Irrevocable

By Shay Savage

Have you ever made a mistake?
A big one?
I’m back in Chicago and back in business with my boss, Rinaldo Moretti. So much for my run at a normal life. There are some new faces in the organization, and someone’s been cooking the books. Personally? I think they’re after more than a just little cash. If I have any hopes of flushing out the traitor, I’m going to need to find a good hooker to help me sleep at night.
As the bodies pile up, I find solace in Alina. There’s something about her, something different. She understands me without asking a lot of questions. It’s as if she’s known me for years, yet we’ve only just met. If I weren’t so distracted by business, I’d try to figure out her story. She’s the only one keeping me grounded as my world spins out of control.
I’m going to lose the one man who has ever meant anything to me – the only man to ever call me son. I want to deny his request, but there is no avoiding what awaits me. I never wanted any of this, but I’m out of options, and time is running out.
Some choices have unforeseen consequences, and some choices are simply irrevocable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shay Savage
• Release date: Dec 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9780986320323

Shay Savage

Shay Savage is an independent author from Cincinnati, Ohio, where she lives with her family and a variety of household pets. She is an accomplished public speaker and holds the rank of Distinguished Toastmaster from Toastmasters International. Her hobbies include off-roading in her big, yellow Jeep, science fiction in all forms, and soccer. Savage holds a degree in psychology, and she brings a lot of that knowledge into the characters within her stories.From the author: “It’s my job to make you FEEL. That doesn’t always mean you’ll feel good, but I want my readers to be connected enough to my characters to care.”Savage’s books many books span a wide variety of topics and sub-genres with deeply flawed characters. From cavemen to addicts to hitmen, you’ll find yourself falling for these seemingly irredeemable characters!

Book preview

Dedication

This is for Anthony and all the men and women who have served.  You are appreciated, supported, and loved.  You are never forgotten.

And to Adam, my friend and Evan Arden muse.  I’m very thankful to have you as part of my life!

Special thanks to everyone on my street team for all the love and support!  You know I can’t get far without all of you.  You keep me on track and constantly encourage me even when I’m not feeling it.  I treasure each and every one of you.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter 1—Typical Night

Chapter 2—New Faces

Chapter 3—Family Ties

Chapter 4—Stolen Cargo

Chapter 5—Complicated Companions

Chapter 6—Random Encounters

Chapter 7—Untrustworthy Associates

Chapter 8—Stress Relief

Chapter 9—Missing Person

Chapter 10—Compromised Position

Chapter 11—Unsettling Complications

Chapter 12—Troubling Knowledge

Chapter 13—Broken Security

Chapter 14—Devastating News

Chapter 15—Impulsive Arrangement

Chapter 16—Startling Discovery

Chapter 17—Beyond Duty

Chapter 18—Uncovered Betrayal

Chapter 19—Resolved Agreement

Chapter 20—Unplanned Encounter

Chapter 21—New Leadership

Chapter 22—Final Piece

Chapter 23—Miraculous Awakening

Chapter 24—Different Outlook

Epilogue—Otherwise Healed

Author’s Note

More Books by Shay Savage

About the Author

Chapter 1—Typical Night

I’m fucking annoyed.

I toss my keys on the counter and try not to sigh audibly.  The blonde hooker in the tight red skirt drops a stupidly large purse next to my couch and turns to me with her hand on her hip.  She smiles with lips that match her clothing and then goes back to snapping her chewing gum.

My vision blurs a little, and I have to place my hand on the counter to keep from swaying.  I’m not sure when I last slept for more than an hour at a time; I only know it’s been far too long.  I need sleep, and this is the only way.

Yer a quiet one, the hooker says.  Her mouth opens and closes rapidly.  I can see the little piece of red gum in contrast to her lipstick.

I have no idea what her name is.  If I asked when I picked her up on the corner, I don’t remember her answer.  The chewing was too distracting.

I stare at the countertop for a long moment, trying to focus my thoughts.  The counter is dark grey granite, and it reminds me that I’m still not used to the new place.  I had originally planned to move back into my old apartment near Lakeshore East Park, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.  I saw reminders everywhere.  Now I’m only a couple of blocks away from there in a high-rise one-bedroom with a great view of the river.  It’s not a big place, but I don’t need a lot of room.

It’s only me after all.

