Chapter 21 #2
Marco walks over to the pile of things that belong to Robby and grabs the backpack he’s spoken of. He rifles through the random shit he’s storing like protein bars and a pack of cigarettes.
“Look what we’ve got here,” says Marco. His dark eyes gleam as he fishes out a flip phone and tosses it over at me. “That yours?”
I flip it open and check. Though near identical to my burner, the wallpaper’s different and so is the contact list.
…so is the call log.
My eyes narrow as I scroll through the recent history, noticing numbers that are familiar but for all the wrong reasons.
Rurik Raguzin’s number. Some contacts at the Vodka Room.
Contacts that aren’t just saved in the phone but have had recent phone calls placed to them—as recent as after the deal we struck went south.
“What is it?” Marco asks nosily. He’s coming over for a look.
“Get Robby,” I growl. “Now.”
“Sure thing.”
Marco disappears, and I keep scrolling through the phone. The more I see, the harder my jaw clenches.
What the fuck has Robby been doing? Has he been going behind my back to strike another fucking deal?
Footsteps announce their return. I look up to see a perplexed Robby shuffling through the door with Marco right behind him. He’s got that twitchy energy he always carries, his eyes darting around as if he’s already in search of an escape route.
“You wanted to see me, Loch?”
I hold up the phone. “Care to explain this?”
His face goes pale. “I... what is that?”
“Found it in your backpack. Funny thing is, it’s not mine. Turns out, the contact list’s real interesting.”
“I don’t—that’s not—” he stammers. “It’s not what it looks like. I saved those numbers from when we were still in negotiations. You know, to make it easy to communicate. That’s all.”
“You forget call logs exist, you fucking shithead?” I bark at him. I start toward him, and he backs up right away, desperate to keep a buffer. “Call logs have date and time stamps, jackass. I can see what calls were placed when. You’ve been real chatty with the Russians lately.”
His eyes go wide and his mouth hangs open like a fish. “Loch, I swear, I don’t know where that came from.”
“Is it your phone or not? Did you place the calls or not? ’Cuz it’s sounding like you’re already changing your story!”
“It’s… it’s my phone, but those aren’t my calls!” Robby says, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow. “You’ve gotta believe me!”
“I don’t know what the fuck I believe,” I hiss. “The Russian’s have been on our asses for weeks now—them and the Callahans have been tracking us and getting pretty damn close. Now you insist on this shithole apartment building? You wouldn’t be setting us up, would you, Robby?”
He shakes his head side to side. “Never, Loch! That’s not… somebody’s gotta be sabotaging me! That’s… that’s the only explanation!”
I step to him, coming up right in his face. “I can think of a few others. One that’s pretty fucking obvious.”
“Somebody’s trying to frame me, I swear on my son’s life—”
“Get the fuck outta my sight!” I yell. “I don’t want to see you around here again. I’m gonna get to the bottom of this, and if you are a rat, Robby? Consider yourself a dead rat.”
Robby lingers for a couple seconds, so shocked and upset he can’t bring himself to move.
“You heard him; get the fuck out!” Marco adds. “Or we’ll have Aleksei crush your skull!”
He finally snaps out of it, glancing from me to the former Italian capo and even to Akio in the corner. Then he turns and rushes for the door.
Marco watches him go with a shake of his head. “You think he’s telling the truth?”
“It’s damning. What the fuck else would he be in contact with Rurik for?”
“I’ve gotta admit, it doesn’t look good,” Marco says. “Robby’s always been the weakest link among us. It comes as no surprise.”
It damn sure isn’t much of a shocker considering Robby’s circumstances. He’s a corrupt NYPD detective with a sick kid and mounting medical bills. He was desperate to sell Chantal for a reason.
I flip the phone closed and shove it in my pocket.
My to-do list just keeps growing.
Time to get to the bottom of whatever the fuck’s going on.
When I decided to let Chantal go, I was doing so because I realized what a selfish asshole I was. It was an epiphany that hit me all at once, the realization that I had altered this woman’s life in ways I had never considered from the moment I took her in the Maldives.
Ripped from her comfortable life, I held her captive for weeks. I psychologically tormented her, even bullying her and trying to sell her off to the Bratva.
As Ronan and his guys ran us off the road and sent a hail of bullets our way, I was putting her in direct danger.
How could I claim to care about her if I was doing these things to her? If she was broken and bleeding, caught in the middle of a mob feud?
I had to do what was best for her and let her go.
Weeks later, I’m still telling myself it was the right decision. I couldn’t keep Chantal the way I had started to convince myself I could.
She was her own person, with her own wants and desires and freedoms, and I had to accept that.
I couldn’t keep being selfish by trying to hold onto her.
But even as time’s passed, I remain so fucking obsessed with the girl that I do more than just think about her.
I’ve found other ways to get my fix.
