Spirit Song Page 15

  Pieter lowered his arm, the sudden burst of blinding radiance subsiding to a more tolerable dimness. He surveyed the clinging carnage. Red splatters on the black walls weren’t that noticeable, but the carpets would need to get cleaned. That death stench lingered worse the two-month old milk.

  Granted, the clientele he entertained in his office wasn’t the Martha Stewart set, but even he would get tired of that smell after a day. As for the loss of his men, he shrugged away the sentiment. None of the batch with him today were his A players anyway, so no huge blow.

  He wiped what was left of AJ off the couch and plopped down, his hand rummaging through the back pocket of his jeans. Once his smokes and lighter were retrieved, he tapped the pack of Dunhill Special Reserves against the edge of his hand. His lips curled into a wicked smile as he slipped a cancer stick between his teeth and fired up the tip to a lovely shade of red. The grin morphed into an evil laugh, smoke puffing out into pretty wisps that curled around his head.

  He knew how to yank that fucking wop’s chain. Hell, it wasn’t that hard, the bastard radiated enough pent-up rage to light up Time Square. But why he knew, or cared, that he was backing Sal Francciolli was definitely a question that begged for an answer. He took a long drag, doodling swirls in the sticky crimson of the arm of the black leather couch.

  This was turning out to be one fuck of a day. And here he thought it was going to be boring ass, business as usual. He fished out his cell and quickly scrolls through until he found the contact he sought. He blew out a steady stream of fragrant fumes, counting the rings on the other end of the line.

  “Chad. Keep a closer eye on Sal. Something’s up and I want to know what.” He hung up without waiting for an answer. He knew his boys would alert him of anything out of the ordinary. That asshole Lambert was on a shorter fuse than normal and that could mean he might be pushed to switch sides.

  Pieter let his eyes slip shut, savoring his smoke as he pictured the torment he had planned once the boil on his ass flipped his shit one final time.

  “Your soul is gonna be mine, bastard.” He rested his elbow on the back of the couch, flicking ashes in the narrow space between his hand and the wall.

  Within the surrounding silence, he listened closely to the pounding thump seeping through the floor. He scoffed, shaking his head.

  “Damn. They do suck.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Behind the blare of Miles Davis, Miranda nearly missed the second set of knocks on her door. Her eyebrows pulled together as she glared at her innocent entrance. What is this today, Grand Central Station?

  She paused, listening to see if she’d imagined the interruption. Sure enough, the rapping sound rang out a second time. She heaved an exasperated sigh as she unfolded her legs and rose from the couch. It was a rare moment when she got some time to enjoy a book, and now she knew why. A light laugh sneaked out, and she shook her head, making her way to the door. She maneuvered the makeshift security device out of the way and leaned in, peering through the peephole.

  Another frown creased her forehead and she cracked open the door to the unfamiliar female. Long, cherry-red hair curled down her back, nearly blending into the matching sweater. Skin-tight black leggings and stylish black heels completed the ensemble, her Coach bag hooked on her elbow swinging like a lazy pendulum as she shifted from hip to hip.

  Cautious, Miranda braced her shoulder against the frame and her knee on the back of the door before she peeked out.

  “Can I help you?”

  Red waves spun as woman jerked and glared daggers at her. “Is it you?”

  Bewildered, Miranda dropped her jaw a fraction before her mind jumped into gear. “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve been to every door in this place. But it’s you. It is. I know it is, so don’t bother trying to deny it.”

  Good thing Miranda was prepared when the crazed woman shoved hard against the door. The hinges groaned at the second attack of the day, but this time, the barrier held fast.

  “What the hell are you—?” Miranda screwed up her face, widening her stance to keep the spatial status quo.

  “YOU STAY AWAY FROM MY MAN!” the harpy shouted, garnering the unwanted attentions of the other residents. Red colored her cheeks, a combination of exertion and righteous rage creating a lovely shade on the woman’s pale skin.

  Miranda’s arms trembled, but not from the effort of barring the entry way. She swallowed hard, forcing down sorrowful tears as she met the enraged woman’s eyes. Panic jerked her into action, yanking the door opening and dragging her inside.