So, whatcha lookin’ for tonight?

I pull a beer out of the refrigerator without responding.  As soon as I’ve popped off the cap, I realize I don’t want it, and offer it to the hooker instead.  Hopefully, she’ll discard the gum to drink the beer.

She doesn’t.  Instead, she downs the beer and goes right back to chewing.

Do ya have any music? she inquires.  I could dance for ya.

Her voice reminds me of a caricature out of an Edward G. Robinson movie or maybe an I Love Lucy episode.  It’s high-pitched and whiny, regardless of the words she utters.  It grates on my nerves.  I obviously should have talked to her before picking her up instead of just looking at her ass.

I’m tired, I finally say as I rub my eyes.

Well, let’s getcha ta bed then!

The hooker steps up to me and places her hands on my chest.  She trails her fingers down to my stomach before lifting her head and pressing her lips to mine.  I respond automatically, taking her tongue into my mouth and gripping her backside with my hand.  I can taste the beer laced with cinnamon, and it’s rather revolting.  When she reaches down to palm my dick, I grab her wrist.

Come on, I say.  This way.

I end all physical contact with her and head for my bedroom.  She follows, and I can still hear the smacking of her gum.

Spit that shit out of your mouth.  I point at a small, lined trashcan next to the bed.

You got it, she says.

It sounds like she’s hocking a loogie when she spits it out.  I can’t help but sigh out loud this time as I close my eyes and shake my head a bit.  Maybe I’d do better hooking up with a girl in a bar rather than a streetwalker.  It’s cheaper, at least.  Then again, I could end up with someone who expects me to call her in the morning instead of just handing her cash on the way out the door.  I don’t need that kind of complication.

I pull my shirt over my head and toss it at the laundry hamper.  The garment hits the top and falls to the ground beside it.  Normally, that would bother me enough to go pick it up and place it inside, but I’m too tired to care.  I waver a little as I unbuckle my belt and pull it through the loops of my jeans.

The hooker comes up behind me and wraps her arms around my waist.  She runs her hands up my chest as she presses her cheek to my back.  I place my hands over hers and turn around to face her.  She places her mouth on mine immediately.

When she grips my ass with both hands, I pull back just a bit.  I’m feeling dizzy, and I don’t think I can stand much longer.  When she grabs for my dick again, I push her away.

She looks up at me with slightly narrowed eyes.

Look, I say as I take her chin in my hand, I really am tired.  Right now, I just want to go to sleep, you got it?

Her eyes are wide as she nods slightly.  Maybe I sound harsher than I intend to, but I’m exhausted and my patience is wearing thin.  I probably shouldn’t have just grabbed the first available prostitute.  I should have found a nice demure one instead.

Do they make them that way?

My thoughts dart to Bridgett, and I clench my teeth against the memory.  Yes, she had been a little on the demure side.  She wasn’t street-hardened or a junkie.  She was sweet and kind.  What did it get her?  A bullet in the head, that’s what.

What the hell did you drag me all the way up here for, then?

I am starting to wonder if this particular prostitute is destined for the same fate.

Just—just lie down. I sound like an ass, but I don’t really know what else to tell her.  Admitting that I can’t sleep unless there’s someone in the bed with me sounds so ridiculous.  I’ll fuck you in the morning.

Seriously?

Yes.  I drop my jeans down around my ankles, realizing I haven’t taken off my boots yet.  I don’t think I can actually bend over and untie them without landing on the floor.

Yer gonna pay for me to just sleep in your bed all night? she asks.  I mean, there ain’t no discount or anything.

"I’m not looking for a discount, I say, snapping at her.  I sit on the edge of the bed in my boxers and reach down to unlace my boots.  For fuck’s sake, I just want to go to sleep!"

Once my boots and socks are off with my jeans piled up on top of them, I put my hands over my face and rub my eyes again.  My stomach turns over, and for a moment, I think I’m actually going to throw up.  I hate that feeling, and I swallow hard against it.

M’kay, she says in a softer voice, we’ll just sleep or whateva.

I inhale a long breath through my nose and nod once.  I turn and crawl up to the head of the bed and practically collapse on the pillow.  It’s cool against my face, but it warms quickly.  The hooker slides in beside me, pulls the blanket back, and wraps it around us both.

