Beautiful Addictions (24 page)

“Maybe you should come stay at my place. At least I have cable.”

“No way. The fact that I’m stuck inside till further notice is enough of a punishment.”

“Fine, whatever. You heard from ya boy?”

“He sent me a text last night, telling me that he made it to his parents’ house, but
that’s it,” she answered, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

“No worries, Jo. He’ll be fine.”

“I know.”

But she didn’t really know, she only hoped. Josie had never been one to pray, but
the last two nights she’d found herself pleading for his safe return. She tried to
reason with herself, knowing that he was intelligent and had been hardened by the
streets, but it offered little solace.

“With me here, you’re safe. No one gonna mess with this cobra.”

Alex flexed his large arm and curled his fist around, imitating a snake’s movement.
Josie rolled her eyes.

“Know the difference between this and a real cobra?”

“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“If a real cobra gets ya, you might survive.”

He laughed at his own joke and lay back against the couch cushions. Josie shook her
head and decided to make no comment. She didn’t want to encourage him.

“Ya think he’ll find somethin’ down there, Jo?” Alex asked.

“I don’t even care anymore. I just want him back here with me. We could take off.
Try to outrun them. Or, if it’s inevitable that they’re going to find me and kill
me, I’d rather spend the time I have left with Tristan.”

“That’s heavy. You miss him, huh?” Alex asked, his eyes studying her closely.

She looked down at her lap and her suddenly unappealing breakfast before answering.

“I love him.”

*   *   *

After swearing them to secrecy, Tristan sat his parents down around their dining room
table and told them everything he knew. He relived his introduction to a life of crime,
his breakup with Fiona, and his life-changing discovery of McKenzi Delaune. They remained
silent the entire time, processing the details of the story he told. When he was finished,
Tristan sat back in his chair and exhaled, relieved by no longer shouldering this
burden alone. Daniel and Bitsy remained quiet, letting the facts and implications
sink in.

“I need to find out how Moloney is connected to Josie, why he wants her dead. I don’t
want to involve either of you. I don’t want to put you in danger. Just know that I
have to do this. I won’t lose her again.”

“I can’t believe she’s alive,” Bitsy whispered, reaching across the table to rest
her hand on Tristan’s.

“Most days, I can’t believe it either,” he said solemnly.

“Organized crime, Tristan? You can’t be serious,” Daniel said. “You could have done
anything!”

“Honey,” Bitsy said, placing her hand on Daniel’s shoulder.

“I just don’t understand how we lost you,” he said defeatedly.

Bitsy wiped tears from her eyes before they could slide down and ruin her makeup.
She looked at her husband and then her son, not knowing how to mediate this battle.

“That’s not important right now, Dad. Can we focus on why I’m here?”

Daniel took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“What’s your plan, Tristan?” Daniel asked.

“I’m going to go talk to anyone at the station who was working when Earl was there.
I also know a few people who work for Moloney in the city. I don’t want to alert him
to my presence, so I’ll try them last.”

“This is dangerous. I don’t like the idea of you getting involved,” Daniel warned.

“I’m already involved.”

“I knew Moloney was dicey, but I never dreamed it reached this far.”

“How did you know about Moloney?” Tristan asked, his curiosity piqued by his father’s
statement.

Daniel sighed and folded his arms across his chest. He hadn’t planned on ever having
to tell this story. He slid his eyes toward Bitsy, knowing she’d be displeased that
he’d kept it from her.

“The spring before your sixteenth birthday, Dean Moloney’s son, Dean Jr., was diagnosed
with a heart deformity. It was somehow undetected for years. After a consultation
with his parents, we all agreed that surgery was the only way to give him a fighting
chance. I performed the procedure, assisted by Dr. Marcus. He flat-lined twice on
my table, and the second time, we couldn’t get him back.”

“Atrioventricular septal defect?” Tristan asked. Daniel nodded, proud and nostalgic
at the memory of his raven-haired boy sprawled across the floor of his office, reading
through medical journals like comic books.

“Fiona never told me what happened to him,” Tristan murmured.

