Dirty Empire Read online

  “It is.” I peer through the wall of windows into the house, where Farley, the enormous security guy with the tattoo on his trunk of a neck, is stationed. He made both Easton men look like gangly prepubescent boys when he strolled in, his shoulders filling the width of the doorway. The guy hasn’t stopped scowling since he stepped through the front door. I’m beginning to think that’s his permanent face. God knows where Gabriel and Caleb found him. Hopefully not prison.

  He's the only one in the house, but two slightly smaller versions of him—minus the neck tattoo—are out there in the dark, watching over us. Possibly watching us, standing here in matching white terry cloth robes, the effort to dig out clothes from our luggage a seemingly exhausting task.

  These guys are here to keep us safe, I remind myself. And we need to be kept safe because we’re associated with the Easton crime family.

  Will that ever become commonplace for me?

  “Did Gabriel tell you where they were going tonight?” Michelle asks after a moment.

  I shake my head.

  She hesitates, as if she knows better than to prod. Or maybe she’s not sure she wants an answer. “Did he tell you anything? Like, about who might have done this?”

  He didn’t have to. They left in the SUV, armed and trailed by another SUV with three guys who didn’t bother to introduce themselves or even acknowledge us. They weren’t going out for a casual drink at the bar. “No, and it’s better that way, trust me.” Somewhere between Gabriel suggesting that I don’t care if he dies and letting me drag him into the shower, I decided I don’t want details of what he and Caleb are planning as retribution for the plane and the death of their friends. I just want the threat gone, and I want Gabriel to come back to me in one breathing piece.

  And there was a time when I wanted to murder Gabriel myself.

  Who the hell am I becoming?

  Michelle nods but says nothing else, occupying her lips with small sips of the drink Caleb poured for her before he left. She’s even less of a scotch drinker than I am, but nothing about tonight makes any sense. Especially not the tender kiss Caleb pressed against her forehead and the way he stroked his fingers through her wet blond hair in the moments before they left, armed with loaded guns. It looked like he was capable of affection.

  “What happened between you two?”

  The glow of lights around the pool afford me a glimmer of Michelle’s small smile.

  My apprehension swells. “It’s not a good idea. You don’t know him.” Flash after flash of Caleb’s shocking behavior—greeting me in the kitchen buck naked, screwing that woman on the patio chair while his friends watched—flood me. I’m sure those examples are relatively tame in the world of his sexual proclivities. Michelle may be wild, but she’s playing in Little League. Meanwhile, Caleb has gone pro.

  She smirks. “I got to know one part of him pretty well, however briefly.”

  Crap. I can’t stifle my cringe fast enough. “I hope you made him use a condom—”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “I’m serious! I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  She looks pointedly at me. “I almost blew up tonight. Next to that, screwing Caleb doesn’t seem all that dangerous.”

  I squeeze my stomach tight to try and quell the nausea that stirs. “I wish you’d never got pulled into this.” I’ve already made a mess of Michelle’s life by introducing her to them. If something happens to her, I’ll never forgive myself. “Fine. As long as you know Caleb isn’t going to give you what you want. He’s not a frog waiting to be turned into a prince, remember? Giant, warty toad.” Possibly with syphilis. “He doesn’t do relationships.” I hesitate before I add, “I promise you, he’ll be screwing another woman within the next twenty-four hours.”

  She flinches at my words, and I momentarily regret saying them. “Relax, it was just the one time. It’s not a big deal. It’s not like I’m going to fall in love with the guy. I’m not an idiot.”

  Her words deliver an unexpected punch to my stomach. Is that what’s happening to me? I care about Gabriel, that much has become glaringly obvious. When he suggested that I don’t care if he survived, that I’d be happy to take his money and run, I realized I hadn’t given the money sitting in an untraceable account to pay Justin DeHavilland’s legal fees a second’s thought. All I’ve been dwelling on since I stepped under the stream of hot water was the thought of Gabriel not in my life anymore—not waking next to him, not feeling his skilled hands on me, not hearing my phone chirp with his annoying texts all day long that aren’t annoying at all.