I wrap one arm around her, appreciating the warmth only briefly before I feel myself starting to fade.  She says something to me, but I can’t comprehend the words before I fall asleep.

Left ten degrees, Zach, my spotter, says quietly.  Top of the building.

I look up and then adjust my scope.  I can see the target clearly and begin to take careful aim.  Zach calculates the wind speed, and I make an additional adjustment before pulling back on the trigger.

Blasts come from all around us, and the chunk of the brick I’m hiding behind explodes into dust around me.

We’ve been heard!

We pull back, and more shots rain down on us.  It only takes another thirty seconds for us to realize we are surrounded.

We’re fucked, Arden!

No, we aren’t.  I calmly place the Barrett up to my shoulder and aim through the dust and debris.  I fire three times before I hear Zach’s scream.

Man down! I cry into my radio.  Marshall’s been hit!

There is nothing but the dust falling all around me and the sound of gunfire in my ears.  Zach’s screams diminish as voices through my radio crackle incoherently.

My head pounds along with my heart as I awaken.  My throat is dry, and I can’t breathe.  It’s as if my whole chest has seized up on me, and I feel the panic as it takes over my body.  It starts with my feet, travels up my legs, embeds itself in my gut, and then finally escapes through my mouth as I gasp and choke.  I’m shaking as I look around the room.

The bed is empty.

I want to call out for…for…I don’t know her name.  The light isn’t on in the bathroom, and the door is still standing open, so she isn’t in there.  Did she leave?  Did she fucking walk out on me?

I register the sound of people talking from the other room.  A man speaks slowly, and then a woman answers him at a faster pace.  They’re arguing, but I can’t hear the words.

She betrayed me.

How?  Why?

It doesn’t matter.  I’m too well known in Chicago, and there are plenty of people willing to offer someone money in exchange for information about me.  It isn’t the first time I’ve been screwed over by hired pussy.

I roll to my side, grab the Beretta from the nightstand drawer, and I check the indicator to make sure there’s a bullet in the chamber.  It’s fully loaded and ready for whoever is in my apartment.  I climb off the backside of the bed and make my way silently to the bedroom door.

When I hear the sound of gunfire, I can feel my muscles tighten in alert.  I grip the weapon tighter as my heart begins to pound.  Another shot.  Another.

The sound isn’t right.  It registers in the back of my head, but I can’t quite make sense of it at first.  I realize the sound is too quiet—too muffled.

Silencer?

No—it’s not like that, either.

Still tensed, I take a quick peek out the door.  There are no lights on in the living room, but there is a familiar, eerie glow.

The television.

I close my eyes for a moment, take a shaky breath, and rub my head to clear it.  The voices argue a little louder, and I recognize the man’s as Keanu Reeves.

Despite the realization, I can’t seem to shake the feeling of being on high alert.  The adrenaline continues to flow through my system as more gunfire erupts from the TV’s speakers.  With the gun still in my hand, I walk out into the living room.

She’s there on the couch, wearing nothing but her bra and panties—bright red, just like her skirt, lips, and gum.  On the far side of the room, flickering in the light from the television, there’s a vision of an Iraqi teenager.  He raises his hand and points his finger at me as if he’s holding a gun.

Fucking hallucinations.  The less sleep I have, the more this kid appears around me.  I ignore him and look back to the whore on the couch.

What the fuck are you doing!

The hooker startles and nearly falls off the couch.  She sees the gun aimed at her head, screams, and scrambles off the furniture onto the floor and around the edge of the coffee table.

She’s screaming, crying, and I honestly don’t know if I’m going to shoot her or not.

One thing I wanted—one thing! I’m still shaking, and I can’t seem to stop.  Just fucking sleep with me!

I stalk a few steps closer to her, and she pushes herself back with her heels.

Don’t fucking move! She heeds the warning in my voice and stops.

I’m sorry!  I just wanted to watch a movie!

Turn that shit off!  I motion with the gun toward the television, and she grapples for the remote, rapidly presses buttons, and the screen goes black.

She holds the remote to her chest as tears stream down her face.  The room is now silent except for her crying and my quick breathing.  I close my eyes, trying to regain control, but it doesn’t work.  Instead, I’m overcome by nausea for a moment.

I need to sleep.

Get back in that bed!  I don’t even open my eyes as I snap at her.

