Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
ENZO
Two steps into the diner, and I instantly regret it. This place makes me want to bathe in disinfectant and gargle with straight bleach.
I slide into the booth opposite the man I’ve been hunting for, and for a long, tense beat, we just sit there.
“Can I get you something to eat?” the waitress asks, her voice grating against the dive bar’s bad lighting and crusty food.
Frankly, I don’t need to be here. I have a million things to do. Kill my uncle. Destroy his empire. Find a world-class therapist for the kids. Perfect my Snape voice because Lili is completely unconvinced and thinks I sound like a princess. And protect what’s mine. My wife. Bella . Even if she is pissing me off right now.
But to do that, I have to deal with this piece of shit.
So here I am, at midnight, taking care of business by committing a Class 3 felony—holding a gun to a Fed.
“Nothing for me,” I reply, gripping the gun under the table. Yeah, seriously, not even water from this rat infested hellhole .
“Coffee,” Knox says, casually slinging an arm over the back of his bench seat. “And what kind of pie do you have?”
Roach-filled is my guess.
“Cream,” she offers, nodding as if she admires his bravery.
“What kind of cream?”
She and her baby blue, food-stained outfit shrug, uncertain. “Vanilla?”
“Just what I was in the mood for,” he replies with way too much enthusiasm.
“Sounds about right,” I scoff.
He narrows his eyes and reads her tag. “Just coffee and pie, Helene.”
“It’s Helena,” she corrects, and I reexamine her name. Ah, I see the issue. There’s a small crust of something—possibly a booger—that makes it look like an ‘e.’
She moseys off, diligently scribbling because coffee and pie are apparently kicking her ass to remember.
Okay, fine, Booger Girl didn’t do anything to me. I’m in a bad mood because Knox offered to rescue my wife. And she accepted. As if I wasn’t right there—half-naked and dripping wet, protecting her with my life.
God, why am I not just shooting him in the balls already?
Knox cracks his knuckles. It’s a nervous tic he picked up after his partner was shot. At least, that’s what his psych file says. Along with some disturbing shit about enjoying chick flicks and crocheting.
“Look,” Knox says, sounding more irritated than concerned. “Let’s skip the pleasantries. Spare me the threats. I’m sure you’ve got your gun on me, so just get to the point and go away. Why are you here? ”
“Because you’re going to tell me where my wife is.”
“Or what?” he asks, underwhelmed. “You shoot me?”
I hold up my phone, turn around, and snap several selfies with him. “Or I post these on every social media outlet for the world to see with the hashtag #1FED.”
Aggravated, he lowers his voice and leans in. “I’m undercover,” he seethes.
“Are you?” I feign surprise.
“It’s a little ironic that you were able to track me down in the middle of bumfuck Illinois, but have no idea where your wife is.” He makes an exaggerated motion, his fingers splaying outwards as if his head is exploding. “Mind-blowing.”
Which means she’s probably been right under my nose the entire time, and I’ve been too blind to notice. Like a stupid little lovestruck puppy that someone should put out of its fucking misery.
Whatever.
I sit back, letting the cracked vinyl dig into my spine. “Tell me where my wife is before Helena returns, and you’ll live to eat your salmonella pie.”
“How about this?” He clasps his hands together, a smug look on his face. “You tell me why your name is all over dozens of your uncle’s enterprises, and I’ll give you whatever the hell you want.”
What? I try to mask my shock, but my mind is racing. I’ve been trying to piece together all the businesses my uncle has conveniently inserted my name in place of his, but it’s like matching scattered pieces of broken glass. “Which enterprises?” I ask.
“The two casinos out of town, the underground human trafficking ring running out of the basements of a dozen bars, the money laundering operation in six different kids’ dance schools—low, even for you. Do I need to go on?”
Hmm . My uncle’s empire, and my name is all over it. The implications settle into every manipulative pocket of my mind.
If I play my cards right, I can cripple my uncle, and all I’d have to do is quietly take control of these holdings, since the dumb son of a bitch put them in my name.
I study Knox. Hell, would it be weird if I asked for a pen and paper?
“You drive a hard bargain, Knox. I want the entire list of locations and the safe house where you’re keeping my wife. Then, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
Helena returns with the coffee and pie. Okay, not going to lie. The pie actually looks good.
I hand her a twenty. “Don’t come back,” I instruct.
She snatches the twenty and tucks it into her sagging cleavage. “I wasn’t planning to.”
Knox whips out his phone. “It’s in your inbox.”
I check, irritation flaring. “Where’s my wife?”
Chuckling, he sips the steaming-hot mop water they call coffee. “Nope. Tell me the grand scheme first. Then you get the address.”
I blow out a breath and do something I never thought I’d do in a million years. I tell the truth. “Fine. I suspect my uncle is trying to set me up for an epic fall,” I admit, more candidly than I should.
But when it comes to Kennedy, my heart insists on running with scissors all day long—carefree and blind .
Knox grins like a moron. “Try not to blow up all of Chicago while taking Andre down.”
“No promises.” I smirk. Are we...bonding? I shake off the thought in disgust and lean in, my composure regained. “Now, the address.”
“820 North Halstead. Apartment 5b.”
My vision narrows, and it takes every ounce of restraint not to pull the trigger. Whatever bromance was blooming between us gets killed real fucking fast. My voice drops to a lethal whisper. “That’s your place.”
“Relax, Enzo. I’m not fucking your wife. I handed her the key, dropped her off, and left.”
“And I’m supposed to believe that?” The gun is at his head before he can say a word, and I don’t give a damn who’s watching. Not that anyone is. The place is empty, and Helena is probably snoring behind the counter.
He shakes his head and moves the gun aside. “It’s the truth.”
The fuck it is. God, my finger itches so badly, ready to shoot him, but I can’t do it. The rage I feel in the moment is swept away under a tsunami of regret. Because what does it matter?
I’m at war with my uncle, and I’ll probably be dead in a few days anyway. If my wife is choosing Knox over me, I won’t stomp out her happiness like a petulant, sleep-deprived toddler.
Kennedy deserves love.
And, with any luck, I’ll die swiftly taking down my uncle rather than dying slowly and pathetically of heartbreak.
“Now,” Knox clears his throat anxiously, “my mark will be here any minute. Are you leaving, or what? ”
With a resigned sigh, I pocket my gun and pray that the pie gives him the worst diarrhea of his life. “I am.”
I head out and send a quick text to Striker.
Me
Where’s my uncle now?
Striker
Monaco.
Me
Have the jet ready in 20.
Striker
Yes, sir.