get out and stop the darn thing from spilling everywhere.
Fuckity fuck fuck. Pulling the jug back upright, I swallowed a cry of pain, my teeth gritted, cradling my head.
When the pain finally went down, I retrieved the broken piece of plastic from the fuel flap and sat back on my heels. How was I going to get that back on?
I scanned my tools. Duct tape was too loud to unwrap and way too bulky, and I hadn’t brought along regular tape. Maybe I could try melting the plastic in place, kind of like wax, with a lighter.
With a glance around, I flicked on the lighter I’d stolen from my older foster brother, below the hooked piece of plastic. My nose scrunched from the acrid smell as the black plastic discolored and deformed. A plume of smoke drifted up.
Then, it caught fire, singeing my fingertips.
One second, I was hopeful. The next, I tossed the lighter and plastic down so quickly I didn’t realize how stupid a move it was. They landed in the spill of diesel right next to the jug. Flames whooshed into existence. Shit.
I scrambled away as shouts of alarm ricocheted through the courtyard.
Bolting to my feet, I ran, full on. Guards cut off my path, yelling at me to stop.
I went left, but they were faster. I cut right.
They blocked the way and raised their guns.
Oh god, I was going to die today. Someone fired a shot at my feet, and I skidded to a stop, my hands in the air.
A shockwave boom rocketed from behind and thrust me to my knees. Others fell alongside me. Behind me, flames engulfed the supercar. I cupped my hands over my face. That was not supposed to happen.
A gun pressed into the back of my head, and I froze.
“Get up. Hands behind your head before I decorate the ground with your brains.” I trembled, unable to move. The gun was shoved harder, pushing my face forward. “Now.”
My eyes flicked between each of the guards.
Four in front of me, and I couldn’t see how many were behind me.
Each looked rigid and even more severe than before.
Other guards ran around us toward the vehicle, some with hoses, others with fire extinguishers.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was just supposed to be some fuel sabotage to break Iannelli’s car engine without too much attention.
“Dante,” said the devil himself. I’d recognize that gruff, angry yet sedate voice anywhere. “Explain. What the fuck happened to my car?”
Clipped footsteps followed those words. Despite the busy area, each step seemed to echo like a taunt, reminding me that this might be my end, all because of a poorly executed prank. I shot up my feet. No matter what, I wasn’t going to face him at a disadvantage; I was already way too short.
The gun didn’t leave my head, but its owner didn’t stop me when I slowly turned around.
There he was, standing obnoxiously tall, at least six-foot-two to my short five-foot-four.
The same posse of men who kidnapped me three days ago flanked him, including the man who threatened Lou and me yesterday. I narrowed my eyes at all of them.
“You again,” the devil said.
His eyes, full of spite, caught me in their snare and tightened their hold with every passing second.
He was like a demon, extracting my soul, piece by piece, the longer I was trapped, until there would be nothing left.
And I let him, staring right back, daring his worst because I wasn’t going to give in.
It was probably one of the stupidest things I had ever done because who in their right mind played a game of chicken with a criminal mastermind?
A guard wrapped his meaty hand tight around my bicep and tugged me forward.
“Hey.” I shoved against him. Damn it, the guard made me break eye contact first.
“What do we do with her, boss?”
Renzo Iannelli circled the now-doused car, his teeth clenched and his gun firmly clasped in his hand.
His gaze kept finding mine, each look angrier and promising more violence than the last. He paced back and forth in front of the charred vehicle, scratching at his forehead with one hand, raising and lowering his gun with the other, as if he was between two decisions about how to handle this.
“Inside,” he grated. Then Iannelli turned away, each marched step forceful yet measured.
The guard dragged me toward the house, and I wrestled against him. “Let go. I can walk.”
With another man’s help, they carried me up the steps, through the front door, only to toss me to my knees before a gaggle of well-dressed men. It was like someone threw up a lavish suit fest in here.
“Ricco. Search her,” Iannelli ordered.
A guy stepped out from the line of suits, just as ridiculously well-dressed as the others, except his looked like it was fitted for someone broader, a little loose around the shoulders and waist. He couldn’t have been more than a year older than Micah, if that, with his features smooth and still needing the bulk that most guys only seemed to put on in their twenties.
