Vendetta (3 page)

He’s going to regret doing that.

I splash some water on my face, and decide to look around one more time. There has to be something I could use. Anything.

And then it hits me.

The mirror.

I look around for something to smash it with, but the only thing sturdy enough is a lamp with brass stand on the small bedside table. I guess it’s going to have to do. I use it to crack the mirror, and manage to pull out a piece of glass, cursing when I accidentally cut across my palm.

Exiting the bathroom, I look around the room to find something to wrap the piece of mirror in. My eyes land on the flimsy scarf he used to gag me. Fucking asshole. I wrap it around one end, making sure it’s as thick as I can get it so as not to cut myself again when I use it. After hiding it under my pillow, I sit back down on the bed to wait for whatever he has in store for me.

I play out various scenarios in my head, hoping to prepare myself for whatever is going to happen next. My fighting skills are limited to basic self-defense, a few classes here and there. I should have been better prepared for this moment, I realize. There’s only one thing I’m skilled in—shooting. My father insisted on it, and Dom taught me how to shoot. It doesn’t mean shit, since it’s doubtful I’ll be lucky enough to get my hands on a gun.

I don't know how much later, the door opens, and
he
walks inside. He’s shadowed, but I’d recognize his silhouette anywhere. He carries a plastic plate of food and a bottle of water, and places it on the floor.

On the floor. Like I’m a pet, or something.

My stomach growls loudly as the food smell hits my nose, reminding me I haven’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch.

“What do you want from me?” I ask him, trying to keep my voice strong and unwavering. I assume I’m here so he can collect a ransom from my dad, but I could be wrong. I know that he’d willingly pay whatever they want in order to get me back.

Devon stands there, watching me in silence. When he finally takes a step forward I stand up and walk straight up to him. The way he eyes me with disdain makes me bristle.

“You’re not going to get away with this,” I spit out at him, my hands trembling in fury.

“I'm pretty sure I already did.” He gives me a cocky grin that I'd really like to wipe off his face. “You're here, aren't you?” he asks, lifting his shoulder in a shrug. I move closer, invading his personal space, hoping to get any kind of reaction from him. He shakes his head, watching me in amusement. “Yeah, that's not going to work this time.”

I lift my hand to slap him but he catches it before I make contact with his face. I maneuver my leg to knee him in the balls but he blocks me just in time. I elbow him in the stomach, which is as hard as a rock, and I’m sure it hurts me more than it does him. Gripping my upper arms, he drags me through the room, pushing me face down onto the bed.

“You raise your hand to me again and you
will
regret it. Next time I'll send someone up here who isn’t as nice as me. Now get used to your surroundings, cause you’re going to be here for a while,” he says.

I inch my hand under the pillow searching for the piece of glass. As soon as he takes his weight off me, I turn and swing my arm, trying to cut him anywhere I can. It's a small victory when the shard makes contact with his arm, cutting his skin, but it’s nothing serious. He grabs me by the shoulder and pins me down again.

“Fuck,” he curses, taking in the weapon. I squeeze it in my hand and try to swing again, letting him know I won’t give it up. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” He pries the shard out of my clenching fingers, and then puts his hand around my neck, squeezing.

Warning.

“You move, and I’ll fucking kill you,” he growls, strengthening his grip. I let my body go limp.

He looks at his hand around my throat, and then his eyes find mine. I try to swallow, but he's practically suffocating me. He snatches his hand away and I gasp for air.

“I didn’t even think of the fucking mirror,” he mutters to himself, sounding shocked, and maybe even a little impressed. He pulls out some rope from his back pocket. His fucking pocket. The man is psychotic.

“Now, you’re going to stay here like a good girl until I clean up your mess,” he says condescendingly, binding my hands together, raising them above my head, and then tying them to the iron headboard. “Try and move, and you'll regret it.”

I can still feel his fingers wrapped around my throat. I fucking despise him.

He strides out of the room, coming back with a bag, dustpan and broom, and various tools. I ignore him as he cleans up, and when I hear the drill I know he’s taking down the rest of the mirror. I squirm, trying to remove the binds, but he’s tied them too tight. Bastard must have been a boy scout or something. Just my luck.

