Criminal Pleasures (21 page)

A door creaked somewhere in the cottage and Brendan’s gut lurched as he sat up. He froze, listening. Several seconds passed. He’d just begun to assure himself that it was the wind, when he heard another soft
clack
.

He jumped out of bed and tugged on his jeans, heart beating so fast he thought it would explode out his chest. He eased toward the door, listening. Maybe Marc forgot something. But he’d have heard his car pull up again...

No, Brendan had heard that
clack
before, when they closed the sunroom door.

He couldn’t move, his body betraying him by freezing up, like a woodland creature scenting a predator. He internally screamed at himself to do something, but he couldn’t think through the fear. So he stood, and listened. He heard nothing but the whistling of wind across the water, the soft pulse of waves hitting the beach. Maybe it
was
the wind, rattling the back door.

A footstep in the hallway.

Oh, fuck
.

His eyes darted around the room, and he found his phone. He picked it up, scrolling through with shaking fingers, searching for Marc’s number.

“Give me the phone, Brendan.”

Brendan whirled around at the voice.

“Give it to me.”

With a shaking hand, Brendan handed the phone over to the small woman pointing a gun at him. Her short curly hair was wildly windblown, her brown eyes cold.

“Gina.”

Chapter Twenty

“What are you doing here?” Brendan asked, his trembling voice betraying him.

With the gun still pointed his way, Gina DiPietro glanced down at his phone in her hand, examining the screen. “Who did you call?”

“No one,” Brendan said, then thought again. “But someone’s going to be here any minute.”

She slid the phone into her coat pocket and met his eyes. “Get dressed. You’ve got some questions to answer and I don’t want to be interrupted when your little friend gets back.”
Your little friend.
So at least she hadn’t figured out who Marc was.

Never had Brendan experienced pure terror before. It was like a living thing, a cold demon taking control of his body, stealing his breath and numbing his limbs.

“I said get dressed!” she shouted, her jaw tightening.

The harshness of her tone snapped him out of his stillness, and he unzipped his bag and pulled a sweater out, tugging it on. “I wish you would tell me what this is about, Gina. You don’t need a gun, come on.” He stepped into his sneakers.

She jerked the gun toward the hallway. “Move.”

Gina ordered him down the hallway, then into the sunroom. She opened the side door. “Outside.”

Brendan stepped out onto the deck, then looked back at her.

“Down the stairs,” she said. “Move!”

Fuck. Fuck, she’s going to kill me and dump my body in the sea. I have to
do
something
.

“We can talk here,” he said. “Just tell me what you want.”

“I’m not going to tell you again, Brendan. Down the fucking stairs!” She edged toward him.

Brendan trembled, his jaw clenched in frustration. He didn’t want to die like this, on some cold beach, for something he didn’t even do. “No, Gina! If you think I’ve done something to wrong you, you’re mistaken. Please Gina, just tell me—”

Gina’s small foot shot out and connected with Brendan’s groin, sending a spear of agony into his testicles that spread like fire through his stomach. The momentum of the kick shoved him backward, and he tumbled down the wooden steps, his elbow smashing hard as he turned end over end.

His arms flailed, struggling for purchase, but his body continued to slide and turn, his chin smashing hard against wood, making him bite his tongue. He hit sand at the bottom of the stairs, the force knocking the wind from his lungs.

Cold ocean wind blew sand into his face as Brendan gasped. He coughed and spat sand and blood, finally getting his breath back. Everything hurt, and he lay still for a moment, assessing his damage. He moved his legs. Then his arms. A spear of pain shot through his elbow, and he hoped it wasn’t broken. Hot, metallic blood filled his mouth, and he turned over and spat again. His chin throbbed and there was a ringing in his ears, but he still heard Gina’s boots on the steps as she came down.

He turned and looked up at her.

“Get up,” she ordered.

Brendan gingerly climbed to his feet, wincing. Droplets of blood from his chin stained the front of his sweater, and he thought he’d vomit as he stood swaying, the cold ocean breeze tugging at him. His jeans were torn at his left knee, blood seeping from a deep scrape. He looked at Gina, noting her attire, a thick canvas jacket that shrouded her small body, leather gloves gripping the gun. She’d prepared for this. Swallowing hard, he raised his hands. “Don’t shoot me.” His lips trembled. “Please.”

