Chapter 2

TWO

PRESENT DAY

“Who’s that?” I ask, pinching the stem of the wine glass between my thumb and index fingers, giving the rich Malbec a swirl, as I bring it to my lips.

“That,” my cousin’s voice drags for emphasis, “is the target.”

Well fuck me.And here I was thinking tonight’s meeting would be boring.

Placing the glass onto the table, I tease the cap of my tongue piercing with my teeth, gawking at the fine piece of ass in the surveillance photo before me. My fingers trace the edge of the picture for a moment, studying the man’s defined features.

His skin is painted with an assortment of black and gray ink scattered about his arms, complimenting his athletic build. He’s tall, at least six two, maybe even six three, but the way he carries himself without a clue that he’s being watched makes him appear much larger. Crossing my legs in my seat, I clench my thighs, continuing to drink him in. Excitement mingles with adrenaline because usually the targets are average looking, nothing to write home about, but this man is anything but average. Fuck, I bet those chiseled cheekbones–covered in the perfect ratio of scruff to skin–would feel like heaven caught between my legs while I tug at the dark hair that hangs perfectly near his brow. He’s fucking hot, devilish looking even, and I’ve never seen anyone, target or otherwise, with such piercing eyes. Even squinting, like he’s doing in this candid picture, trying to use his large, veiny palm as a visor to block the sun, they look to be the lightest shade of gray with a hint of amber.

Carmine’s palm flattens, spreading his fingers over the picture, dragging it closer to him and out of my view. “Let me correct myself. That is the target’s brother. Who you will not be fucking. So whatever thoughts were just swirling in that head of yours, squash them.”

I roll my eyes as I take a long gulp of wine. “You know what, Carmine, you can be a real buzzkill,” I mumble against the glass. “And a twat block,” I add, about to swallow another sip just as his grubby hands snatch it out of my hand.

“Hey, I was drinking that!” I exclaim, lifting off my seat to reach over and grab it back but Carmine being his typical self is always a step ahead. Just as my nails tap against the stem, he puts the cigarette hanging from his lips directly into the wine glass, extinguishing his Parliament.

“What fucking ever,” I scoff, turning around in my chair, looking at the bar for the bartender, José. Carmine clicks his tongue; his overpowering cologne grazes my senses as he leans forward to tap me on the shoulder.

“Yes?” I grumble with a half-smile.

“I own the place, prima. I’ll have José get another once we’re done talking,” he reminds me with a wink.

“Fine,” I sigh, “so if that man that I can’t fuck is the brother, who is the one I should be putting all my attention towards?”

Skating his fingers inside his pinstripe jacket, he digs for the picture to show me. “Him,” he simply states, placing the surveillance photo on the table, just above the brother’s picture that he snatched from me before.

Disappointment stabs me in the gut, because while this man, with chiseled features and a distinguished brow, is objectively good looking, he doesn’t wow me like the brother did. I lift the picture to get a closer look, but it’s the other picture that tempts my periphery.

“Okay, cool, does he have a name?” I urge, motioning for him to continue but of course, in typical Carmine fashion, he stays stoic with a shit-eating grin on his face. I love my cousin, but his incessant need to drag things out constantly tests my temper.

“Yes, he does. That son of a bitch is Brett Cromwell, eldest son to Alistair Cromwell, the real estate tycoon,” he pauses to air quote, “who somehow convinced the prosecutor that the only crimes he committed were the ones that would guarantee him a cushy stay in Otisville and not where he really belongs.”

“Rykers?” I interrupt.

“No. In a fucking hole in the ground, that’s where,” he mutters with ample disgust.

Expecting Carmine to go into more detail about this assignment, I press my elbows onto the table, settling into my seat, but the only noise he makes comes from pressing his lips together to light another smoke.

“Sooo,” I drag, trying to shift gears, or in this case, Carmine’s mood. “What’s the brother’s name?”

A plume of smoke fills the space between us, as Carmine chuckles to himself. “Fuck, prima, you never cease to amaze me, you know that?” he pokes. “Anyway, that,” he tilts his head to the second picture poking out from beneath Brett’s, “would be Colson Cromwell.” But you won’t have to worry about him, it’s Brett that I want you to focus on,” he quips, snatching up both pictures, tucking them back in his jacket pocket.

“Ugh, why can’t I pretend to be his girlfriend?” I whine, pouting my lips but Carmine remains utterly unfazed by my antics. I let out a sigh as I shift in my seat, taking my bent elbows off the table and instead crossing them in front of me. Since my cousin insists on assigning me to boring, not my type targets, I decide to mess with him a bit. He may be used to my sense of humor but if there is one thing he can’t stand is when I get vulgar. Which is all the more reason to do it. “I mean did you see those veins that were raised all over his hands? Fuck . I can only imagine how veiny other parts of him are. I bet that dick he’s probably swinging around is covered in them,” I laugh.

Uncomfortable by my raunchy dramatics, he clears his throat. “For that exact reason,” he points a disapproving finger my way. “He’s–”

“My type?” I interrupt.

“Yep,” Carmine deadpans, looking past me, waving to Jose´ behind the bar for another round of drinks. “Listen I don’t have all night; Sienna is waiting for me. There’s some new spot in the city she wants me to go check out with her a couple blocks away. Um, I forget the name. Masca something.”

“Mascarillas?’ I giggle, “isn’t that a sex club?”

Me and Carmine have always been close. Even though I have my older brother Alex, Carmine is closer in age to me, so I’ve always considered him to be more like a brother than a cousin. Which accredits to our banter, but it does make it challenging at times, working for him.