“When I explained to the family that we’d lost him, Moloney went ballistic. He told
me, ‘You will pay for this. An eye for an eye, my friend.’ His tone was maniacal.
I still remember the look in his eyes. I just assumed that it was an empty threat
fueled by grief.”

“Jesus, Dad, you think this would have been useful information when Fiona and I started
seeing each other?”

“Would it have made a difference?”

“No,” Tristan admitted, shaking his head.

They sat in silence, each absorbing the heavy weighted words laid out before them.
Bitsy immediately performed the sign of the cross and squeezed her eyes shut. The
Lord’s Prayer whispered across the room and echoed off the walls. Then Bitsy opened
her eyes as if remembering a secret of her own.

“There’s something else,” Bitsy whispered, breaking the rhythm of her prayer and abandoning
its purpose. The men’s eyes shot up to her remorseful face. “I’ll be right back.”

Tristan and his father sat in silence, surrounded by Audubon prints and Bitsy’s finest
china displayed in an antique cabinet. Tristan’s eyes stayed trained on his drumming
fingers along the tabletop while Daniel openly observed every detail of his son’s
appearance.

Bitsy reappeared carrying a large manila envelope. She took her seat and sighed, letting
the guilt and regret absorb into her words.

“I should have given you this a long time ago,” she said, sliding the package across
the table to Tristan. “It came about six weeks after they moved.”

Tristan retrieved the envelope and turned it over. A purple bound book dropped heavily
onto the polished wood table, the sound of it echoed through the room like a slap
to his face.

“I’m sorry for keeping it from you. I don’t even know why I still have it. I just
figured that it was better to make a clean break. I never thought that…”

Bitsy’s voice became empty jumbled sounds as Tristan’s pulse raced through his ears.

“This is McKenzi’s diary,” he finally said, running his fingers over the cover. “How
could you?”

“I’m sorry,” was her only answer as she cringed away from his angry words.

He turned the envelope over to find his address scrawled in McKenzi’s fourteen-year-old
handwriting. Tristan jumped up from the table, clutching the diary, and raced to the
comfort of his room. He locked the door behind him and sank to the floor. There he
sat for hours, reading the words of his childhood best friend, each entry sending
him farther into her world before the hurt.

*   *   *

Moloney sat on the antique chaise in his mother-in-law’s family room feeling emasculated
by the very fabric. Its pink floral pattern looked humorous as a backdrop to his large
frame and scowling face. He sipped his Jameson and tapped his fingers impatiently
on the padded arm of the chair. He’d wanted to leave hours ago. Moloney wasn’t used
to not getting what he wanted. The thing holding him here, his only weakness, was
his beautiful wife, Jane.

She was a vision, growing more beautiful with age. Her long strawberry blond hair
curled around her shoulders, a perfect frame for an angelic face. Moloney grinned
as she told a story so animatedly that her hands flung about in a precarious manner.
He loved her spunk, her fire. He loved that she loved him unconditionally. Jane made
no rules when it came to their life together. She’d promised her devotion and would
gladly endure whatever life Moloney provided.

Not that she suffered. Through racketeering, weapons, drug trafficking, and gambling
rings Moloney had provided a cozy life. They had prize-winning horses, a private estate,
and a beautiful home. All that was missing was a family.

Moloney poured the last of his whiskey into his mouth and swallowed. The burn of the
alcohol slid down his throat and past his frozen heart before settling in his stomach.
With all his wealth and power, he still didn’t have what he’d wanted most—a successor.
His boy was gone and his daughter was across the country living a new life.

He frowned down into his empty glass and shifted on the uncomfortable piece of furniture.
He found it hard to stay in the present conversation when there were so many more
daunting things to worry about. Barry had phoned earlier with more news of Gino Gallo
strong-arming Moloney’s clients into doing business. As if the Italians weren’t enough,
Tristan and Josie were longtime thorns in his side.

