The hitmans vice, p.13
The Hitman's Vice, page 13
“Why are you being nice, Dad?”
“Because I’ve had a fucking nightmare of a week. Month, really.” He carried over a carton of cookies and cream and two spoons. “You wanting to be a penniless artist is practically a relief.”
“I can’t be penniless until I spend my trust fund.”
“Which you will do, on canvases and paints and an ugly gallery you’ll call modern, and then on booze and broads when you can’t make ends meet.”
“I’m not gay, Dad.”
“Well, you might be eventually. Once you tire of the pussy bastards who go to art galleries.”
“You go to art galleries,” Zara reminded him. For all that he acted like she’d found art by some unfortunate accident, he’d been the one to take her to the Art Institute nearly every Saturday in elementary. Then their dance lessons got longer, and Saturday afternoons with Dad fell into memory, save a few scattered day trips here and there through high school.
“I’ve been a pussy since your mother dragged me to the altar.” He shrugged, chuckling. “Art galleries were the least of my concessions. And a good place to meet your stepmothers.”
Zara finally laughed, and he grinned with his usual devil-may-care expression that simultaneously charmed and terrified people around him. “I missed you,” she said between bites.
“I miss you too, kiddo. The others don’t put up with my humor nearly as well.” They ate silently for a few minutes until his cell phone rang. He scowled at the screen, then slid it back into his pocket. “Zara…”
She set down her spoon with a sigh. “I knew it. You only bust out ice cream if you’re buttering me up.”
“No. I do miss you, kiddo. Truly. But…” His jaw flexed, and his spoon hit the table too. “There’s a problem.”
“A war?” She turned her spoon, leaving a sugary white-and-black trail along the bare wood. “I’m not totally oblivious to everything.”
“I know you’re not.”
She looked up to watch her father’s broad, weathered face as she continued. “And Ben just got out, didn’t he?” The tic in Adam’s jaw was far bigger this time, and she swore a vein in his forehead moved with it. His expression iced over at her brother’s name for a second. He exhaled and tapped the table.
“I wish you were about thirty percent dimmer, darling.” Her dad’s smile returned, but it was heavier. Almost sad. “I need you to help me this time, Zara.” Her jaw dropped.
“How? Because I’m not the party planner. Gia’s the one you—”
“I need to make nice with the De Lucca family. And you know the Italians. All about family.”
“Dad!” Zara snapped, pushing away from the table. There was only one reason an Outfit father would start on that track: the nightmare scenario every girl born in a connected family dreaded. The one Zara had feared every day since she saw Hannah’s hollow smile above a thirty-thousand-dollar wedding gown. She’d told herself over and over that Hannah wanted that marriage, that it was a coincidence Hannah fell in love right after Ben’s sentencing. But facing her father right now, with the nightmare in full color… “Tell me you aren’t about to act like it’s the fifteenth fucking century.”
“Zara, it’s just a formality. A nod to their damn traditions. You go out with the guy. You marry him, play house. Three years tops. And if he so much as touches you, come to me, and I call the whole damn thing off.”
“Is this the speech you gave Hannah?” She rubbed a hand over her face, trying to remind her lungs to work.
“Hannah volunteered.”
“And when Grandpa did this shit to you and Mom? Look how great that worked—”
“Leave your mother out of this. You aren’t me, and you sure as hell aren’t her. This won’t be the same for you, I swear—”
“But I’m not a puppy!’ She got to her feet, squaring off with him. “You can’t just drop me off at the Italian kennel and—”
“I’m up against the Bratva.”
The rest of her outrage died on her lips. The Russian mafia was not spoken of lightly. She looked closer at her dad’s face. The more pronounced lines, the signs of exhaustion, and other details fell into place. Dane’s crazy hours when he should have still been excused for funerals and family things. Sawyer’s tense interactions, snapping and snarling when he was usually friendly. “Oh.”
“Me and Vittorio don’t fuckin’ like one another, and he’s got a million fewer reasons to like those Russian assholes, but I can’t risk it. If they side against me here…”
“What the hell did Bennett do, Dad?”
