11. Chapter 11

That mother fucker's gonna die.

It takes every ounce of willpower I possess to watch Siren walk out of Kingsley's office with that sick bastard.

I nearly snapped when she turned to leave, and I saw the red marks on her back—fresh wounds made by some kind of blade.

I might have missed them if I hadn't been staring so intently at her leaving form.

As I watch the door close behind them, I have a sudden gnawing sensation in my gut, like some monster that I thought I'd buried deep long ago has finally woken up and is trying to claw its way out.

I feel sick to my stomach.

Releasing the beast from its cage for a split second, I allow my rage to get the better of me.

With a roar of fury, I pick up the nearest chair with one hand, hurling it into the wall. "Fuck!"

Kingsley lets out a yell and ducks behind his desk, probably going for a weapon, but I don't give a shit.

I should've known this simpering fuck in front of me would change up the rooms for his shady deals this year, especially after Merrick broke in and stole a painting from his study upstairs after the last auction.

Maybe if I'd thought that far ahead, I could've had an escape route mapped out and Siren never would've been allowed to walk out that door.

But I fucked up, and now I've got to fix it.

Turning to the now cowering man, I brace my palms on the desk.

Leaning down so that we're nearly nose to nose, I say, "I want every piece of information you have on that man."

Kingsley blusters, but I don't allow him even to get a word out before I'm cutting him off.

"You'll give it to me, or I'll have the FBI on the phone in the next 10 seconds.

I have more than enough dirt on you to put you underneath the prison.

Give.

Me.

His. Name,"

I say through gritted teeth.

I know if I dug in myself, I'd be able to find out who he is, but I don't have time for that.

I've gotta get Siren out now.

He stares into my eyes for only a millisecond more before nodding reluctantly.

As he shakily pulls himself up into his chair, he opens the laptop sitting on the side of his desk.

After several clicks on the keys, he turns it around so I can see the screen.

Dante Gaspari.

Son of a bitch.

Taking out my phone, I open a cloning app that I developed myself.

Sitting it down next to the laptop, I initiate the transfer of information.

Within minutes, everything Kingsley knows, I'll know.

Staring at me with wide eyes, he says nothing.

He could be actively planning to have me killed the moment I walk out of this room, and it wouldn't even phase me.

I've dealt with far scarier things than Eugene Kingsley.

After successfully cloning his device, I pick up the velvet box holding the Oppenheimer Blue and walk towards the door.

Placing my hand on the knob, I turn to see him still staring at my back.

Pausing, I say, "If you try to warn him, you'll be dead before morning."

Not waiting for a response, I open the door and walk out of the office and this monstrosity of a house.

I'll have Siren away from that bastard before the night is out.

If I'm lucky, I'll get to kill him in the process, making sure he actually stays dead this time.

Once I had that thread, finding Gaspari wasn't difficult for someone like me.

The information from Kingsley's laptop wasn't much, but it gave me a starting point.

The address listed for Dante Gaspari in the records Kingsley kept for the auction was little more than a warehouse.

This would be a dead end for a normal person, one where they'd admit defeat and give up.

Unfortunately for him, that phrase isn't in my vocabulary.

Sitting in my car, I pull out my laptop and look into the ownership of the warehouse.

It was owned by a shell corporation.

It takes me less than 10 minutes to find out that the owner of that shell corporation is a well-known associate of Gaspari's.

I don't believe in coincidences, so I pull up every other property registered to the man.

Most are businesses and other warehouses, but he did own several residential properties throughout the city and surrounding areas.

To narrow that down, I hack into the local power company's server to see which properties are actively using considerable amounts of electricity.

There are only three.

One is the man's primary home, and the other is in a high-rise, smack dab, in the middle of the city.

I have a feeling Gaspari won't want the prying eyes of neighbors keeping tabs on his comings and goings, so that leaves only one location.

A large estate about an hour from LA.

Pulling up Google Maps, I put in the address and look at the street view images as well as the 360 view of the property.

I can barely make out the roof of the large house because it's surrounded by dense forest.

It's a risk, but my gut tells me that's the place.

Speeding through the city, I make it there in 40 minutes.

I pull my car off to the side of the road, easing my baby into the cover of thick shadows provided by the surrounding trees.