I will!  I will! she stammers, but I don’t hear her move.

Now!  I open my eyes and glare at her.

She scrambles quickly, making her way around me while keeping as much distance between us as possible.  At the last second, she turns her back to me and runs through the bedroom doorway.

I follow, and she’s cowering on the floor near the bed.  I feel my finger tense around the trigger of the Beretta, and I still don’t know what I’m going to do.

She’d left me alone, which is a betrayal as far as I am concerned.  I just needed her to stay there long enough for me to get a few hours of peaceful sleep, and she’d abandoned me for a fucking movie.

I can’t catch my breath, and my gut aches as if I’ve just done a hundred sit-ups.  I can taste sand in my mouth, and I feel like retching.  My fingers tighten uncontrollably around the grip of the Beretta, and I can feel my pulse in my temple.

Even in my agitated state, I know I’m overreacting.  The hooker at my feet is terrified, and I still need her.  If I kill her now, I’ll have to go out and find another one.  I’m not even sure I can drive at this point.  Ultimately, I don’t want to clean up a big mess, so I point the gun away from her and try to calm my voice.

I’m not going to kill you, I say slowly.  Get up off the floor.

She does as I say, still blubbering.

Don’t shoot me!  Please don’t shoot me!

I just said I wasn’t going to do that, I say slowly, still trying to relax.

She’s got her eyes trained on the gun, and I realize I can’t just leave it out in the open.  As soon as I’m asleep, she won’t hesitate to use it against me.  I don’t know if she realizes who I am, but I can’t take the risk.

I walk with purpose to the closet, open the door, and look at her eyes as I tap the combination into the safe inside.  I deposit the gun on top of a bunch of paper and cash and then close the safe again.

Not going to kill you, I say again.

She can only nod in response.

Get back in bed.

She complies, but she’s trembling all over as I approach.  I feel like I’m dealing with a wounded animal, and I don’t have the patience for it right now.  It’s taking all my energy to keep myself from shaking.  The gunshot blasts from the television are still echoing in my ears.

Strangely enough, they never bother me when I’m the one pulling the trigger.

I close my eyes, center myself, and then crawl back into bed beside the hooker.  I settle against the pillow and meet her eyes.

I need sleep, I tell her.  If you leave, I’ll wake up again, capisce?

I didn’t know, she says quietly, not meeting my eyes.

You know now.  My words are too harsh, and I feel her stiffen beside me.  I need sleep and quiet and no fucking television.  You stay put.

I will.  Her voice is barely audible.

I reach over and pull her tense body against me.  With my head on the pillow, I close my eyes and try to ignore the pounding in my head.  My breath comes too fast, and I know if I open my eyes, I’ll see that kid across the room.  I can feel his presence even when I don’t look in his direction.  I suppose that makes sense since he’s just a figment of my imagination.  The real one was buried long ago.

It takes a while, but eventually I fall asleep again.

When I wake, I immediately realize I’m not alone.  There is a brief moment when I search for the familiar scent of a girl who is long gone, but I smell only cinnamon.  It brings back my recollection of last night, and with a little trepidation, I look to the sleeping hooker in my bed.

To say that I had treated her like shit would be an understatement.

I unwrap myself from her and make a quick trip to the bathroom.  My head is clear now, and though I don’t check the time, I know I’ve managed to sleep a good eight hours or more.  There’s light coming in around the curtains in the bedroom, and it’s likely late in the morning.  The hooker is still sleeping when I return, and I crawl back under the sheet beside her.

The movement must be enough to wake her because she opens her eyes and glances at me as I settle against the pillow.  I look at her red-rimmed eyes and smeared makeup, telling myself I should be convincing her how sorry I am, but I don’t say a word.

I don’t feel any remorse, and I don’t think I can manage to sound sincere.  I know I freaked her out, but she didn’t come to any actual harm, so I can’t bring myself to feel sorry.  The closest I can come is a slight twinge of embarrassment for losing my shit.

The hooker rolls toward me, and the lacy material of her red bra bunches up around her tit, exposing her nipple.  I lick my lips as I feel my cock react to the sight.  She doesn’t miss my look, and presses her body closer to mine.

Without a word, she reaches into the opening of my boxers and wraps her fingers around my dick.  She slides her hand up and down slowly until I’m completely hard and throbbing.  Before I lose myself in the feeling, I grab her wrist and stop the motion.