  Worse, my stomach has been in knots since Gabriel kissed me goodbye and strolled out the door. It hasn’t subsided, and I’m sure it won’t until he strolls back in unharmed.

  I think I might actually be falling in love with this scoundrel.

  “What are you going to do?” Michelle asks, as if reading my thoughts.

  “I don’t know.” It was one thing to agree to this twisted arrangement when it was a simple matter of meaningless sex and comfort in exchange for my father’s protection. But it has become complicated—far too complicated. There are real feelings involved. And now I have to worry about mob-style hits?

  If I were smart, I wouldn’t be standing out here, admiring the view. I’d be shoving every last belonging into my suitcase and preparing to hightail it out of here. The sooner I’m away from Gabriel, the safer I’ll be.

  Even as I consider this, there’s a voice in my mind—or maybe it’s a feeling in my gut—that knows I’m not going anywhere, and it has nothing to do with Farley guarding the door.

  I steal another glance into the house, to where the man watches us intently. A shiver runs down my spine. Protection or not, he reminds me too much of some of the inmates locked up in Fulcort.

  Michelle’s right. A woman would have to be an idiot to fall in love with either of the Easton men. They’re criminals. They’re out there right now, hunting down other criminals.

  I know this, and yet now that I know them, I see them less as that and more as just people in my life.

  Michelle winces through her last gulp. “God, I don’t care how expensive this is, it tastes like ass. At least it’ll knock us out.”

  I hum with agreement, though I already know I’m unlikely to catch a wink of sleep, alcohol-induced or otherwise. Not until I know Gabriel’s okay.

  4

  Gabriel

  Uncle Peter has lived in a sprawling brick house in Biltmore since the mid-1990s. We used to hang out here all the time, back when our mothers would sip fruity cocktails by the pool and we didn’t want to choke our cousins on the daily. Back when our father and Peter were brothers grilling Wagyus and puffing on Cohibas together, not trying to bury each other.

  The house beyond the front gate is pitch-black as I ease the Lincoln up to the curb. Not a porch light, not a glimmer deep within. Nothing but the glow of the solar panel lanterns leading up the lengthy driveway. “You think they’re waiting for us in there?” I keep our vehicle in Drive, half expecting a hailstorm of bullets to pepper us at any moment.

  “I would be,” Caleb murmurs, but then frowns, first at the house, then at the security camera trained on the street, then on the Aleppo pines and Arizona ash trees scattered over the three acres. Aunt Rita used to go on and on about how she wanted a forested feel to Mom, who’d smile and nod, and then comment privately that Aunt Rita had an unhealthy obsession with wanting a forest in the middle of a desert. Mom was too kind to call the woman out for what she is—a goddamn fool. “Something’s off.”

  “Your head, on account of all the alcohol you inhaled,” I mutter, annoyed.

  “Shut the fuck up. I mean it.” He scowls, jabbing the air with a long, manicured index finger—a secret of my brother’s that I like to hold over him: he goes to the spa weekly for a good ol’ mani pedi. “The Mercedes is parked out front. They never leave their cars outside, especially not at night.”

  And especially not with a seven-car garage to fill.
“You’re right.” Years ago, during heightened tension with the Perris—after Uncle Peter detonated their restaurant with dear old Nonna inside making gnocchi—someone wired his Jaguar to go boom. The unfortunate sucker he hired on for additional security measures was the one who discovered it—of course, he didn’t live long enough to realize that.

  Uncle Peter spat on the ground and declared the Perris cowards for tiptoeing in under the cover of night to set a bomb.

  Pot. Kettle.

  I study the house as Caleb did. “You think he wired the whole place to blow if we showed up?”

  “You kidding?” Caleb snorts. “Peter’d have to listen to Rita bitch at him for the rest of his miserable life. He’d rather lance his eardrum.”

  And that woman’s lips never stop flapping.