“Start walking,” she said.

He turned and limped toward the water, pulses of pain stinging through his knee.

“The other way,” she barked. “Down the beach.”

Brendan turned slowly and began walking down the narrow stretch of sand on the bank of the shore. Gina followed two feet behind him. The wind whipped through his sweater, making him shiver. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Keep walking,” she said.

“Gina, please. I don’t understand this,” he said, but commenced walking.

She remained a silent shadow behind him. He continued on for what felt like a half mile, passing dark cottages up on the bank. When they reached a stretch that was devoid of houses, Gina grabbed his arm and stopped him.

“Up there,” she said.

He looked up at the sprawl of sand dunes, his breath growing shallow, stomach trembling. Could he just turn around and punch her? Knock her out? It was probably what Marc would do. But Brendan wasn’t Marc, and didn’t possess confidence enough that he could make a move before she pulled the trigger. However fast he could move, it wasn’t faster than a bullet.

Wincing with pain, he climbed up the sand, over the crest of dunes into a small valley between them, shrouded by sea grass.

“Stop and turn around. Slowly.”

Brendan turned and watched as she climbed down the dune, coming to stand in front of him.

“Get on your knees, Brendan.”

He complied, lowering himself. He hissed as his wounded knee hit the cold sand. “Please, don’t do this. I haven’t done anything to you.” His lip quivered as tears ran down his cheeks. “Please, Gina. I didn’t
do
anything!”

She took a step closer, then stopped. The gun lowered slightly, but not enough to comfort him.

Sliding something out of her pocket, she tossed it at him. “Pick it up.”

He reached over and grasped the item, a wallet sized photograph. The moon was his only light and it was difficult to see, but he made out the faded image of a dark haired woman smiling at the camera. He looked up at Gina.

“That’s my mother in the picture. Bibeta DiPietro. She started that restaurant, worked her ass off to make something of it. Because she wanted her kids to have something that would last, something that would carry on after she was gone. It was her legacy. Now it’s all gone to
shit
.”

Brendan shivered, cheeks stinging as the wind battered him.

“All her hard work and sacrifice, gone to shit. Because of some
fuckhead
snitch. So tell me, Brendan. Are you the fuckhead who set a trap for my father? Are you the fuckhead that ruined our lives?”

Brendan shook his head. “Gina, I only just met you. For Christ sakes, I went to the restaurant to check on you after the raid! Why would I do that if I was involved? I had nothing to do with it!”

“That’s what I thought. At first. I even argued with my sister Carmen when she said she didn’t trust you.” She laughed, shaking her head. “I said, no, Brendan’s a good guy. He helped me out. He helped Marcello too, with his visa application. Carmen says that makes no sense, because Brendan didn’t know Marcello last week. He was in the restaurant asking questions about him. But suddenly he’s helping him out? Coming by the restaurant, hanging around?”

“You
asked
me to come to the bar that night, you insisted on buying me a drink!”

“Yeah,” she said. “And you got out of there just in the nick of time, didn’t you? Didn’t even finish your martini.”

“Gina, I—”

“I
saw
what you did!”

Brendan shook his head. “What?”

“I
followed
you, Brendan. I saw where you went. All the way into Massachusetts. I saw you walk into that station. The fucking state police!” Her voice echoed over the dunes. “The Massachusetts police who just happened to be involved in the raid on our restaurant. So explain that to me, Brendan. Explain why a week after my father was arrested, you paid a visit to the
same fucking people
that helped put him in jail.”

Brendan’s stomach went cold, his hands tingling. His knees felt frozen to the sand, and his lips trembled uncontrollably.

“Nothing to say, Brendan?”

He wiped a trickle of blood from his chin. “That had nothing to do with you. I went there for something else.”

“Oh did you?” She took a step closer, raising the gun. “Well isn’t that just the mother of all fucking coincidences. What happened, Brendan, you have to pay a parking ticket? Bullshit! Fuck you, you
fucked
us, you little fucking shit!”

“No.” Brendan shook his head. “Gina, no. You’re wrong. I swear, I had nothing to do with the raid on your restaurant. I’m just a lawyer. You can check me out, I’m just a lawyer, I swear.”