  “I didn’t—”

  A red-tipped finger poked poor Tommy Hawk right in the eye, the thick fleece absorbing most of the stabbing force. But the sting of the accusation bored straight to her breaking heart.

  “Sebastian has been my lover for years.”

  Miranda plastered on a brave face and allowed the wronged woman to vent. She hadn’t given her name but honestly, that part wasn’t important. Wild gestures and chest thumping punctuated sobs as the curvy redhead paced around the shrinking space.

  “We’re practically married. I mean, he hasn’t asked just yet. He’s not a real talkative guy, but I know he loves me. I know he’s only days away from asking me to stay with him and we’re going to be so happy. So you! You just butt out of it!”

  Tears she refused to shed burned her eyes as she nodded in mute acquiescence. Her dreams of happiness were lying in pieces at her feet, but she was not going to ruin someone’s chances for the fairy tale ending. With lackluster movements, she showed her surprise visitor to the door. A satisfied grin replaced the woman’s earlier strife and she clicked down the ratty carpeted hall with a bounce in her step.

  Miranda closed the door, rested her forehead against the wood and wept.

  “What’s the matter, girlie?”

  Dabbing her eyes that refused to stop watering, she flashed a pathetic smile to her reflection, hoping the mirror could reflect more joy to the intended target over her shoulder. Eddie’s fatherly concern undid her. Her chin trembled even as she weakly waved him off and turned her teary gaze back to the vanity table. She promised herself all day long she’d stay strong and brush it off as a good time.

  But the dull ache in the middle of her chest with each breath told her she was far from fine. When a friendly hand touched her, the floodgates crashed down. Metal screeched, her chair skittering across the linoleum, and she clung to her timely friend. She wished she didn’t want to curl into a little ball and cry until she stopped caring. She wanted it so much, she could taste it.

  The only thing she wanted more than to have the pain go away was to see those whiskey eyes one more time. What would she say to him? Would she smile and say it was nothing more than a nice romp? Would she sob and make a fool of herself? Wrinkled and calloused fingers tapped her back, a deep soothing voice whispering words of ease and support.

  Before heading down to the club, she hadn’t been able to shake the sensations of fingers brushing against her cheeks. Whereas yesterday, these imagined embraces made her skin tingle, today they only garnered another bout of stifled tears. At one moment, she found herself shouting at the emptiness of her apartment, pleading for the torment to stop.

  “Aw, girlie. I hate to see you so sad. What happened? Is it your brother again?”

  Her half-sobbed laugh caught in her throat and her spirit perked up a fraction. She shook her head, swallowing back her remaining dignity, and she stepped away from her bassist.

  “Oddly enough, no. It’s not him for a change.”

  Eddie smiled and offered her a handkerchief. She tugged up the corners of her lips and dried her eyes, hoping to salvage some of her caked-on foundation.

  A voice spoke from the open doorway, causing her to jump. “Got a delivery for a Miranda?”

  A couple dozen red roses hid the face of youthful voice. Panic from every direction turned her blood to ice. What if they were from him?

  Eddie gratefully stepped in to save the da
y, accepting the massive vase and carrying the surprise bouquet to her dressing area. Her arm shook like a candle in a wind tunnel, her hand clamping around the small white envelope.

  “Who they from?”

  Her face blanched, her stomach flip flopping as her eyes drank in the all-too-familiar writing.

  Sing good, doll. Tomorrow, you’re mine. S

  Sweat drenched her palms, and she had the overwhelming urge to vomit.

  Ebony fingers tore the thick paper from her hands, his uncharacteristic anger drawing her gaze up. His normally warm brown eyes hardened, deep wrinkles creating a long furrow across his forehead.

  “Now don’t you think a whit on this. You hear me? You just go and sing your heart out. He can’t have what ain’t his.” One finger tapped above her heart. “And this ain’t for the likes of Slick Sal. He might own my soul, but don’t think for a moment any of us is gonna let him get his mitts on you, girlie.”