His eyes widen jokingly, “I hope that’s not judgment in your voice. Over here talking about veiny dicks all casual like you would talk about the Jets or the Yankees with your fucking cousin. But me mentioning going to a sex club with my wife, is crossing the line for you? Jesus Ramos, you’re more fucked up than I thought,” he jokes.

“Sorry, it’s just you’re so,” I stop to puff out my chest for emphasis, “protective over Sienna. I can’t imagine you sharing her with anyone,” I state pointing out the obvious.

“Please. It’s for research for her next book.” He waves his hand, unintentionally wafting the smoke billowing from his mouth. Carmine’s wife, Sienna, is living the dream. Mobster wife by day, horror romance author by night. And apparently that means observing at sex clubs. Shit, count me in. “Anyway, enough about that. I need you packed and ready to head to Larchmont by the morning.”

“Larchmont?” I scoff in protest.

He shoots me a stern look. “Well, technically Sleepy Hollow, that’s where Satan’s Stiletto is. You know, the strip club your brother and I opened, across from Oogie’s Ink. It’s right on the main drag and it’s where Brett hangs out every single Thursday night without fail. I assume you’ll be staying with your mom in Larchmont, since it’s close?”

I swallow thickly. I fucking hate Larchmont, Sleepy Hollow, or pretty much anywhere that I used to frequent when papa was alive. It’s amazing how your hometown can feel so foreign the moment a loss or trauma stains what you once loved. The second I could I fled to the city to be near where Alex and Carmine live and other than calling mama every once in a while, I haven’t thought much about going back.

“Do I have to stay there? I mean the train ride isn’t that long in and out of the city,” I suggest but I can tell by the way Carmine’s lips are pursed around the dwindling edge of his cigarette he’s not having a word of it.

“Raiden,” he begins in a reprimanding tone.

“Ah, fine, it’s just—” I pause when Jose´finally greets us with a freshly poured Malbec for me and a Manhattan for Carmine.

“Thank you,” Carmine mumbles to Jose´ before motioning his hand for me to continue. “It’s just what?”

“I don’t know. The house feels so weird with just mom there since papa died.” My tone drifts.

“Even more of a reason to visit,” he says encouragingly. For a fleeting moment, I see my cousin and not the harsh boss that I’m usually presented with. “I know more than anyone what it feels like to have to live, to fucking suffer, through loss, but ignoring the ones who are still here isn’t how we should cope.” I expect him to say more but he pauses, shifting in his seat as his demeanor morphs too. “Death is a part of life. Just like it’s a part of our business. That pain you feel, anchor it, use it to get this,” he stops again, this time to point back at the picture, “motherfucker where he belongs.”

“In jail with his daddy?” I interrupt. Purposely, defaulting to sarcasm. My favorite way to deflect and cope with just about anything.

Carmine scoffs, waving a hand. “Jail? Please, that’d be a vacation for him. I want him to suffer. I want him to experience pain so unfathomable that he’ll beg for death to take him only for him to be buried alive, forced to count every fucking second it takes to fade into whatever hell awaits him.”

“What about the brother?” I ask, wondering where his fine ass fits into all of this.

“Don’t worry about him. He’ll get what’s coming to him in time. But for now, it’s Brett we need first. I’ll have your brother send over the file and get you up to speed. It’s very important you schmooze Brett. Meaning that feisty attitude we all love so much needs to be tapered–”

“Fuck that.” I scowl, immediately realizing that I’m only proving Carmine’s point. “My bad, as you were.”

Without skipping a beat, he goes right back to business. “Let him think you’re the greatest fucking thing ever because the sooner you can sneak into his life, the sooner you can take what they’ve been hiding in that house since Alistair was imprisoned.”

I nod as Carmine rises.

“I trust you can decide your alias?”

Swallowing my wine, I nod again. “Yep. Sally.”

“Nice,” he grins, likely assuming it’s after Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas which Carmine and Sienna are both obsessed with. Hence the pinstripe suits he’s always wearing and the stitched tattoo he recently opted for on his ring finger instead of a wedding band.

But I’m more of a classic horror girl. I’ve made it a point on each new assignment that requires an alias, to pick a different final girl’s name to go with. So, I figure this time I’ll go with the iconic Texas Chainsaw character.

“No, asshole. Hardesty. Texas Chainsaw.”

He raises his palms in playful defeat. “Of course, I forgot. Tim Burton isn’t gory enough for you,” he rolls his eyes and for a moment, it’s nice to see my cousin relaxed and not the hardened tough guy he has to be ninety eight percent of the time.

“Anyway, he likes brunettes,” Carmine winks.

“Perfect, I don’t have to dye my hair then.”

“No, he, as in the brother, Colson, likes brunettes. Which is why you’ll be wearing this.” He stops, taking a blunt cut blonde wig complete with what looks like the scratchiest bangs I’ve ever seen, out from his briefcase. “Good night, Sally,” he singsongs, about to step away from the table, when I yank his arm, halting his steps.

“Yes?” he drags, waiting for me to speak.

“You never told me how bad these guys are.”

“Bad,” he deadpans.

“Worse than us?” I ask, brows raised.

“Much.”

I nod, letting go of his arm. “Noted.”

He hesitates for a moment, clearing his throat. “It’s important we do this for Demonio,” he adds quickly before continuing. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but it’s not ringing any bells. “Oh, and prima. Make sure you never enter that house without at least two weapons. Concealed on your person, of course.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Also,” he drags, more sternly this time.

“Yes,” I drag back, fluttering my lashes as I await Carmine’s next directive.

“Please, for the love of whatever is up there,” he jokingly points at the sky. “Be subtle. The goal here is to infiltrate discreetly. So, nothing over the top. Meaning whatever attraction you’re feeling towards Colson Cromwell, you need to ignore it. Got it?”

“Got it,” I respond, wincing internally because that… I can’t promise.