Evan Arden 05 Irrevocable (2 page)

“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.

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 work, replaying her interaction with Rinaldo.  His slight kiss had seemed innocent enough, but his gaze had followed her out of the room in a more intimate way than he’d look at a niece or a cousin.

Rinaldo screws around on his wife, and she knows it.  Gabriella Moretti, known as Lele, is a traditional mob wife.  She knows both her husband’s business and her place in it.  She never interferes and usually just stays the hell away from the dirty parts.  Lele is a fantastic cook, and for that reason alone, Rinaldo would never jeopardize his relationship with her.  He’s messed around with hookers and club dancers but never someone in the business.

I don’t like it.  Something about her immediately sets me off, but I don’t know what it is.

The meeting ends, and Rinaldo dismisses the group.  There’s a lot of milling around as the crew discusses the details of the plan, and I use the opportunity to officially meet Rinaldo’s new security.

“Evan Arden,” I say as I reach my hand out to Paulie.

“Paulie Vecini.”  He takes my hand and squeezes it tighter than necessary.  The lame display of testosterone is almost comical.  “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

“It didn’t last,” I say with a shrug.

He laughs.

“Well, welcome back.”

“Thank you,” I reply politely.  “If there’s anything you need from a security standpoint, let me know.”

“I’m pretty sure I have everything under control,” Paulie says as he squares his shoulders and stands up straighter.  He already has a few inches on me, and the act is as amusing as his handshake.

People who feel the need to demonstrate their physical size as a means of intimidation are usually very insecure about their abilities.  I’m positive Paulie is no exception to this rule.  He narrows his eyes as he evaluates me, and the smug half-smile he displays is an indication that he doesn’t believe all those “rumors” about my skills.

I’m fine with that—let him underestimate me.  That could play to my advantage at a later date.

“Evan!” Rinaldo calls.

I excuse myself from Paulie and head over to the boss.

“Evan, meet Beni Segreti.”

Beni nods, shakes my hand, and greets me in Italian.