Authors: K. Ryan
At first, I don't understand what's written on these pages. It's all here in black and white, spelled out easily enough, but I still can't quite figure out what's going on. Because here, written on the very first page, is the deed to the property 'William Rossi' just purchased to build his mall on.
Brennan reads the first line from over my shoulder and whistles lowly. "Is this what I think it is?"
"It is," Enzo nods with a calculated smile. "The property is yours. If you win, of course. And everything else we discussed previously still stands—you'll get your 30 percent kickback no matter what."
That's all fine and good, but I still can't get past the details.
Those sons of bitches. They knew exactly how to get me under their thumb and heaven help me, but it just might work. The Gianottis have just handed me everything I've needed on a platter—they don't know it, but they've given me so much more than just control over the mall property. This is concrete proof that Moretti, operating under his William Rossi alias, is in bed with the Gianottis in a big, sick way. This is the final nail in Moretti's coffin.
Add that to being able to stop countless residents of Southie from losing their homes and their businesses by ending this property deal?
Wrap it up and put it in the bag. I'm sold.
"You're just gonna hand it over if we win?" Brennan calls out incredulously. "Just like that?"
Enzo's lips spread apart in a triumphant grin. He knows he's already landed the big ticket for his arena's opening night before anything else needs to be said. "Just like that. A deal's a deal and if you win, that deed is yours to do what you want with."
Suspicion and just a little bit of anxiety ticks down my spine. That's probably the right reaction to the situation, instead of my initial one.
"How is it that you can just hand the property over like this?" I ask warily. "I don't see your names anywhere on this deed."
The brothers exchange a knowing glance—I already know the answer to the question, but if I don't ask it, I don't want to raise eyebrows. Giving them a reason to question my motives seems like a poor choice.
"That's nothing you need to be concerned about. The deed is yours if you win," Enzo nods firmly.
Alright. I'll bite.
"So what does your fighter get?"
Enzo glances at his brother again before answering. "Angelo isn't getting 30 percent of the ticket sales if that's what you're asking. He doesn't have the reputation that you do yet, but his mama's sick and if he wins on Sunday, her treatment and all her bills will be paid for."
Every man has their price, Flynn. I just need time to figure out yours.
It certainly didn't take him long either. Even though they couldn't be more different, the price Angelo and I have is too steep to ignore. If he wants a fair, lucrative fight where both fighters have something to lose, it looks like he might actually get it.
Now Rae's voice fills my head:
That still doesn't help Sean.
Maybe not. Maybe all we can do is just add it to the already mounting pile of evidence we have against Moretti. How can we connect Sean to this? Maybe connecting Moretti to the Gianottis is enough—wouldn't all this new information at least finally get Sean a fair trial?
I shake those thoughts out of my head before they really have a chance to grow. A fair trial? Who am I kidding? There's no such thing as a fair trial for my brother as long as Moretti is still the mayor and as long as he's still pulling strings from every angle. I just have to figure out how to beat him at his own game.
"Sunday, huh?" Brennan huffs, clearly annoyed that Enzo is just assuming right away that there's going to be a fight on Sunday.
Enzo doesn't have to assume anything. This fight is happening.
"Sunday," he nods tightly and his gaze shifts to me for confirmation.
"I think my brother and me have some talking to do before we—"
"Nah," I bat a hand and shake my head. "Nothing to talk about. All we gotta do now is hammer out the details."
Brennan's eyes widen, but he recovers quickly. It's not like we can have the inevitable discussion right here in front of the Gianotti brothers, even if there was something to actually discuss. As Enzo rattles off the assorted details for Sunday, everything else falls by the wayside.
This is it. I can just feel it.
We're getting to the end of all this and waiting at the end of the tunnel is freedom for Sean and justice for Moretti. I'll have the proof right in my hand—all the dirty evidence detailing all his twisted, evil deeds will be out in the open then. He'll have nowhere to run, no place to hide, no way to fight, and he'll have no other choice but to get my brother out of prison or risk all those dirty details coming to light.
Rae won't like it. She'll probably tell me it'll just blow up in my face and maybe it will. But if we have the proof, if we have the documents written in his own hand, I have a feeling Valentino Moretti will do anything in his power to keep that power.
Rae
Darkness clouds the entire VIP lounge and I squint to get a better look. Nothing. It's just too freaking dark over there to really see inside. Someone's sliding a stack of papers across the table and I can see a tattooed forearm reaching for it, but that's all I've got.
A whole lot of nothing.
"I hate this place," Bennett murmurs next to me and he takes a healthy sip from his martini glass as he swivels his hips a little to the music. "And the music here sucks."
I huff out a laugh and shake my head. "Coulda fooled me."
"Pssh," he bats a hand my way, but the hip-swiveling doesn't stop. "I'm just killing time."
I want this to be over just as much as he does, but beggars can't be choosers. We're getting so close to the end, so close I can almost taste it, and this upcoming fight on Sunday—assuming Jack ultimately agrees to it—is a means to that end. But if we stumble and fall right at the finish line, then what was the point of it all?
When I peer around Bennett's shoulder one more time, more tattoos come into view, right along with the side of familiar dark scruff. Jack's head tilts to the side, almost as if he can sense the attention, and our eyes lock. All I need is...I don't know what I need. I just need
something
from him. Anything. Distain, remorse—longing would be okay too. Anything but the indifference he sends my way before flicking his gaze back to his table-mates.
Nothing's worse than that.
