Chapter 13 #2
“Let’s just say, most people in the building are smart enough to get out of our way,” I answer smoothly. I jut my chin at the letter opener in his hand. “Fancy letter opener. Real gold? How much that run you? A grand or two?”
His scowl deepens, his thick white brows pushed together. “It’s actually a Tiffany’s original. Nineteenth century. I always open my own mail. Secretaries and admin assistants are much too incompetent to know what’s really important.”
“Is that so?” I ask, strolling deeper into his office. My gaze wanders the space, drinking it in, glass wall to glass wall. “A man who handles his own affairs. I can respect that.”
“Look, this is obviously about the money. I’ve made it no secret that I’m miffed you’ve yet to uphold your part of the deal—”
“Actually, it’s about your mouth, Gregory.
” I stop directly across from his desk, close enough to see his pulse jump in his neck and his pupils dilate half a millimeter.
“A little birdie told me you’ve been running it a lot lately.
Complaining about non-payment. Saying I went back on our deal and how you might feed info to the authorities. ”
His face cycles through different emotions, ranging from irritation and surprise to indignation and bravado.
“Well…” he says slowly. “You did go back on our deal, Callahan. I delivered the girl exactly like you asked. I put my ass on the line, and you haven’t paid me a goddamn cent!
The feds and NYPD are sniffing around, bringing me in for interrogations and asking questions, and I’m the one left holding the bag while you play games at your little haunted mansion upstate. ”
“Is that how you really feel?” I ask, tilting my head to the side.
“I have every right to! I was promised discretion and quick payment. If I had known this is how it would go, I would’ve just kept the girl as my plaything.
God knows that would’ve been less trouble than putting my ass on the line for the spoiled little bitch.
I should’ve found it suspicious you were willing to pay millions for her.
That right there was a sign of the scam you were running. ”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.” My gaze finds Aleksei, and I jerk my head; the simple and quick motion gesturing at the console table on the side of the room.
There’re a few different office supplies arranged on the table, including an industrial stapler. The Russian enforcer moves to fulfill my request, no questions asked.
LaMalfa notices the small, wordless exchange and immediately grows suspicious. He slams his hands down on the desk and starts to rise from his chair.
“Alright, I’ve had enough. If you two think you’re going to come here and rough me up like others, you’re sorely mistaken. I’ll call security—”
“No you won’t.”
The words leave my mouth as my hand shoots out at the same time. I grab a fistful of LaMalfa’s shock of white hair and slam his head down onto the desk. His face collides with the polished surface hard enough to crack his nose and make blood spurt out.
“What was that again?” I ask pleasantly, holding him face down on his desk. “Go on, Gregory. Finish that thought. Make your threat.”
Aleksei appears at my side with the industrial stapler. I take it from him without looking. LaMalfa’s hands are scrambling against the desk, trying to push himself up, so I solve that problem by grabbing his right wrist and flattening his palm against the wood.
“What are you—” he pants as he fights against me. “Don’t you—FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!”
The office fills with his screams as I slap the heavy-duty stapler down and punch three staples clean through his hand.
I must admit that the sounds of his pain are deeply satisfying. They push me to keep going as I move onto the other hand.
“Jesus Christ!” he cries out, squirming and sweating profusely. “Oh god, oh fuck, please don’t—ARGHHHH!”
I smash the stapler down another time, effectively pinning him to his own desk by his hands. Blood pools around the thick staples, sliding sideways and spreading out to the envelopes and letters on his desk.
“You know what your problem is, Gregory?” I grab his hair again, wrenching his head up so he’s forced to look at me through tear-blurred eyes. “You talk too much. Always running your mouth about things that don’t concern you. Saying disrespectful shit about people you never should’ve mentioned.
“Chantal was good to you. She was a loyal girlfriend, was she not? You’re the one who sold her out.
You’re the one who hung her out to dry when she was innocent.
Now you’ve got the face to bitch about money you feel you’re owed?
Money for what—trafficking your poor girlfriend?
You sound like a real upstanding guy,” I go on, reaching over and plucking the Tiffany letter opener from his desk.
“Nineteenth century, you said? Let’s see if it still cuts. ”
I position the blade at the corner of his blubbering mouth.
More screams echo through the room as I hold his jaw open and then start sawing away at the means by which he’s disrespected me—his tongue.