  The deep conviction in his words brought a tear to her eye and a sad smile to her lips. She wished she had his belief. Between the amount of debt Kyle amassed and the mish-mash of odd callers, she knew the odds were not in her favor this roll of the dice. Life had never cut her a break before now. Why should things be any different when the chips were truly down?

  Stealing a little strength from Eddie, she hugged him once more before she got back to the nightly finishing touches. Make-up slathered on, dress shimmied into place, and heels strapped and secured. She took a calming breath, adjusting the blond beehive on her head and looked at her reflection. The painted-on foundation hid the sorrowful circles beneath her cloudy blue eyes, her cheeks a little more sunken that usual and the garish red lipstick popped like blood on snow.

  Sing her heart out.

  That was going to be a tall order, but she was not about to give up just yet.

  Tonight, she would see if it was possible to sing without a heart.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Slick Sal Francciolli peered at the blubbering bimbo sitting across from his desk, his steepled fingers tapping the tip of his nose in time with the bouncing breasts barely contained by the garish red, V-neck sweater. It wasn’t as if girls didn’t come into his office with their latest sob story about why their husbands couldn’t cover their debts every day. Most of them he brushed off with a reassuring smile and a gentle pat on the shoulder. The knife in the back came after they’d leave the room.

  But this one? He had no clue who she was crying about in the first place. He would’ve remembered a knockout redhead like her, but her face wasn’t ringing any bells.

  When she stopped to take a breath, he grabbed onto the chance. He rose, sycophantic smile firmly in place as he extended his hand, tissue at the ready.

  “Well, ummm—”

  “Veronica,” she provided between gasps, taking the white square and dabbing her damp cheeks.

  “Yeah, Veronica. Look, I’m sure we can work something out for this, this fella of yours.” He edged out from behind the massive mahogany desk that dominated the room. The door was framed by his two body guards, both as quiet as the tomb and just as deadly. They spoke so infrequently, he wondered if they even knew how to have a conversation of more than four words. But, they did their job watching his back and profits were pouring in. His silent partner in Detroit was sure making good on his word. Soon, his reach would stretch across the lake and nothing was going to be able to stop him.

  He guided her to her feet, gritting his teeth as she bobbed her head in gratitude.

  “Oh, thank you, Mr. Francciolli. I just knew if I had the chance to talk to you, you’d see that my Bassy didn’t know what he was doing when he hooked up with one of your girls.”

  Now she had his undivided attention. His icy gaze swung lazily to lock onto her wide acorn-brown eyes.

  “Say again?”

  The ditz didn’t even have enough sense to realize she was a pubic hair away from her own demise. Instead, she kept running her mouth, giving him all the details he needed.

  “I don’t know which girl, but when he didn’t come home last night, I waited and followed him here later today. I love him like crazy and I know he loves me, too. He just stopped by to be nice, you know? I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it. Or maybe visiting a sister or something, right?”

  Damn, this broad’s as dumb as a rock.

  “Uh, yeah, sure thing. So, what does this guy look like? That way, he won’t get, uh, stopped when he visits his sister again.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, resting his fingertips close to her heaving breasts. Damn, those tits were mouthwatering. It took a moment for him to realize she’d started in with the complete description. His gaze flicked from her bosom to catch the black eyes of his mute guards. They didn’t move a muscle, but he knew every minute bit of information was being catalogued and set to memory.

  “He’s such a big teddy bear. Oh, I knew you’d understand.”

  Sal remembered his manners and opened the door for the lady. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about a thing, doll. I’ll be sure to handle this.”

  Smiling until his cheeks threatened to cramp, he nodded his reply as she rapid-fired “thank yous” at him, ushering her completely out of his office. One final muttered “you’re welcome” and the door finally shut. He shook his head sadly, running a hand against his slicked hair.

  “Kinda feel sorry for the kid. She ain’t gonna be happy when her boy comes back to her in pieces.” He shifted his gaze to the muscle to his right. “If you see this mook, break his legs.”

