10. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

"And here I thought my night couldn't get any worse," I mutter as I pull my keys from my pocket. I have no idea where my truck is, and hopefully, like last time, it'll show up outside in a few days. The psychopath's scent lingered for far too long, and maybe I'll avoid using it at all until I know it's gone. "The fuck do you want, Franky?"

He pushes off the wall and steps up to me. He's a few inches shorter than me, but most people are. Six foot three isn't insanely tall, but most guys average around six feet, so I'm used to being the tall one. Franky is smaller in build, and much younger than me, somewhere in his early twenties. Dark hair and eyes, with that Italian golden skin. He has a bit of an attitude too. If it doesn't get him killed, it may take him places one day. Who knows?

"We need to talk," he says.

"And you couldn't have called?"

"Tried. You didn't answer."

Because my phone is dead. Died on the way here.

I shove the key into the lock and let us into my place. I hang my keys on the hook, then turn to face Franky.

"What?" I ask when he doesn't speak. I'm tired, cranky, and want nothing more than to sleep and shower.

He looks at where my shirt is ripped and the blood stain around it. His gaze darts to mine, but he knows better than to ask.

"Some of us are worried…" he begins, shifting on his feet.

I sigh. "I don't have time for games. I've had a rough day. I'm tired as hell. I want to go to bed. Get to the point."

"About Remington. The way he's running shit. We're concerned it's not gonna end well for us."

And he's probably right. But I know how this mafia shit works. You trust everyone and no one at the same time. You can trust people to have your back on runs, but not with talking shit about those in charge. I've been around long enough to know this. Either he's been sent here to test me or he's just dumb admitting this shit to me.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"To see how you feel about it."

I narrow my eyes, wondering what the hell is going on. Nothing about him seems off. He doesn't seem nervous, but then again, a lot of these guys are borderline sociopaths so they don't give a fuck about much.

"I'm not sure how to answer that," I say honestly.

He takes a step closer to me and lowers his voice. "Look, we're just trying to gage how everyone feels. See if there's something we can do about it, you know?"

"No, I don't know," I state firmly, hoping he gets the hint.

He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. "Maybe he isn't fit to be leading people."

He obviously didn't get the hint…

"So, what? You're going to overthrow him? Do you have any idea how powerful his family is? Any idea how deep those roots go? Do you even know who Reginald is?" He shakes his head. I point a finger at him and continue. "Before you and your little friends get messed up in all this shit, you better think about it. Remington may seem stupid, but he's not. The shit he's running is much bigger than you can imagine. I know that from experience. His father has so many safety nets set up for him it's not even funny."

"Alright, sorry," he says, putting his hands up and taking a step back.

"Don't come into my house with shit that's going to get me killed. You want to risk your life, do it somewhere else. Now get the fuck out."

He mutters something to himself but leaves. I lock up, clean up, and crawl into bed.

When I wake up, it's late in the afternoon. There's a faint ache in my head, but I take a shower, and walk to Harry's Diner—the one with edible food—to get a greasy breakfast, which helps. When I'm done, I head home, and go right to my desk and pick up the notebook lying on top to read over the last entry. When foggy memories started coming back about the first time I was taken, I wrote them down. Maybe reading them now will help jog my memory over this most recent time.

—Late evening

—Leaving Nightcap

—Had 3 beers and 2 shots of whiskey

—Was not intoxicated

—Massive headache, groggy for days

I haven't been to Nightcap since. Not because of him but because I haven't wanted to drink. At least, I don't think I've been there. I don't remember anything from yesterday. Not even waking up or what I had for breakfast. Nothing from this list reminds me either.

I tap the pen on the notebook, wracking my brain for what happened but the only thing that comes to mind are his words.

"Know you're going to obsess over it the same way I am. It's going to eat you alive until you get one up on me."

Obsess over it the way he is…

Why? Why is he obsessed with me at all? This oddly seems like more than him being mad that I was going to kill him. The man is taking out the heads of families. That isn't me. Not even close. My family is so low on the totem pole we barely count, which is why I work for a different one. I'm nothing. Just spare change to the Bellanca family. A dime a dozen. So what is it that has this Piano Man obsessed with me?

And if he thinks I'm going to obsess over it too, he's more insane than I thought. The only thing I'm obsessing over is killing him to get the money.

I grab my phone to check if there are any new headlines about him when I see I have a text from Xander from a couple hours ago.

Xander: I'm sorry for last night. Hope things aren't weird.

Me: It's fine. Don't worry about it. Sorry I couldn't make it. I got held up with work.

It's not entirely a lie. Just bending the truth, I suppose.

Xander: Do you have time to meet tonight? Let's get coffee.

I heave out a heavy sigh. I'm not in the mood to deal with him or any shit he needs. The "let's get coffee" comment means we need to talk work and he doesn't want to mention it over the phone. Which is typical. He's a fucking FBI agent. He does me favors though, all the time, so it's the least I can do.

Me: Sure. 6 work?

Xander: See you then.

We met at the disgusting diner last time, so this time we'll go to a coffee shop. We rotate places but don't keep it on a pattern. It's all code. Something we came up with a long time ago when we were hiding the fact we were in a relationship. Neither of us had come out at the time and were terrified of what people would think. His parents more than mine. So we'd text each other using code in case his parents looked through his messages. It comes in handy even now, and I've never been so grateful to be a nerd in my life.

Using the number instead of the word for the time means we go to the place on our predetermined list with the 6 in the address, which is the coffee shop. Our list is extensive. There are roughly twenty places on it, though there are a few we hardly use at all.

There's no rhyme or reason to our code, just a bunch of rules we came up with at random. Sure, someone could figure it out eventually, but it would take a lot of time and patience. We don't meet often, so even gathering a list of where we meet could take years.

And then, for no reason at all, I recall something the Piano Man said. Something that didn't strike me as odd then, though it really should have. He mentioned Xander was calling me because of our date. I was so thrown off by his next comment of not sharing that I didn't realize how odd it was that he knew about our date. How the hell did he know that? It's clear he knows a lot about me, but there is some information that's easy to get. Like names, addresses, birthdays, where someone works, shit like that. But a private conversation?

Seems I've got a tail. One I'm really going to need to pay attention to if I plan to get this five million and get the fuck out of here. One wrong step could mean my life.