He shook his head. “I can’t answer that, sweetheart. I won’t. You don’t need the nightmares. But he’s stirred the Russians up.”
“Don’t they know you disowned him?”
“Blood is blood. And he owes it.”
The chair caught her, thankfully, or she’d have collapsed onto the tile. “After everything? He did … more?” A thousand ugly memories fluttered around her head like ashes in the wind. Finding Gia crying in a guest room with cigarette burns on her arm. The time he’d taught their little brother how to give “insulin” shots with a spoon and rubber bands. Hiding in the pantry with Dane while Ben went “hunting” because you didn’t want to be the one he aimed his souped-up paintball gun at.
She and Gia planned for months to get something on Ben that would convince their father to stop him. Zara fucked that up, then accidentally fixed it with her stupid confession to Dane. But she’d always thought, somehow, that once Ben was in prison and cleaned up, he’d be different. Better. Unless it was never the drugs making him do all that in the first place.
Adam rubbed his hand over his face, groaning like he saw the same hideous visions. “I fucked up with him, sweetheart. I kick myself every goddamn day, but I can’t let him hurt the rest of you any more than he already has. And here I am, fucking up with you, too. Trying to patch over his bullshit.”
“No.” Zara swallowed hard, grabbing the ice cream container and lugging it to the freezer. “You aren’t fucking up with me, Dad.” She shut the door and rested against it before she turned back. A mile of white stone and empty space loomed between them, but she met her dad’s eyes. “I get it. Gia’s got Dex. They’re off again, but we all know that’ll last a month. Ethan and Hannah are married, Caleb’s in high school, and Derek’s practicing law. And what am I doing? College and Tinder.”
Adam made a face. “That better be a goddamn joke, Zara.”
“You’re asking me to marry for feudal underworld bullshit. You don’t get to slut-shame.”
“I don’t need to hear about your sex life.”
“You lost that option the second you started talking me into a wedding gown, Daddy. What if Vittorio De Lucca is expecting a virgin?”
“The man’s not an idiot. If he wanted a virgin, he should’ve brought it up.”
“If he gets insistent, I promise to yelp and kick him in the knee like I did when I—”
“Enough.” Adam grimaced. “Is this your torturous way of saying you can handle this?”
She watched him for another second before shrugging. “What the hell? As long as Vittorio’s ancient dick—”
“It’s his grandson! Jesus, girl. It’s Joseph. You’ve met Joseph.”
“Oh. Him?” She had met Joseph De Lucca more than once. They had mutual friends and sometimes frequented the same clubs. He had sandy hair, pretty brown eyes, and a friendly smile. Even Gia liked him, and she hardly liked anyone.
Zara considered again. He’d know the score with this arrangement too, and they’d both go in with equal expectations and no agonizing daggers in their hearts every time they looked at one another. She wouldn’t beg him to give up his life and run off across the globe with her or wake up every night terrified he’d get killed on the next assignment. She wouldn’t nearly combust whenever he looked at her or ache with want when he touched her hand.
At least it’ll extend the life of my underwear. She made her head bob. “All right. Joseph De Lucca. I’ll clear my calendar.”
Her father hugged her so tight, she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t fight it. Not breathing felt better in some respects. “Thank you, sweetheart. I promise you, I’ll get you out of this shit. Give me a year, and you’re out. I’ll fucking nuke Russia if I have to.”
“It’s okay, Dad. Joey’s a good guy. Who knows? We might even get along. Hannah seems okay with Karl.”
“She does.” Adam’s smile didn’t match his eyes, but he kissed her temple. “I’ll go make some calls. Catherine knows she might need to clear her schedule, so call her. I’m afraid it’ll be a quick job, kiddo.”
“That’s okay. I … I think the distraction would be good for me.”
One more hug, a few more encouraging words, and then her father was gone with his cell phone already at his ear and Fallon at his heels. Zara stared around the huge, empty kitchen and pulled her own cell out of her jeans pocket. Gia would know where to start. Or how to blow everything up. Either option seemed workable.
Chapter Four
DANE
Poosey Conservation Area, Missouri, September 7
Leave it to Bennett to be as big a pain in the ass dead as he was alive. The thought was becoming a mantra with each shovelful of dirt Dane tossed to the side. His phone vibrated, again, and Dane groaned. He stopped digging to check it.