  His orders would be followed without question, so he headed back toward the side door, one hand slipping into his front pants pocket as the ornate wood swung away from him. A happy tune coiled up from the jukebox in the lounge. He joined in, whistling in harmony with Ella Fitzgerald’s heavenly voice crooning “Night and Day” and he strolled to the battered body strapped into the chair in the center of the room. One stark bulb hung from the ceiling, the warm yellow glow throwing a puddle of light on the red speckled gray concrete.

  Shoulders hunched over, breath wheezing in and out with laborious effort, the figure struggled to lift his head. Blonde hair was mussed and matted, dried blood adding rusted brown streaks into the short-cropped golden locks. Had he not known the poor sap pleading for a reprieve, he wouldn’t have guessed his eyes were originally blue. Little of the ultramarine hues could be seen around the bloodshot white and accompanying lovely plum ring.

  Sal knelt gingerly, hiking up the hem of his Armani trousers to avoid the still damp scarlet drips. The Calvert wing tips had long since been Scotch-guarded against stains and even after twenty years, their caramel uppers were still as spotless as the first time he’d put them on.

  He threaded his fingers through the spiky hair and yanked hard, earning a hiss as one swollen eye fought to remain open.

  “Now, Kyle. You know I don’t like getting violent. I prefer to handle things like a gentleman.” He let go, wiping his hand off on a relatively unbloodied corner of Kyle’s stained white T-shirt. “But you know, you ain’t leaving me with much of a choice here. You gotta have the worst luck of any jamoke I ever seen. How much does he owe?”

  “Sal, I can explain. I—” The desperate and slurred words earned Kyle a cuff on the shoulder. Nothing damaging, more of a reminder in manners.

  “Now, don’t interrupt. Calvin, what kind of numbers are we talking about here?” Sal turned his attention to the quiet cocoa-skinned bean counter behind the desk in the corner. He pulled his eyebrows together in curiosity. Funny, he thought Calvin was darker than that normally.

  The bowtie bobbed beneath the Adam’s apple before his accountant’s uniquely green eyes dipped to the leather-bound book under his nose. One slim finger skimmed down page after page while the other hand scrawled down figures. Sal waited patiently as the pencil scratched out its own beat.

  “Including the markers from the other night, it’s a grand total of forty-five thousand dollars.”

  Sal tsk
ed, shaking his head. “Did you remember to include interest?”

  Calvin nodded. “Yes, sir. I also took into consideration the amount of money earned by Miss Devalande.”

  Sal shifted his gaze to Kyle’s hunched shoulders as they bounced, his sobs echoing in the small room. He smiled, slapping the heartbroken young man on the back. “Buck up, kid. I think that sister of yours knocked off at least ten Gs. So it ain’t as bad as it could be, right?” One more kind pat and his fingers dug in, locking onto the meat of Kyle’s neck. He leaned down, his mouth hovering close enough to tell the brand of cologne the kid splashed on this morning, its fragrance lingering behind the stink of blood and fear.

  “Now, you got twenty-four hours to come up with the cash or I take your sister to cover your debts.”

  Kyle’s head shook violently, pleas for mercy and promises of money tangling in their haste to trip from his tongue. Sal eased his death grip, a salacious grin in anticipation of the fruits he would soon sample curling his lips. He rose to his full height, one more comforting squeeze and he released the kid.

  He crossed over to the door leading back to his office. As he passed the threshold, he paused, eyes forward as he tossed his orders to the deadly ghost to his left. “Be sure he don’t go nowhere til we close.”

  He’d waited long enough. One more day and that beautiful voice of his little songbird was gonna be screaming his name.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Bastian roared in impotent rage, blocking Viktor’s knee as he slammed his fist once again into his friend’s side. As soon as he’d regained his bearings and discovered himself back on the deserted Lake Michigan shore line, he’d lunged for Viktor’s throat, raining battering-ram blows at any open target. This wasn’t the first time they’d done this dance, and until he cared enough to manage his lightning temper, or until he ended up in his grave, he knew they would tango again. Neither pulled their punches, but then again, neither were truly bent on destroying their opponent.