As I turn off the car, I open a hidden compartment that I had custom-built beneath the passenger's seat and take out the loaded handgun that I keep there for emergencies.

I wasn't a huge fan of guns, but in my line of work, it was just good business sense to keep a weapon handy, in case someone decided they wanted the merchandise without paying for it.

Double-checking the clip to make sure it's loaded, I step out of the car and sit the gun on the trunk while quickly shrugging out of my suit jacket before tucking the gun into the waistband at the back of my slacks.

I don't have time to remove them or my dress shirt.

I'm hyper-conscious of the fact that every minute Siren remains with Gaspari is another minute he could be using to hurt her.

Tossing my discarded clothes into the passenger's seat, I take out the small flashlight I keep in the middle console, along with a handful of zip-ties.

I close the door quietly, leaving my precious car behind.

Doing my best to jog through the thick brush without tripping and breaking my neck, I finally reach the tree line where I can see the house just past a large expanse of neatly manicured lawn.

It's another monstrosity of a home.

Clearly bought for property value and tax deductions, but I imagine that pretentious fuck Gaspari feels right at home inside .

During the few precious minutes I'd spent researching earlier, I'd done a quick check into Dante Gaspari.

He'd been born into nothing, just like me, though he hadn't stayed that way long.

I hated rich people, with the exception of a very select few.

However, Gaspari would fall into the category of those deserving of my hate.

Instead of using his newfound wealth to add something of value to the world, he'd chosen to use it to form alliances with every crooked politician, mob boss, and criminal from Sicily to California.

Once he'd realized he had a talent for ruining people's lives, he'd decided to contract that talent out … for a price.

Based on everything I'd read, the man had delusions of grandeur and presented the image of a well-educated and classy gentleman to the world—a patron of the arts and a lover of all the finer things in life.

In reality, he was a thug, albeit a thug in an expensive suit.

I watch the house, clocking two guards that are alternating between covering the front entrance and patrolling the grounds.

Keeping to the inside of the tree line, I make my way around back.

As suspected, there's another guard stationed at the back door.

This guard, however, doesn't seem to be taking his job quite as seriously as the others.

As I watch, he steps away from the door, lighting a cigarette before pulling out his phone to scroll through something as he wanders further away and into the grass between us.

I count the seconds as I will him to walk closer to the spot where I'm currently hiding behind a large pine tree: thankfully, he does, and I realize it's now or never.

This is my chance and I may not get another one.

Quietly stepping out from behind the tree, I bum-rush the guard, taking him down to the ground.

He flails but doesn't cry out for help, probably because he's still got the lit cigarette clamped between his lips.

Straddling the man, I pull my fist back and cold clock him right in the face, knocking him unconscious.

Dragging him into the cover of the trees, I quickly bind his hands and feet with the zip-ties I brought with me in my back pocket.

I remove a handkerchief from my other pocket, and use it as a gag.

Conducting a quick search, I find only his wallet, which, surprise surprise, has no ID, and a slip of folded paper.

Opening the paper up, I see a six-digit number.

I'm not sure what it goes to, but I think I'll hold onto it, just in case.

I sprint to the back door, looking left and right for anyone else.

Quickly inspecting the area, I see a panel to the left.

It's a keypad, not for an alarm system but for keyless entry into the house.

Pausing, I actually laugh a little under my breath.

No fucking way.

Taking the piece of paper out of my pocket, I punch in the six numbers written on it.

A click sounds, and I turn the knob on the door and push it open an inch or two.

This fucking idiot actually wrote down the code to the back door on a piece of paper in his pocket.

Jesus.

I guess it was hard to find good help these days. Taking a few deep breaths, I ease the door open and glance inside. I don't see anyone, but I'm still careful as I slip into the house, closing the door quietly behind me. Standing in what appears to be a mudroom, I give myself a second for my eyes to adjust to the new level of light before moving further inside. Slowly checking each room on the main floor, I find them all empty. Fuck. As I reach the front of the house, however, I can hear music coming from upstairs. It's a violin. Bingo. Knowing I've got the right place, I breathe a sigh of relief. That is, until a scream rises above the crescendo of the music, traveling down the stairs and hitting me like a punch to the chest.