His whole body throws a fit. He squeals and jerks and wrenches back in sheer desperation, uncaring if it means he’ll rip the staples from his hands.
I hack away even harder, slicing into his warm, flopping tongue as blood fills his mouth and he chokes on it.
No plastic surgeon in the world would be able to repair this. Which is exactly what I had in mind. Even if they did, he would never be the same. He’d sound like a guy who’s had his tongue severed and then improperly reattached.
When the slippery organ dangles from his mouth by a thread, I lose patience and decide to make him suffer some more.
Just so he truly hurts as he bleeds out.
This worthless piece of shit doesn’t deserve any better.
I readjust my grip on the letter opener and then drive it deep into his left eye socket. He gives a final tormented scream, then his body slumps forward against the desk.
I step back, breathing hard, and examine my handiwork.
Not bad. Not bad at all.
Aleksei moves toward him as if to start cleanup.
“Leave him,” I say, turning toward the door. “Let whoever finds him know what happens when people forget to mind their fucking business.”
LaMalfa practically begged for it.
On the drive back from Manhattan to upstate, energy buzzes in my veins. I’m still on edge after handling the hedge fund manager, though I’ve got no regrets.
LaMalfa deserved to be shut up. Not only was he a liability, running his mouth to others like the Ferreras and law enforcement, he thought he could disrespect me.
He disrespected Chantal.
…which normally wouldn’t matter.
But something about the way he thought he could badmouth her got under my skin. After the grimy shit he pulled striking the deal he did in the first place, it took some balls insulting her the way he had.
He should’ve felt lucky a woman like Chantal even entertained an old fart like him.
The sun’s dipping low by the time we pull through the rusted gates at the estate. I head inside and leave Aleksei to deal with the car, deciding I need a glass of whiskey to take the edge off.
I’m halfway down the ground floor hallway when I spot her.
Chantal’s trudging in from the garden, filthy from another day pulling weeds. Dirt streaked across her face and jumpsuit even more wrinkled, she looks like she’s been dragged through hell and back.
She freezes when she sees me, her whole body going stiff.
I stop too, staring back at her in surprise. Neither of us were expecting to run into each other.
A large estate like this, it really shouldn’t happen so often. Yet it’s as if we’re always orbiting each other anyway, somehow drawn into the same space.
Her gaze dips from mine, already calculating an escape route. The fear practically pulses off her like an electric current.
Good. She should be afraid of me.
I make the first move, stepping around her. It’s best to keep going and maintain distance after the liberties I’ve taken lately. Especially after what happened yesterday.
But then I stop, halting a couple paces later and turning back around for a glance at her.
Before I can think better of it, I stride back the way I came.
Within a few steps, I’m reaching her again, my hand flying out to grab her arm. She lets out a startled yelp as I drag her sideways, shoving open the nearest door and pulling her into a dusty sitting room that hasn’t been used in decades.
“What the hell are you—” she starts, trying to yank her arm free.
“Shut up,” I snap, releasing her as soon as we’re inside. I push the door shut and block the exit. “Just… shut up for a second, alright?”
She backs away from me, eyes wide. She thinks I’m about to finish what I started yesterday.
Hell, it’s fair she’d think that.
“I’m not gonna touch you,” I snarl moodily. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what? Like you attacked me yesterday? You shoved your hand down my pants and—”
“Just let me say what I’ve got to say, alright?” I interrupt, scowling. I run a hand through my hair and huff out a sigh. “Yesterday… it was… I wasn’t…”
“Was? Wasn’t? What?” she asks impatiently.
“It was the whiskey,” I bite out. “I was drinking.”
She folds her arms, giving a roll of her eyes. “No, really? Couldn’t tell.”
“Hey, why must you always have a smart mouth?”
“Because I’m always going to do me! I’ve told you this! And if you think… you think you’re intimidating me… you’re not. What else could you do to me? Finish yesterday? Go ahead. I’m already trapped in this nightmare house. What’s one more—”
“I shouldn’t’ve done it!” I growl over her, drowning her out. “I was fucked up and took it out on you, and I shouldn’t’ve. There. Happy now?”
Stunned silence stretches on between us as Chantal blinks and takes half a step back as if thrown off by my admission.
Her round features shift into an expression that’s unreadable. It’s borderline critical and reflective, like she’s doing some deep thinking.