Adam: Status?
Dane wiped flecks of dirt and grass off the phone screen. Really? He shoved it back into his jeans. The St. Michael coin clinked against the case, and he patted the mud-caked pocket before wiping sweat off his nose with the back of his sleeve. His wary gaze swept around the pitch-black country landscape, lit only by faint starlight and a waning moon. He barely heard the rasp of their shovels and Sawyer’s muttered complaints above the yipping coyotes and screeching bugs. Quiet country nights, my ass. Dane took a deep breath of soupy, hay-and-mud-scented air, steeling himself for the next round of excavation.
On the opposite side of the freshly dug grave, Sawyer stabbed the earth with a trowel, grunting as he lifted a hefty chunk of dirt, dropping it on a growing pile beside him. “Who was that?” His voice rasped. Too loud to be a whisper but softer than usual.
“Boss.” Dane hefted his own shovel, dropping more damp earth between his knees. Good thing I’m not attached to these pants. “Wants an update. I’ll give it to him when we get back to the car.”
“Again?” Saw sighed. “We’re gonna be making reports every half hour at this rate.”
Dane shrugged. “Could be worse, considering.”
“Guess so. I’m taking a break.” Sawyer stuck the trowel in the top of the pile like a cherry on a sundae, and sat back, stretching his legs out in front of him. Dane sympathized with his partner’s pained groan. His own hamstrings burned, and his feet felt like they might split at the arches. A blister the size of Illinois was swelling up across his right heel, too. My boots were meant for hiking, but I wasn’t. Especially not in the goddamn Missouri woods with coyotes yipping like teenagers who just discovered a new band. Probably pissed we were interfering with their next meal.
They could complain to the goddamn Storm Crows. The Crows were one-percenters—the kind who welcomed professional fucking killers into their storied ranks. Dane suspected it when they watched three Crows carrying multiple trash bags to their decoy utility van. Now they’d dug one up and found Ben’s hands inside—prints burned away with acid—there was no doubt.
Dane’s legs didn’t hurt half as much as his jaw. He swung his chin from side to side, testing the ache. I know I asked Sawyer to hit me, but damn. He continued scooping dirt out of the hole, his eyes searching out any hint of a shiny plastic surface amid the dirt. All that moaning, and you aren’t the one with a swollen face.”
“You’d rather be going back to Duro without a bruise on you? Like, ‘Sorry I let your partner get iced, sir, but I was too busy running the fuck away’, would go down better?” Sawyer lifted his canteen to his lips, gulping loudly before attempting to catch his breath again. “Jesus! Why couldn’t the Crows toss his sorry ass in a dumpster and throw a match in? I’d take a charred corpse over this huntsman bullshit any day of the week.”
Dane didn’t answer. Mostly because he’d already answered this a dozen times before.
God, is there anything viable?
Dane hoped for his head. Will anyone even believe it’s him? If they’ve fucked it up as thoroughly as everything else…
“Dane?” Sawyer flinched, and his hand flew to his holster. “They’re getting closer.”
Dane didn’t bother masking his irritated sigh. Maybe he’d be more patient if they hadn’t just trekked several miles through tree-filled dusk, then dark. “Stop worrying about the goddamn coyotes. The faster we get his head, the faster we can get back to the car and get the hell out of here.”
Sawyer glared at him. “If you’d let me go get a digger…”
“You really want to risk that right now?” Dane waved his hand toward the ramshackle house twenty yards away from the ancient cemetery they were currently desecrating. When Dane first saw it on the satellite images from the tracker they’d dropped on the Crow van, he hoped it was vacant. They weren’t that lucky. Light shone through salmon-colored curtains, flickering in a TV-is-on kind of way. Not to mention the rusty Ford Ranger sitting in a tiny parking lot about forty feet behind Sawyer.
“We have our orders, Dane. Does it matter how we—”
“Unless you want to up the body count tonight. You think those are friendlies in there?” Dane started digging again, fearing they would lose the full moon’s light behind the incoming clouds before long.