Akio assisted with running a surveillance feed from her father’s penthouse straight to my laptop. I have her addresses memorized, both personal and professional, and I check up on her from time to time to make sure she’s alright.
That she’s settling back into the real world after the ordeal she’s been through.
The real truth is, it’s for her well-being as much as it’s for mine. Seeing her face on the grainy feed is the only pleasure I currently get from life.
That, and making my family suffer.
Not sure what that says about me other than I really am a cruel, sadistic psychopath. Except now it seems I’ve got a soft spot for the girl I was supposed to be using in my plan for revenge.
Chantal looks miserable most days (at least when she’s alone and nobody’s watching).
Her arrogant prick of a father leaves her alone often, and she occupies her days with brunch dates with friends and little projects she assigns herself around the penthouse.
Stuff like alphabetizing his pantry and color coding his ties.
Polishing the grand piano ’til it has even more of a gleam than it already did.
Her arm’s still in a sling. The stitches from the gashes she sustained are still visible on her temple.
It brings me relief monitoring her, but that doesn’t outweigh the heavy guilt that sits on my shoulders.
I’m supposed to be doing more prep for our strike against Ronan at the donor’s event, yet instead I’m across the street from The Carlisle watching Chantal get ready for her day.
She looks fucking gorgeous, her thick plus-sized curves complemented by the silk blouse and mini skirt combo she’s wearing.
On the outside, she looks like the old Chantal Banks. But I know better; I notice the subtle flicker in her eyes and the smiles she struggles to hold.
Leave it to my brat to fake it ’til she makes it. That seems to be a life motto of hers.
She grabs her bag and heads for the door, and before I can talk myself out of it, I’m tailing her at a distance.
First she stops at some trendy coffee shop for a latte and croissant with Simone. Her best friend has even more security than usual, which tells me my brother’s beefed up security measures.
The two women sit down and chat for almost an hour, then hug goodbye as Simone goes one way and Chantal goes another.
I’m still following as her private driver takes her to her art gallery in SoHo.
It’s the first time she’s returned since the kidnapping.
I hang back, ensuring I’m out of sight, a ball cap and some shades on to disguise myself. Make myself appear like any other random White guy on the block.
Chantal pauses in front of the gallery and hovers for a moment as if she’s unsure if she’s allowed to go in. She draws a deep breath and then finds the courage to push through the door.
I edge closer from across the street, the only person in the vicinity who sees her. Everybody else is going about their day, none the wiser to how difficult this is for her.
She gradually moves from one light switch to another, exploring the space like a stranger in someone else’s home. It probably feels weird being back after so many weeks. After she had everything stripped away and wondered if it’d all be gone for good.
I take another step, debating what to do.
I could cross the street and surprise her. Steal a moment alone for the first time since I let her go.
Would she even want to see me? How would she react if I turned up like this, out of the blue? What if my presence terrified her and she called the cops?
But the other what ifs are a lot more tempting: What if I turned up and we were both relieved to see each other? What if she’s been thinking about me as much as I’ve been thinking about her?
My pulse races as my hands ache to touch her again. Just for a chance to put my arms around her and talk to her for a few minutes.
My feet are moving before I’ve officially decided what to do. I’m stepping off the curb, about to enter the crosswalk when somebody turns up at the art gallery, and she’s suddenly not so alone anymore.
Some suit-and-tie prick yanks open the door with the flourish of somebody who’s familiar with the gallery and has been by many times before. He’s got tan skin and short, wavy hair.
Everything about him is obnoxious, from how he walks like he’s got a stick up his ass to the round, wire-framed glasses perched on his face.
He looks vaguely familiar, though I can’t place him on sight alone.
Chantal recognizes him at once. Her face lights up and she steps toward him to meet halfway for an embrace.
These two clearly know each other pretty damn well.
Their lips move, and she even laughs. He touches her elbow as if it’s not the first time they’ve been so close.
Just who the hell is this prick? Is this a new man she’s dating? Has she already moved on from LaMalfa?
…has she already fucking moved on from me?
I’m left staring like a dumbass from across the street as the two decide to leave together. The guy holds the door open for her and then they step onto the sidewalk, strolling side by side. He even makes sure to step onto the outer side so she’s shielded from traffic.
The two disappear down the street, off to who knows where.
The breath in my lungs has depleted. My pulse has slowed. I’m caught so off guard that for once I don’t know what the fuck to think.
Except to realize what a fucking idiot I’ve been.
Did I really think I’d randomly turn up at her gallery and everything would be right with the world? What did I expect? Some fucking happily ever after?
Of course Chantal’s moved on. It’s a no brainer she’d return to what she knows—pompous Wall Streeters and slick finance bros.
It takes a few more seconds for the shock to fade. But as it does, I realize it’s for the best. This was the sign I needed to move the fuck on.
For me to forget the distraction she became; for me to refocus on what really matters.
Making my last stand and getting revenge.