His brown eyes scanned me with almost apologetic pity.
He was fast though. I barely scuttled to my feet before he tackled me back to the ground.
He landed on top, practically straddling me, chest against mine, his hands way too close to my chest for comfort.
His eyes widened, and he pulled back quickly.
“Sorry,” he squeaked.
If the last seven months taught me anything, it was that not taking immediate advantage of an opportunity always puts you at a disadvantage.
So even though he was backing off me, I punched him in the nose.
Somehow, that made him trip over himself.
He collapsed, his forehead knocking mine.
Pain burst through my head. I cradled it as the world swam, everything doubled and sideways, until everything slowly slipped back into place.
Warm blood dripped over me from his nose as people around us snickered.
“Bitch,” he exclaimed, though there wasn’t any heat to it, almost as if he was saying it because it was expected of him.
He fumbled over me. The moment his hand began to wander down my sides, I fought back—slapping, flailing, kicking.
“Any day now, Ricco.”
Ricco’s auburn head of hair turned his boss’s direction. “I’m trying—”
My knee met his balls. With a squeal, he went sheet-white and crumpled to the tile, cradling his groin and curling into himself, amidst croaked coughs. I almost felt bad. Not.
I staggered to my feet, glaring at the gathering of peacocks. Some cackled at Ricco’s misfortune. Others glared.
“Who’s next?” I asked with more bravado than I felt, raising both my fists in front of my face. More chuckles.
“Ms. Burch,” his voice cut through the jeers. Each and every single one went silent. “Mr. Nerin was chosen to search you for your benefit, seeing as he is also underage. That can be amended.”
My gaze flitted over the assembled crowd of men.
Not a single woman, and every one of them armed.
Some were old enough to be my grandfather.
They all ranged from ridiculously fit, like Renzo, to potbellied, with rolls under their chins.
Tatted or not, they each held an air of menace.
Except for Ricco, who, compared to everyone else, looked like a kicked puppy.
Renzo’s crystal green eyes glanced down at his watch, then he flicked his gun in my direction. “You have five seconds, Ms. Burch, before another choice is made for you.”
“Fine,” I gritted out, raising my arms.
Ricco’s jaw was tense, his eyes no longer edged with kindness but with irritation, as he approached me again.
Still, he remained gentle and careful not to let his hands wander as he patted down my T-shirt and jeans.
There was nothing to find except bus fare in one pocket and my letter to Renzo in the other. Ricco found both.
“I need that,” I said, grabbing his arm that held the money.
Guns came out in a wave.
“Considering the state of my car, Ms. Burch, you have very little say.” I hated how calm my brother’s murderer sounded.
“People know where I am. They’ll know if something happened to me.”
His laughter was caustic, burning right through the shaky lie I wished was true.
A scarred man, with long hair tied at his nape and wearing an eyepatch, aimed his gun at my head. “By the time they notice you’re gone, the worms will be gorging on your body. On your knees.”
I stared down that barrel. This had gone so wrong. Would I see a flash before the bullet dug through my skull? Would I feel anything? Had Noah?
“Natale, lower the gun.”
Natale did as ordered, as another man whispered in Iannelli’s ear.
“We’ll finish this in my office. Vinny, Tore, with me. Ricco, bring Ms. Burch.”
Iannelli left without any fanfare, only two men trailing him out.
He didn’t wait for us to follow—just gave an order and expected it would be done.
I hated that. I wanted to dig my heels in just to go against him.
Was it smart? Absolutely not, but it made me feel like I’d taken back just a little bit of control over the mess my life had been for the last seven months.
“Move.” Ricco nudged my shoulder. “The boss’s waiting.”
I tossed him a glare over my shoulder. “What? So he says jump, and you say how high?”
“Absolutely.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Trust me, you don’t want to stay here. In this room. With them. Be happy I’m even giving you that warning, but don’t you try to sack tap me again.”
I almost wanted to goad him some more, but the feral gazes of some of the old men stopped me short. The way they carelessly exposed their guns or how they raked their eyes over me from head to toe with utter revulsion gave me the heebie-jeebies.
“Fine. Lead the way.”