“Anything else up your sleeve?” he asks, chuckling as he walks past the bed and outside the door, the broken mirror in his arms.

I bang my head on the headboard.
Seven fucking years of bad luck, all for nothing.

This time he comes back empty handed. He leans over me, untying me, and frowns when he sees the blood dripping down my palm. I rub my wrists as he leaves once more. Each time he locks the door behind him, obviously not taking any chances. He returns what must be half an hour later, carrying a huge bag.

“Clothes, toiletries and shit,” he says, dumping the bag on the floor. Then he surprises me by throwing me a package of Band-Aids.

I look at him curiously, my eyes dancing between the Band-Aids and him.

“Don't want any more blood on my sheets.”

I narrow my eyes. Fucking asshole. I grab for the package, taking out one Band-Aid. His gaze burns through me, but I ignore him. I apply it to the cut across my palm, and then I touch the side of my face, trying not to wince in pain. “I could use some painkillers, too,” I tell him.

“Yeah. Tough luck,” he says, shrugging.

“Why the hell are you being so mean?” I never thought he would be like this. The Devon in my head is someone else completely.

“I'm just being me.” His words are cold, emotionless. Realization hits me—this really is him, no matter what I made him out to be in my head.

“Look . . . ” I say, but his back is already turned to me. Without sparing me another glance, he leaves.

The sound of the lock is final, and echoes throughout the room.

I want to call out, I want to beg for some answers, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

How is this going to play out?

I try to make up some plan in my head. I might not be able to fight him, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up. Obviously I can't escape, not without some heavy strategizing.

My stomach rumbles. I can still smell the food he brought in. I'm so hungry, but I’m not stupid enough to eat it. Who knows what he did to it?

I sit on the bed, wrapping my arms around my legs. I put my head down on my knees, and allow myself a moment's weakness.

How the hell am I going to get out of here?

* * * *

Devon walks in a couple of hours later and studies me where I sit, huddled on the bed.

“Nice to see you’ve calmed down,” he says dryly. I don’t respond, my eyes darting to the door behind him.

“Don’t even bother. I really don’t have it in me for another round with you,” he says, taking a seat on the chair across from the bed, rubbing his hand over his face. I notice he has his arm patched up, and it gives me a secret thrill.

“You said you’ll kill me,” I tell him, shrugging. What did he expect, that I’d just sit here and wait for whatever he has in store for me? He should have known I’d keep fighting.

“Look.” He raises his head, pinning me with his emerald stare. “This situation is what it is. You're only here because of your own stupidity. You knew better than to follow people like us to dark places and expect to walk away. But you got caught, and the reality is that you’re here and need to be dealt with. I’m the only person standing between you and instant death right now. Everyone else in this place wants you gone.”

“And what do you want?” I ask, pulling the sheets closer to my body.

He opens his mouth as if to say something, then shuts it and runs his hand through his hair. He gets up from the chair and eyes the untouched food on the floor, frowning. “Don't worry about that,” he finally says, bending down to pick it up. His shirt rides up, revealing his tanned back for just a second, and I think there’s something wrong with my brain for ogling him after everything that happened since last night. “For the time being, you need to stay here, and I’m warning you right now not to cause any trouble.”

My eyes snap to his, narrowing. He wants me to be his good little prisoner. Yeah, that'll happen.

“And if I do?” I ask.

He heaves a frustrated sigh, looking up at the ceiling.

“Then you die, Leighton,” he states. The way he says it, his tone perfectly even, as if he doesn’t care either way, has me panicking.

Although Devon and I haven’t spoken before, we have seen each other plenty of times over the years. A party here, a night out there—it was impossible to ignore him. People in these circles tend to flock together. If I said we grew up together it would technically be true, although we never socialized—at least not in the usual way.

It just feels wrong that he would want to intentionally hurt me. The way he's looking at me tells me he's serious, though. Apparently, I will get no compassion from Devon Andre.