“Why were you drinking?”
“None of your business.”
“You just admitted to accosting me, and now you’re shutting down about why you were drunk?” She lets out a disbelieving scoff. “That’s rich.”
“I don’t owe you explanations.”
“Tuh, you can’t be serious! I’d say as soon as you stuck your hand down my pants, it meant you do!”
My eyes narrow, my glare hardening. I clench my jaw and flex my fingers at my sides, deep down aware she’s right.
I do owe her an explanation. I was the one who fucked up.
This went beyond my usual torment and wasn’t even part of the plan.
“I…” I start slowly, reluctantly. “I was mourning.”
“Mourning what?”
“Not what. Who.”
Her brows quirk slightly higher in curiosity. It’s enough of a question that I go ahead and answer.
“My son,” I say. “Eddie. He passed.”
Her arms slowly uncross, some of the defiance draining out of her posture.
“Your son?”
I give a tight nod, my pulse pounding in my ears. I’ve never talked about this out loud; I’ve never let anybody else see how I’ve struggled handling it. I’ve thrown myself so intensely into my revenge plan that I haven’t had much time to process losing Eddie.
“He… he was nineteen. My brother… he killed him.” I force a bitter smile. “So yeah, I was drinking because his birthday’s coming up, and I can’t get my dead kid’s face outta my head. Is that enough explanation for you?”
“He was the boy,” she whispers. “When I caught you looking at that photo on the wall.”
My chest aches at the mention. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“But I did. He looked… you both looked happy.”
“That was a long time ago. It was taken when he was just a small boy,” I explain, flexing my jaw in hopes to loosen the tension. “He was a good kid. One of the most loyal people you’d ever meet. More loyal than my whole rotten family.”
“That’s why you’re so mad,” she murmurs, her dark brown eyes rounding. “They not only left you to suffer in prison, they took your son.”
I reach up and scratch the back of my neck. “It’s complicated. But I will get my revenge.”
Chantal falls silent again, chewing on her plump bottom lip. It seems a lot of different thoughts are running through her head and she’s uncertain what else to say. Finally, she exhales a slow breath as if she’s made up her mind.
“I get it,” she says. “How difficult it is mourning. My mom died five years ago. She had cancer.”
Information I already knew—part of the dirt I’ve got on her dear ol’ daddy.
But I don’t let her know that. I merely nod, indicating I’m acknowledging what she’s shared.
Truthfully, if she found out the truth about her father, I’m not sure how she’d handle it. If she’d ever be able to move on. It might be what actually breaks her, not the torment I’ve put her through.
Chantal continues anyway, offering even more.
“My parents were in the middle of a divorce when it happened. It was already stage four by the time she found out. It all happened so fast. So... I get it. Grief makes you crazy.”
“This isn’t group therapy,” I point out. “I didn’t bring you in here for a bonding session.”
“Then why did you bring me in here?”
Good question. I wish I had a good answer.
One I was ready to admit to myself.
“Clearing the air,” I say vaguely. “That’s all. I fucked up and thought I’d admit that I did.”
“Cool, is that all?” Her face has fallen as if she’s over the moment, ready to go. She’s disappointed I’ve shut down in the middle of what might be our first real conversation.
But as she moves to brush past me toward the door, I reach out and grab her arm to stop her.
“The bathroom in my quarters,” I say. “I know you prefer it to the others in this place. The rest look straight out of a horror movie. You can use it tonight.”
She blinks, startled by the offer. “What?”
“You heard me. You’re filthy. Go clean yourself up. Alone. I won’t barge in.”
“Are you... are you actually being nice to me right now?”
“Don’t get used to it.” I yank the door open and jerk my chin toward the hallway. “Get out of here before I change my mind.”
She hesitates, studying me as if waiting for the catch. Then her cheeks spread as if she’s tempted to smile, though she fights it off.
“Thanks. I am pretty gross.” She moves toward the door and then pauses at the threshold. “Lochlan?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry about your son.”
She walks out without waiting for me to reply. I’m left standing alone in the dusty room, confused how I’ve gotten here.
How the hell did I not only damn near apologize to her but also confess to her about mourning Eddie’s death? Now she’s about to be bathing in my bathtub tonight.
Fucking little brat.
Maybe she’s right—her superpower really is making people like her.