Why are you doing that? I ask.

Well, ya said ya wanted to fuck me in the morning.  The nonchalance in her voice is a little unnerving.

I’d scared the hell out of her, and though I’m not about to apologize for it, I can’t help but feel like I owe her something.

You don’t have to, I tell her.

It’s my job, she replies with a shrug.  That’s what ya brought me here for.

If I were a better man, I would just tell her to get dressed and take her back where I found her.  I’d still pay her full price for the entire night because she did what I really needed her to do, which was to help me sleep.  I’m not a better man, though.  I’m not even a good one, and I don’t make the offer.  I’d had a decent night’s sleep, and I’d woken up horny.

She is right—she’s here for a reason.

Roll over, I tell her as I reach over to the nightstand to find a condom.  Up on your knees.

She complies, understanding what I want without me having to say it.  I kneel behind her, and as I place my hands on her hips, she tenses.  It’s only brief, but I still feel it.  I want to take her in the ass and have a vague memory of telling her that last night, but now I feel like I should go easy on her.  I close my eyes for a moment and then slip my fingers in her pussy.

She’s nowhere near ready for me, so I take a little time to play with her before I take my cock in my hand, roll a condom over it, and slowly press against her opening.  I rub her clit as I take her from behind, but I can tell her moans are faked.  Giving up on the pretenses, I run my hands over her ass, close my eyes, and lose myself to the feeling of her warmth around my dick.

It’s been a while, and I don’t last long.  She seems relieved when I finish and pull out of her.  She doesn’t look at me as she rolls off the bed and grabs for her clothes on the floor.

She dresses as I take a shower.  We don’t speak as I walk her out of my apartment and head to the lower floor and the parking garage.  The rusted out Volvo station wagon I acquired from a parking lot near the airport clacks and clunks as I start it up.  The whore says nothing as I pull out of the garage and onto the street, and I only glance at her once when I have to stop at a red light.  She stares out the window with makeup-smeared eyes.  Her hair is a mess around her shoulders.

I have to stop for gas before I go too far.  As I pull into the BP station off Congress Parkway, I have to navigate around a homeless guy holding a cardboard sign asking for food.  He has a long, grey beard and looks to be about a hundred and ten years old.  He’s disheveled and thin, wearing a coat that isn’t nearly warm enough for a Chicago winter.  I ignore his pleading looks as I fill up the tank.  The whore in my car continues to stare into space.  When I climb back into the car, I fish some bills out of my wallet.

Here, I say as I hand her a wad of cash.  It’s more than her rate, but I figure I owe her a little extra for putting up with me.

She doesn’t count it.  Instead, she shoves it into her purse without making eye contact.  As soon as I pull up to the street corner where I first saw her, she opens the car door and leaves without a word.

I have the feeling finding a decent hooker is going to be an ongoing problem.

Chapter 2—New Faces

Two days, zero sleep.  I can’t even lie down in bed for more than ten minutes.  Ralph is hanging out in my kitchen, watching me silently.

Ralph is the name I’ve decided to give the vision of the kid I killed in Iraq.  I was tired of just referring to him as that kid in my head, and I see him too much not to give him a name.  I’ve started talking to him more often as well.  I’m not sure what that says about me.  I know I’m fucked up—I’ve never denied it.

When you know you are crazy, does that make you more sane or less sane?

You’d be more useful if you’d make breakfast, I say to Ralph.  He doesn’t respond, but I go on anyway.  Even a pot of coffee would be better than nothing.

I scramble up a couple of eggs and eat them with dry toast.  I don’t have a lot of time.  Rinaldo Moretti has called an early meeting today, and I don’t want to be late.  It’s the first time I’ve done anything official since I got back from Seattle, and I want to keep the boss-man happy.

The Volvo won’t start, so I take the bus to Rinaldo’s office.  It’s only a few blocks from the bus stop, and even though the wind gusting around the building is bitterly cold, I enjoy being out in the open air.  It’s also easier to ignore Ralph in the crowded street.

Rinaldo’s office is a bare, tan brick building with five stories and very few windows.  Many of the offices inside are only sparsely furnished and otherwise empty.  Sometimes they’re used for temporary storage of whatever illegal shipments we have coming in and out of Chicago, but most of them remain unused.  Only the fourth floor sees any action.