The girl knew secrets that could surely bring down his whole operation. Her father,
Earl, had been stupid enough to go to the feds, and now she would pay for his mistake.
When Moloney’s men had kidnapped and held the chief and his daughter, she’d been a
witness to their rather archaic torture methods. For days, they poked, prodded, burned,
and bled that man, asking questions about what he’d told the feds. Josie had screamed
and begged them to stop, but they were machines, immune to a child’s pleas. Eventually,
they got all the information they needed. Moloney shot and killed Earl Delaune himself,
in front of his daughter. With a quick warning that she was next and instructions
to his men to finish her off, he’d left the Brooklyn warehouse and boarded a plane
for home.

It wasn’t until eight years later that Moloney found out his men had failed in New
York. One of those bastards had drunkenly confessed to Barry that the girl had escaped.
Even though there was an official report from the NYPD that the girl’s body was recovered
three days later in a subway terminal, he knew better. His gut told him so. He suspected
that the FBI connected her to him and hid her away. He’d never been so angry to be
right.

Once he was rid of Tristan and the girl, there would be nothing stopping him from
crushing the Italians and solidifying his reign in New Orleans. He would not be run
out of town by these greasy Wops, he thought.

“And then Myrtle confessed to sabotaging Sally’s flowerbeds!” his mother-in-law exclaimed.

Moloney smirked, knowing it was time for such insincere actions.

“We really should be going,” he announced.

There were hugs all around as he nodded for Frank to fetch the car. Moloney held Jane’s
coat as she slid her arms inside. She kissed her mother’s cheek with a smile and promised
to return soon.

As the couple stepped outside into the cold air, Frank pressed the automatic start
on the car. The heater would warm the interior before they’d even entered. It was
the small luxuries that Moloney appreciated, things his poor and meager parents never
knew.

When the electronic signal left Frank’s hand and reached the car, a spark shot through
a device attached to the undercarriage. A loud explosion rang in their ears as fire
and smoke engulfed the car.

Moloney hovered over his wife, protecting her from debris, as she screamed into his
shoulder.

“I’ll call the police,” his mother-in-law shouted.

“No,” Moloney answered.

The harshness of his retort left her frozen on the front stoop. Though she was not
used to taking orders, she knew not to disregard this man. He was dangerous. If it
were not for his undeniable love for her daughter, she would have turned him over
long ago.

“What happened?” Jane asked, panic making her voice falter.

The red-orange flames reflected in his eyes and he could utter only two words.

“Gino Gallo.”

16. Far Side

The side of the moon that is not visible.

Mort sat on his front stoop, staring up at the few stars visible above the nighttime
city lights. His leg bounced nervously as he flipped his cell phone over in his hands,
staring at it for the answers to silent questions. He remembered when he was a kid,
he’d had a Magic 8 Ball. All you had to do was ask a question, shake it up, and wait
for your answer to appear in the small liquid-filled window. If only life were still
that simple.

Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, he decided to suck it up and make the call.
Mort knew that when it came to Dean Moloney, if your information was important enough,
it didn’t matter the time.

“Moloney.”

“I’ll have the girl within the week.”

“Excellent,” Moloney answered firmly.

“When this job’s done, I’m out. Retired.”

“Are you telling me or asking me?”

Mort gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes closed.

“I’d like this to be my last job.”

“Are you joining Gallo’s crew?” Moloney asked.

“No. I wouldn’t betray you like that. I just want out.”

“I’m not sure that’s in our best interest,” Moloney answered.

“I just want to disappear,” Mort begged.

“Be careful what you wish for.”

The line went dead before Mort could continue. You don’t just declare yourself out
of the business. You either die or you run. Mort wanted to avoid both. He couldn’t
imagine living the rest of his existence in fear or servitude. He knew to remain cautious.

Some guys were meant for this life. They were born into it and trained to succeed.
Mort had just been good at it. He was young when one of Moloney’s men had recruited
him straight out of high school. Frustrated by living under the same roof as his abusive
parents, he’d hauled ass and never looked back. Living on the street wasn’t easy,
but it was better than living with their tyrannical rules and severe punishments.
Barry had taken him in and shown him how life could be sweeter if he just pledged
his allegiance to Moloney. Mort hadn’t thought twice about it. He was in.