“What are my chances of getting out of here alive?” I ask, deciding I have nothing to lose at this point.

Devon looks down at the floor for a few moments. And then he leaves without a word.

three

DEVON

I shouldn't have brought her here. The thought echoes in my mind as I sit in my uncle's office discussing this new turn of events regarding my parents. Everyone's putting their two cents in about what should come next, the excitement palpable in the room. But I'm not listening to any of it; instead, I'm wondering how I got myself into this mess.

Over the years, I’ve had many theories as to who it was that killed my family. Apart from us Andres, there are three other big families in Boston—two more Italian, and an Irish one.

We’re good with the Potenzas, but that’s a recent development. Seeing as they operate outside of the city at their headquarters in Rhode Island, I never even suspected them. Either way, they have their own worries. A couple of months ago someone set up a bomb in Anthony Potenza’s car. No one important died, only the driver, but there were rumors it was an inside job.

The Fermis are a Jewish-Italian family. Word is, they have been lying low after a bust a couple of years ago, but I still see their men doing business. Neither family had any reason to want my father dead. If anything, we co-existed peacefully in this city, our paths crossing a couple of times, but nothing mention-worthy ever happened between us.

The Moore clan, Leighton’s family, is a different story. There’s been some bad blood between them and the Andres even before I was born. Mostly it comes down to one thing: the warehouses, all over Chelsea. During the Prohibition the Moores controlled them, using them as storage for smuggling alcohol, until one of their bosses lost the control in a poker game. Pat Moore, Leighton’s great grandfather, lost them to a young Mario Andre, my grandfather.

It didn’t go down so well. Pat ordered a hit on my grandfather, but was taken down himself—by his own men, leaving a wife and two sons behind. They’ve been under our control ever since, but the Moores still claim warehouses belong to them.

It’s a pride thing.

It made the most sense that Leighton’s father, Keith Moore, would act on it. According to Stevie, my uncle’s right-hand man, who’d worked for my father as well, the feds were busting left and right during that time. No one was paying attention to what the Irish were doing.

“Devon,” my uncle says. I snap out of my musings, and look around to find three sets of eyes looking at me impatiently. Not my uncle, though. Frank's face gives nothing away. I focus my attention on him. “I need to talk to you after we're done here.”

You wouldn't think much of it, the way he says it in a monotonous voice, but everyone knows not to assume anything by the way he talks or looks at you, even more so if there are other people around, like his men. It could be a big deal, or maybe it's not. My mind wanders to that room on the third floor.

It might be a big deal.

“Yes, sir.” I don't call him Uncle. When my parents disappeared and he came to get me from school, on the way home he said things would have to be different now. He wouldn't be my uncle anymore, and he couldn't play favorites. I'd be one of his men and soon, I would have to prove myself.

I was thirteen years old. And I'd only seen him a handful of times before that.

His two men take this as their cue to leave and I watch them retreat, but Stevie doesn't move.

People underestimate Stevie. He may not look like much—short, bulky, and not threatening at all—but then again, neither does my uncle. Stevie is lethal when he needs to be. That's why my uncle keeps him close. That was why my father kept him close, too.

I throw a wary glance toward Stevie, unsure if I should speak about Leighton in front of him, but my uncle gets straight to the point.

“The girl?” he asks, not looking at me when he says it. He busies himself reading over the papers, the gory details of my family's demise.

“Third floor, the big bedroom,” I answer.

Stevie gives me a strange look, and then exchanges a meaningful one with Frank. I feel like I just failed a test. “That isn’t exactly prisoner accommodations,” he says dryly.

“It’s secure,” I reply, keeping my voice flat.

“You know, I didn’t think you had it in you,” my uncle says, giving me a once over and nodding. “I wouldn't think you'd bring her here, straight to the vultures.”

I shouldn't have. Normally, I wouldn't have, either. I don’t give him an answer, and he doesn’t seem to expect one. He never does.

“She’s a looker, that Leighton Moore,” Stevie says, studying me. His gaze doesn’t waver. I want to squirm under it, but I stand still and lift my shoulder in a shrug.