I run up the steps, keeping my breath nice and steady as I go.  There are elevators, but I prefer a little exercise.  I don’t know how long this is going to take, and I get a little agitated when I sit for a long time.

Most of the important people are already in the large office when I arrive.  I take quick note of everyone as I sit on a small, uncomfortable couch.  There are three people I haven’t met before—two men and one woman—but the rest of the faces are familiar.

Rinaldo gives me a nod and starts talking business.  There are two large shipments arriving on Tuesday, and everyone has his or her part to play.  Rinaldo’s even incorporating a few people from a recently disbanded mob family—that of Gavino Greco.  He came out a loser in the death-match tournament I’d participated in as a means to end the mafia wars in Chicago.

Greco is now out of the picture altogether—shipped back to Sicily and probably hiding out, waiting for an assassin to show up at his doorstep.  No one has approached me for the job though I’d do it gladly.  Greco and his people had caused me more than enough headaches in the past.

Greco’s demise has left only the Russians in the area as far as organized crime goes.  They have their numbers, but they’ve been good about sticking to their own side of town.  There have been some rumblings of gangs from Auburn Gresham on the far south side of Chicago—something about heroin distribution—but otherwise, things have been quiet.

This is the biggest one we’ve had in months, so no fuckups.

I’m only half listening to Rinaldo.  He’s going over gun shipments and acquisition strategies, not killing, so I don’t need all the details.  Other members of his crew are listening intently to his words, but I watch them instead.

To my left is Jonathan Ferris.  He’s a hacking genius, able to bust into any computer system on the planet, as far as I know.  Jonathan introduced me to Rinaldo Moretti years ago, and I have been his key hit man ever since.  Some might think that’s a bad thing, but I’m pretty sure I’d be dead by now if Jonathan hadn’t brought me to Chicago.  He falls into a very small category of people I can trust.

Jonathan’s a pretty carefree guy.  He doesn’t take himself or even this business too seriously and prefers to just tinker around with his computers and other electronic devices.  That’s what he’s doing now.  He’s got a cell phone opened up, and he’s poking around at the insides.  I have no idea what he hopes to accomplish, but it’s probably related to Rinaldo’s defense plan for an upcoming shipment.

On the other side of Jonathan is Nick Wolfe, Rinaldo’s illegitimate son.  As much as I might like to hate the irresponsible pothead, I just can’t.  He makes me laugh, and that’s a rare thing.  He’s been trying to get his shit together, but he just isn’t cut out for this kind of life.  Being born into it didn’t serve him well.  He was good at being a millionaire playboy, but even that came to an end when he met Milena.  Now they’re engaged, but she’s from the Russian side of the business, and we aren’t in a Shakespeare-inspired play.  Though I quietly think they’re doomed, I never say anything about it.  Maybe it will work out.  It would be nice if someone around here got some happiness.

Nine o’clock is the pickup time, Rinaldo says.  I’m going to need plenty of cover, Evan.

Yes, sir, I respond automatically.  I’m quite familiar with the drop-off point and not concerned about the logistics.  We’ve used that spot before, but there are three places for me to set up, including one I haven’t used before.  It’s tight.

Good.  Rinaldo nods at me before he continues.

Lucia Moretti, Rinaldo’s daughter and heir apparent, sits across from Nick and tries to focus on her father’s every word but is failing.  She’s picking at the peeling nail polish on her thumb and is probably going to have a meltdown if she doesn’t get a fresh manicure soon.

Rinaldo wants her to take over the business when he retires.  He’s also not sure she can handle it.  I’m positive she can’t.  She’s the perfect debutante if that’s what he needs, but this business requires force of hand, and Lucia has none of that.  I keep waiting for Rinaldo to find the perfect match for her so he has proper support for his businesses when he retires, but Lucia remains unattached.

Beni Segreti, Rinaldo’s third or fourth cousin, I can’t remember which, stands with the two guys who are responsible for all the loading and unloading of gun shipments, leaning against the windowsill on the far side of Rinaldo’s office.  Beni was big in Italy and is expected to rise quickly in the Chicago businesses.  He had just come on board around the time I was leaving Chicago, presumably for good.  Though I had looked him up when I got back into town, this is the first time I’ve seen him in person.  He is supposed to be quite the shooter, but I will have to see him in action and make my own call on that subject.  Rinaldo trusts him, and that goes a long way with me.