“And I suppose it’s another coincidence that you
just
moved to Providence, that you just opened your so called law practice. Bullshit! You’re in league with the fucking cops. And you
fucked
us!”

Brendan winced, raising his hands in front of him. “I’m not. Please, Gina. I didn’t have anything to do with it. You have to believe me.”

“Then
make
me believe you! Tell me why you went to the police station. Or I’ll put a bullet in your fucking brain. And don’t try my patience, sweetheart, because I am
all
the fuck out.”

“Gina, no. I went to the police station for another reason. I...we can go back to Providence, I can prove to you I had nothing to do with any of that stuff with your family.”

“Prove it to me now. Right here. I’m listening,” she said. “Better make it good. Because if I don’t believe you, you’re fucking dead. And don’t think I won’t shoot you, because I fucking will!” she shrieked. “I’ll blow a hole through your fucking head!”

“Put the gun down, Gina,” a voice called from the darkness.

Gina whirled around, and Brendan saw Marc, moving slowly toward them down a slope of sand. He still wore the black hooded sweatshirt, but his head was bare.

Gina stared as Marc approached. He stopped four feet from her, hands up in a placating gesture.

She shook her head, then shook it again. “
Marcello
?”

He lowered his hands slowly. “Put the gun
down
, Gina.”

She took a hiccupping breath. “Marcello, what are you doing here?” She glanced at Brendan, then back at Marc. “What the fuck are you
doing
here?”

“I’ll explain,” he said. “If you put the gun down.”

Tilting her head, she took a slow step toward him. “Why aren’t you in Italy? And why are you talking so funny?” A sound escaped her, part laugh, part sob, and she stumbled, catching herself. “You...” She shook her head. “You’re not really my cousin. Are you?”

Marc stayed where he was, hands at his sides. “You’re not a criminal, Gina. You’re not a killer. I know this. You’re a mother. A good person. Please, drop the gun. Then we can talk.”

She stared at Marc, her face twisted in a grimace. She shook her head slowly, then looked back at Brendan. “You were in this together.” She raised the gun, pointing it at Brendan.

“No, Gina!” Marc took a step toward her. “Not Brendan. Just me.”

She kept the gun on Brendan, her hand trembling.

“Gina!” Marc shouted. “It was me. I tipped off the cops. Not Brendan.”

Gina giggled, but tears streamed from her eyes.

Brendan stopped breathing.
I’m going to die. Right here, I’m going to die tonight
.

“Please,” Marc said. “It’s over. Drop the gun, Gina.”

“Marcello,” she said softly. “I loved you.” She shook her head. “We all loved you.”

“Drop the gun, Gina. You don’t want to do this.”

She turned her head slowly toward Marc, then swung the gun around, pointing it at his head. “Oh yeah,” she said. “I really fucking do.”

Gunfire exploded in an echoing flash, and Brendan screamed, falling forward onto his hands, his stomach jerking as he started to hyperventilate. His ears hummed. Blurred with tears, his eyes fought to see through the darkness.

Gina lay twisted on the sand, legs bent awkwardly, her body still. In front of her, Marc was on his knees, gun in his hands, arms out straight. His head turned and he looked at Brendan. “Are you okay?”

Brendan nodded, then gasped out a sob.
Alive. Marc’s alive.

Marc climbed to his feet and side stepped over to Gina, gun pointed down at her. He leaned over and touched her, turning her head as he felt her neck.

“Fuck!” Marc screamed, then fell back onto the sand, tucking his arms around his knees. Gulping out a sob, he looked at Gina. “Fuck, fuck,
fuck
!” he screamed, slapping his forehead with the palm of his hand.

His stomach still hitching, Brendan crawled toward him.

Marc looked at Brendan, his eyes wet with tears. “She fired,” he said, his mouth twisting. “I had no choice. She fired!”

Brendan climbed to his feet and looked down at Gina. A dark blood stain saturated her coat over her belly. He fell to his knees, dizziness making fireflies dance before his eyes.

He was dimly aware of Marc shuffling over to him, then his hands were on Brendan’s face. “Breathe, baby. You’ve got to breathe. Here, head between your knees.”