  Caleb drums his fingers along the doorframe in thought. Behind us, Farley’s crew waits in their SUV for our instructions. They’re all ex-military. They’ve faced every kind of enemy-territory situation we can only imagine. They’ll scale that wall in seconds if we order them to.

  And they could end up dying for it.

  Enough people have died because of us tonight, and my brother’s right—something doesn’t feel right.

  I check my watch. “We can make it to Laney’s before the doors shut if we leave now.” The strip club Vic uses to clean money is in a seedy area half an hour away, and it’s almost a guarantee that our cousin is there, drunk and demanding one of the girls suck his stubby little dick. Getting Vic to admit they rigged our plane will happen a hell of a lot sooner than getting Uncle Peter to confess.

  Caleb picks up on my train of thought quickly. “Let’s roll.” He opens his window and gestures to the guys to follow us.

  “Haven’t seen him at all today. Last night, either.” The skinny bastard behind a desk three times too big for this office throws his hands up, his devious eyes darting between us and Moe, the smallest of Farley’s guys and probably the most lethal. “I swear!”

  Caleb and I share a glance. Vic pays the strip club manager to lie for him, so we have to assume he’s lying now. But we also didn’t see our cousin when we made our way back here, and there aren’t a lot of places to hide in this dive. A couple private rooms, a shady corner or two, and the girls’ changing room.

  “You mind if we take a look for ourselves?” Caleb says lightly. Translation: keep your bouncers away from us unless you want them all broken.

  “Sure thing, guys! Take your time.” He leans back in his creaky chair, far enough to prop his tacky woven deck shoes onto the desk. It’s all an act to make himself look calm and collected. Meanwhile, he’s ready to piss in his chinos. He knows who we are. It’s why his security hasn’t bothered us yet. “And, hey, I’ve got a girl you might like to take for a spin. She’s finishing up with a client, but she’ll be out soon. Good girl. Top-notch. She brings in three times what my others do.”

  “We’re not the paying type.” My brother doesn’t have hard limits—or any limits, for that matter—but he won’t pay for a woman’s attention, ever. Plus, if there’s any chance this girl has so much as looked at Vic, he wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole.

  “Oh, come on, guys. What do you take me for?” He lets out an annoying snort laugh. “Daisy’s on me tonight.”

  “Look at this fool, peddling his dancers like they’re prostitutes,” Caleb murmurs wryly. But his fists are flexing. He’s seconds from losing it on this weasel.

  “We’re not here for pussy.” And this guy’s a waste of our time.

  “You sure?” The club owner steals another glance at Moe. “Looks like he hasn’t had it in a while.”

  Moe takes a step forward.

  I throw my hand up, stopping him in his tracks. I don’t know a ton about the guy, except that he was Special Ops, he rarely utters a word, and in the three months he’s been with Farley, he’s edged his way up to becoming his most trusted right-hand man. As much as I might enjoy watching him work, we have far more important things to focus on than beating this kiss-ass into the cheap linoleum floor. “Start searching. If he’s lying about knowing where Vic is, we can continue this chat.” I offer Laney’s manager a wicked smile. “I kind of hope you’re lying about our cousin.”

  Paramedics push a gurney past us, the inmate stretched out on it letting out a low moan of pain, his hand protecting his bloody side. Did he get shanked in his bed, or was he lurking somewhere he shouldn’t have been?

  Because nothing good happens when you’re walking around Fulcort Penitentiary at 3:00 a.m.

  “You’re lucking I’m working tonight.” Donny turns a key. The metal door creaks open, the sound carrying along the empty corridor. It’s one of a dozen gates we have to pass through to reach the inmate quarters. I’ll give it to the security around here—it wouldn’t be easy to break out of this place.

  “Not as lucky as you are, ’cause you’d be dragging your ass here if we needed you to,” I retort, trailing him. We certainly pay the guard enough money to have him at our beck and call. Of course, visits like this always cost extra, to get the staff who aren’t on our payroll out of the way.