He wants to pretend it never happened,
that nasty little voice inside my head whispers.
He's trying to let you down easy.
I guess one more rejection isn't going to kill me, right?
"Well, that was interesting," Bennett glances at me from over his shoulder, his lips quirked up a sly smirk I don't like.
I've only kept one secret from Bennett during the entirety of our decades-long friendship and it stings like a bitch. But if I don't tell him what happened on that couch, and if I don't say the words out loud, then I don't have to acknowledge it outright. Then I'm the only one who knows what an epic disaster my life has become—just one long trail of poor decisions and even stupider actions.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know," he shrugs. "He clearly doesn't want you here tonight though."
"No shit."
That doesn't faze him and those hips just keep bopping and swiveling to the beat.
"I thought you hated this music."
Bennett wags a finger in my face and takes a long, drawn-out pull from his martini with his eyebrows jumping up and down to the beat like Jim Carrey. "I do hate this music and don't change the subject, missy. We were talking about that fine piece of hunky man-meat over there you just
can't
tear your eyes away from."
"Could you be any less of a jerk?"
He just shrugs. "Please. Could you be any less obvious?"
My head immediately shakes from side to side. "I don't know what you're talking about.
"Come
on,
Clamato," he jerks a pointed finger right at that darkened booth. "That guy up there has his head shoved so far up his butthole over you he probably doesn't even know his own name right now."
My eyes flick up to the booth, shrouded in darkness and perpetual danger, and right now, I'd give anything to go up there just to force him to look at me. To force him to see him. God, that sounds familiar. If I'm not careful, I could be setting myself up for one hell of a backslide into old, self-destructive habits.
"He just doesn't want to see me get killed is all," I make a lame attempt at rationalizing. "If that happens, he knows Sean's screwed."
"Hmm," Bennett murmurs in thought and then he cocks an eyebrow at me. "If he didn't care about you, he would have you at that table with them, up front and center, so you could make that ID once and for all. But what does he do? He's got you hidden in the crowd with me as your buffer between you and everybody else because the boy doesn't want anything to happen to you. That's what I see."
"What exactly are you implying, Benn?"
He lifts a shoulder. "Don't play stupid. You know exactly what I'm implying. He's trying to protect you and boys only do that for girls they care about."
Or girls they know they should see as their sisters.
My body shifts into survival mode now at that thought and suddenly, I shrink further behind Bennett's body shield on the off-chance Jack might actually be able to see me.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
Bennett just huffs out a laugh. "Sure. Keep telling yourself that."
"You know how complicated it would be, right? And wouldn't it be just a little bit incestuous? You know because we basically share the same dad
and
the same brothers?"
Now that I've actually said the words out loud, they taste just as dirty as I knew they would. The push and pull of my emotions is giving me whiplash and my head spins from the impact. It slices through me, cutting right down to the marrow of my problem. Jack and I are bound together, but not in the way I want. Not in the way that gets me that happily ever after I know will never come.
Bennett shakes his head immediately as he flashes me a knowing grin. "Nope. You wanna know why? You and your fearless protector aren't actually related. Guess what that means?"
"It doesn't mean anything."
"Methinks the lady doth protest too much."
"Shut it, drama queen."
"Hey," he snarls and jabs a pointed finger at me. "I told you. That's
Mr.
Drama Queen to you, Clamato."
My eyes roll again and just as I'm about to open my mouth to reply, my phone buzzes in my purse.
"Saved by the bell," Bennett mutters under his breath.
That's not worth acknowledging and my time is better spent getting an update on what's going on in that booth. I hit the home button on my phone to see a short, clipped text from Jack:
Got the offer. On our way down.
He really wasn't kidding because I've barely got my phone back in my purse before the shrouded figures sitting in the booth rise from their perches, high above the rest of us lowly commoners. Brennan comes into view first and my heart knots violently in my chest. Jack is next, sauntering down each step from the upper level with all the confidence and swagger I've come to expect of him. In this place, he's not quite the king, but he's still a member of the royal court nonetheless. A VIP guest of the Gianotti brothers to conduct 'official' business while the rest of us peer up from the crowd to try to get a glimpse.
Trailing closely behind Jack is a stocky, scarred man with slicked back dark hair and dressed in crisp suit. Even from over here, I can practically smell the filthy expensive linens. Gucci, probably. Maybe Armani, but most definitely Italian. There's something familiar about him that I can't quite put my finger on. He's one of the Gianotti brothers, that much I know. I suppose which one is obsolete.
He practically oozes power, intimidation, mystery, and inherent, unmistakable danger. No wonder the mayor has been working this angle for as long as he has—the two might as well be cut from the same cloth.
Another figure comes into view, towering over everyone else around him except for Jack, and the second a flash of light illuminates his face, the buzz of the crowd fades into the background.
His eyes. Bottomless like a shark. Hollow and devoid of emotion. I've seen those eyes before. Just like Sean's eyes will forever be seared into my memory, this man's eyes will haunt me until the day I die.
I'm walking down the sidewalk, my phone in one hand and earbuds in to shut everything else out. My night class let out twenty minutes late because the professor showed up twenty minutes late. So now, I'm tired, I'm crabby, my brain hurts from two hours of financial modeling and analysis, and all I want to do is go back to my apartment so I can air all my grievances about this day to Bennett.
Street lamps light up my path home, pillowing the darkness with slants of light that set the night aglow. I don't hear the footsteps behind me. I don't sense the danger until it's too late. Until something solid and iron slams into my knee.