There are a handful of others in the room as well but very few of note—mostly couriers and backup guards.

Rinaldo speaks to the people I haven’t met before, and I make note of their names.

Paulie, I want you near me at all times.  Evan’s your backup, but I’ll need you close.

You should wear a vest, Paulie says.  I look at him and notice he has the same eyes as Rinaldo’s cousin and assume he’s also in the Moretti family.  He could even be Beni’s brother though Paulie has at least a head on Beni in height and forty more pounds of muscle.  He’s an intimidating figure physically.

Why is that?  Rinaldo narrows his eyes a bit.

Because I can’t be everywhere.  Paulie crosses his arms over his chest and stares right back at the boss.

I think he’s right, sir, I say.  It can’t hurt.

Rinaldo eyes me for a moment before reluctantly agreeing.

Becca is taking care of inventory, Rinaldo says as he continues.  Cody will need copies of the lists.

Cody’s a little guy—thin and wiry with curly blond hair—and he’s been a courier in Rinaldo’s crew for several years.  I don’t know him well, but he is loyal enough.  He’s in the business for the money, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.  When issues arise, he always does his best to help out.

I’ve got lists of everything coming in, Becca says, so if that changes, I’ll need to know immediately.

She runs a hand through her spiky, bleached-white hair and looks back at her notebook.  She’s about my age if I had to guess, and she’s dressed as if she were ready for a night out at a goth club—all black leather and lace.  Paulie watches her every move out of the corner of his eye.  He probably thinks he’s being subtle, but she definitely knows he’s looking.  She leans forward a little, causing her shirt to gap in the front and show off her cleavage.

I tune out Rinaldo’s words and go back to watching the group, trying to keep track of every detail I notice.  Nick’s eyes are a little glazed over, and he’s quickly devouring a bag of trail mix, but that’s no surprise.  Lucia’s trying to look interested in the discussion, but is far more interested in the phone texts she’s been receiving all morning.  I haven’t been close enough to be able to see who they are from, but she has to contain her smile as she reads.

Maybe she has found a guy.

Cody has a song stuck in his head.  He keeps tapping his foot rhythmically, making himself stop and then tapping again.  I watch his mouth to see if he lip-syncs some words, but he doesn’t, so I have no way of knowing what song it is.  I don’t listen to a lot of music, so I probably wouldn’t recognize the lyrics anyway.

Becca is taking copious notes, and I wonder if she’s also taken on all the secretarial duties, not just inventory.  She nods at everything Rinaldo says, but she must be jotting everything down in shorthand or something because her notes are far too brief.

Beni interjects a lot in a thick Italian accent.  He’s trying; I can see that.  Many of his ideas are shot down by Rinaldo, but that doesn’t stop Beni from interrupting the next time he has half a thought.  Whenever he catches Lucia’s eye, he winks at her.

Something is off, but I can’t figure out what.

I’m typically very perceptive.  Most people don’t realize it, but they give away little clues about their lives all the time.  It might be the way they are standing or sitting, or it could be how they react when someone asks them a question.  I’ve always watched for such things, but I feel as if I’m off my game.

I need another hooker.

I’m agitated, and it’s taking every ounce of control I have to not visibly fidget.  Paulie flicks his revolver’s safety on and off with his thumb, and it’s pissing me off.  I’m tempted to pull my Beretta out, release the safety, and point it at his head.  I rub my fingers into my temple instead.

A woman walks into the room.  She’s tall with wavy, dark blonde hair and bright pink fingernails.  She’s dressed casually in jeans and a fuzzy black and white sweater.  I’ve never seen her before, but her presence doesn’t impact the other members of Rinaldo’s crew as she walks straight over to him and leans close, whispering.

Rinaldo smiles at whatever she’s said to him.  He gives her a nod and a peck on the cheek before she walks back out, closing the door behind her.

Who’s that? I ask Jonathan.

Felisa, Jonathan informs me.  She’s been around for a few months.  She was studying in New York or somethin’ before she moved here.  She’s family.

Whose family? I ask.  Rinaldo’s?

Not directly, he says.  But in the family, ya know.  First gen. She’s a Bianchi, I think.

I nod as my mind begins to