  Caleb saunters behind us as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. I know it’s all an act. My brother is vibrating with pent-up frustration and rage. We’re oh for two tonight. First, Uncle Peter’s house, then Laney’s was a bust, too. We scoured every corner and closet of that seedy place. The only surprise waiting for us was a happy ending for some wrinkly dude celebrating his eightieth behind a privacy curtain, courtesy of Laney’s top-notch girl, Daisy. Good for him.

  But bad for us, because now we’re meeting our father with nothing to show for our efforts besides a flaming plane and four bodies and our thumbs up our asses.

  “How’d the old man take his wake-up call?” I ask.

  “You’ll have to ask the newbie I sent in there.” Donny chuckles. “He should be done getting stitched up in the infirmary soon.”

  I shake my head. Anyone else would be eating through a straw for laying a hand on a guard. But Vlad Easton will get away with it. What’s worse is the fucker thinks it’s because people respect him. No, Dad. That’s not respect. They just like money under their mattress and their loved ones breathing, is all.

  Donny stops at a heavy metal door. “You’ve got ten minutes. Anything longer than that’ll create chatter, and we have a few new guards around here.”

  “Ten minutes too long…,” Caleb mutters, shoving through the door. It swings open with a groan. “And there’s the man of the hour. Have I told you how good you look in orange?” he announces cheerfully.

  Our father’s face is twisted with rage—whether at his son’s mocking words or at being dragged out of his cell at this hour, I can’t tell. Probably both.

  For fucks’ sakes, Caleb.

  From the corner of my eye, I catch Donny’s smirk as I’m passing through, but he’s smart enough to school his expression by the time I’ve turned to meet his gaze. “Get three more guys down here. If you hear a knock on this door, you bust in here and pull them apart,” I say quietly. The last thing we need tonight is another dead body.

  Donny salutes and is off, charging down the hall to corral a few trusted men.

  “At least Gabriel has the decency to wait until a reasonable hour to pester me. I should have known you had something to do with this shit,” Dad growls from his seat in a hard plastic chair. We’re in a private room, reserved for inmates meeting with their legal counsel. Cameras in the corner are angled at the center of the room to capture shady lawyers slipping shit to their clients. Now though, the red indicator lights are off. There will be no recording any of this meeting. It’s amazing what those green bills can buy around here.

  “So good to see you again, Pops. And after so long,” Caleb croons, tossing a new burner phone on the table, to replace the last one we delivered, that Dad’s had long enough to assume it’s been compromised.

  Dad shifts, looking ready to pounce. If Caleb keeps up this antagonizing,
there won’t be any conversation. He’ll just attack. He’s surprisingly agile, despite his age and out-of-shape form.

  “Someone’s put a hit out on us,” I quickly interject.

  That grabs his attention.

  I give him a run-through of the details from the night.

  Dad’s wrinkled forehead settles into his palms as he listens.

  “We think it’s Uncle Peter and Vic—”

  “You think, dumbass!” His gruff voice booms in the tiny room. It’s funny, even given his predicament—a prisoner, while we’re free as birds—my stomach clenches with tension at being scolded by my father. “That son of a bitch sold me out. Of course it was him. And now he’s trying to get rid of my bloodline. Soon, he’ll have everything he wants.”

  “We haven’t been able to track any of them down to confirm. The house is dark. No word on Vic at Laney’s. Plus, they’ve got eyes on the deli and the dry cleaner, probably so we don’t torch them. We drove by on our way here.”

  Caleb straddles the chair across the table from Dad, his arms nonchalantly resting across the back, as if this is a casual conversation. “Is there a reason they’ve gone to ground?”

  Dad leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his girth. It creaks beneath his weight. “You mean, besides knowing that he’s a dead man walking?”

  Caleb exchanges glances with me. I guess that answers the question of whether our father has gone on the offensive. We were wrong about the heads-up. “Did you think that maybe you could have warned us before you set Bane on him?”

  “What for?”