“You don’t?” Sawyer positioned himself back at the edge of the shallow grave.
Christ. Try using your fucking head for once.” They’d been watching the entrance, where the main road turned off into a gravel path leading to the parking lot. Once the Storm Crows left, Dane and Sawyer waited to be sure they didn’t come back, and nobody else had set foot on the roads. “Think about it. Broad fucking daylight, the Crows felt safe enough to pull up, dig a giant hole, and throw a few bags of evidence in. Should tell you what you need to know, Saw.”
Reaching in with a gloved hand, Sawyer brushed a layer of dirt away and wrapped his fingers around the black end of a garbage bag. Just as Dane had gotten used to the rancid, rotting smell of congealing blood and early decomp when Sawyer tore open the first bag, but they both applied a fresh layer of menthol ointment under their noses before he tore into the second.
“Move.” Dane crawled around, knowing that an entire tub of Vicks wouldn’t insulate Saw enough for decomposition. Sawyer didn’t argue, but he didn’t retreat as far as Dane expected.
Dane slipped his hand into the muck, gooey blood and ooze seeping squelching around his leather and latex gloves. He felt around until he touched what had to be hair, up against a solid skull.
“Fuck.” Sawyer covered his mouth and turned away.
“Coyotes seem so bad now?” Dane smirked as he held Ben’s head up. The Crows probably used a power tool to separate his neck from the rest of him. The way the ragged skin hung loose on the throat gave it away along with the spine’s clean cut. A face once fit for magazine covers now looked like a cheap Spirit Halloween mask. The slack jaw revealed missing and broken teeth. Too few to identify with dental records. And the skull was little more than gritty mush around the ears—one of which was missing. Maybe a souvenir hanging from a Crow chain? Even Bennett’s golden hair was matted and caked with blood and other matter. At least they didn’t cut out his eyes.
He held the head closer, staring into the empty gaze. His eyes used to be so blue. So fucking bright. Like Adam’s. Red burst capillaries covered each sclera, but even so with the glaze of death, they were Ben’s eyes. Might be enough.
“Toss the bag.” Dane waited for Sawyer to slide his duffle bag in front of him and dropped Ben into it. “Give me a hand.” He extended his own, waiting, but Sawyer stared at him like he’d just asked him to recite the first seventeen digits of Pi.
“A hand with what?”
Dane groaned. “Literally. Give me one of Ben’s hands. Actually, fuck it. Give me both.”
“Oh!” Sawyer laughed and dragged the previously torn bag to his side. Dane watched him hold his breath before he dug in. He flung the appendages like dead snakes. “That all you need, bro?” Sawyer didn’t wait for confirmation before pushing the garbage bag back into the grave.
“Good enough.” Dane zipped the bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Sawyer’s brow creased. “Seriously? But the body’s—”
“Grab the goddamn shovel.” He didn’t check to see if Saw followed him until they got to the car and started packing up. After cleaning up with bleach and baby wipes, they changed into cleaner pants and new shirts. Dane settled into the passenger seat of the gray Toyota Corolla and tapped a quick message to their boss.
Dane: Got the prize. Sending it your way ASAP. Heading back to the temp agency.
Crossing his arms, he let his chin fall to his chest, determined to grab a few minutes of sleep while Sawyer finished shoving the soiled clothes into the trunk. He hadn’t slept for shit since he left Chicago—and it wasn’t because he’d spent a week hanging out with Ben and his slaver buddies, and the next three days staking out a Crow safehouse after the bikers captured Ben in a shootout.
The driver’s-side door opened and the seat creaked as Sawyer got in. He eased the door shut, then came the jingle of keys, the roar of the engine. Dane counted the seconds until the car lurched into motion, rolling down the path without headlights. And counted. No movement started. His eyes flashed open to find Sawyer glaring. “Are you waiting for us to get caught, motherfucker?”
“You know damn well—”
Dane tossed his head back against the headrest. “Let it go.”
“They’re gonna find him, Dane.”
“It isn’t our fucking problem. It’s the Crows’ mess. Should’ve buried him deeper if they didn’t want the little shit to get dug back up.”
