Secret surrender, p.10
Secret Surrender, page 10
He stabbed a finger at the keyboard some more, but that just made a bunch of gibberish letters fill a typing field on the screens right. Maybe it was time to get his PA back in here so she could set up this stupid call.
“Luc, see a red microphone picture on your screen’s bottom left?” Mark paused a beat, then added, “Click on it with your mouse.”
Luciano searched the screen again, an agitated fire filling the space beneath his ribcage before he saw what his younger cousin talked about. “Can you hear me now?”
“Yes, now do the same with the camera icon just next to it.”
Luciano did just that, only to be met with the moving image of Mark shaking his head—with his thick, light brown waves swept back, his open-collar powder blue business shirt matching his eyes.
Luciano peered at the top right corner, a smaller square beaming his own moving image back at him. He was about a decade older than Mark and about a hundred pounds heavier, his hair dark and gelled back, and unlike his pretty-boy cousin, he put in the effort to wear a suit and tie for work.
“So, what the fuck is all this about?” Mark held up his phone and flicked through article after article on his screen, each time pausing to push the phone closer to the camera so Luciano could read the titles.
Mark turned the phone back to him and read out loud, “There are signs Anthony Stucco didn’t work alone. Authorities say they are on the hunt for anyone who might have aided his failed attempt to extort money from his ex-wife, Emilia Bonacci.”
Mark lowered the phone and stared back at Luciano. “First failure, and now you fuckers left evidence that Anthony had help?”
“Look”—Luciano held up both hands, the muscles at his jaw bunching with a desire to unleash his temper—“even we don’t know what happened, which is why I wanted to talk with you.”
“Oh, so let me guess, you want me to figure out what happened?” Mark raised a brow, glaring ahead like he thought Luciano had lost his fucking mind. “Seems Anthony’s was the only body found, so what happened to the guy you had assisting him?”
Luciano scoffed and shook his head. “Like you don’t know, you arrogant piece of shit.”
Mark gazed up at the heavens, gaping in a hammed-up oblivious act. For years, he’d pushed to modernize the syndicate, wanted each branch to become more tech savvy. But none of that bullshit made much sense to Luciano and the other top honchos. Why fix something that worked well enough?
“Let me guess.” Mark’s expression hardened, his moment of sarcastic humor over. “Your guy bailed.”
Luciano clenched his jaw together, working his teeth against each other in another attempt to hold on to his cool. Despite what Mark liked to think, Luciano wasn’t stupid or a loose cannon. He was just some poor immigrant kid from one of LA’s scummier outer suburbs, a kid who the whole world had looked down on until he did what he could to get ahead.
If dealing drugs had given him his start, so what? He’d opened a door, met people like Anthony Stucco, who’d then opened doors with Rudolph Manzinni—the enigmatic man behind the entire syndicate.
Fact was, despite Mark’s attitude right now, he owed Luciano for the college education neither of them could have afforded if Luciano had kept his hands clean. He’d gotten Mark into this gig too. Gotten him the New York branch. They both had power and money now, enough to keep their families rich over multiple lifetimes. There’d be no worrying about where the next meal or medical treatment might come from. Whoever said crime didn’t pay, was a fucking moron. So, he wasn’t about to let Mark or some pissant cog like Dean Holloway put a dent in what he’d built.
“I’m in over my head here, okay?” He paused, not for the first time in his life, doing what fucking needed to be done to get ahead. “I need your help.”
For this one time, he agreed with his cousin. A little tech savvy had helped Dean Holloway find Anthony Stucco, so maybe it had helped him escape the syndicate altogether too. Now it was time to fight technology with technology and have Mark, with his army of eggheads, find Holloway.
“To find your interloper?” Mark gave a mocking sort of laugh. “Don’t you have your own man for that?”
“Yeah, and he’s the one we need to track.”
Mark’s short, mocking laugh turned into a boisterous roar, and he slapped his hand repeatedly over a desk Luciano couldn’t see on screen, the hard thud and rocking of Mark’s computer making that desk “visible” either way.
“You’re an ungrateful little punk, aren’t you?” Luciano glared into the tiny camera on his laptop, finally releasing his frustration, his words loose but his tone controlled. “You think it’s fucking funny that one dissatisfied employee might blow a big, fucking hole into the syndicate’s side? If you don’t help me, you’ll be guilty by association, and we’ll both be knee-deep in shit with Rudolph, you got it? Man, for all your education, you’re a fucking dead brain, you know that?”
He shook his head in a slow and condescending motion, while pressing his lips together in a tight line. Meanwhile, Mark held a long silence, his stare unreadable but hinting at thought.
“Okay, fine. I’ll see what I can do.” Mark leaned back in his chair, no apology given but the decision made. “But if I find him, Luciano, no more fuckups. You deal with Mr. Holloway and anyone else helping him. You make them all disappear.”
Seventeen
Sarah pounded her fists against Dean’s thick, red, wooden front door, her patience wearing thin since his car sat parked at the top of the driveway. He’d either gone on a late-night stroll, or was intentionally ignoring her.
She took two steps back and scanned the double-story brick house’s exterior. No lights through the windows. No sounds either. No sign of life at all. And still, her hot temper refused to die. She wanted to stay. More importantly, she wanted to fight.
Maybe he’s still inside laughing his ass off at my pathetic demands for him to come out.
What happened to Miss Self-Control?
Standing on this man’s doorstep like a lost puppy, clearly.
The loss of control was Dean’s fault. He’d promised to keep her secret. The one about their night together. Then again, he’d also lied about leaving town. Stupid her for believing him twice.
Oh, she’d make him pay. Lost puppy or not, both she and puppies could have sharp teeth, and she’d rip holes through Mr. Holloway for betraying her trust.
Though… maybe not tonight…
She kicked at the door and growled again at his absence, releasing some tension, before turning for her car. She should have stuck to her instincts about not trusting anyone.
“Miss me already?”
She halted at Dean unfolding his large frame from the open door of Sheriff Marlin’s patrol car parked at the end of the driveway.
What the hell?
He plodded toward her in the dark, her tummy churning that, of course, Peter Marlin had to be here to witness her standing on Dean’s doorstep at an ungodly hour.
The sheriff gave her a tight smile and a slight nod through the windshield, a reminder of his earlier warning for her to be careful with her heart.
Dean trudged closer, his stare fixed to the ground like perhaps he avoided her.
Maybe he just has other things on his mind. I can’t tell, and I’m not sure I care.
Unlike many in Harlow who would have sat back to enjoy the show, the sheriff steered his car away, giving her the good fortune to speak with Dean alone. “I need to talk to you.”
Dean stabbed at his front door’s lock with a key, missing the first few times, before dropping the set completely.
Was he drunk? He’d come home in the back of the sheriff’s car, after all. But he didn’t strike her as a big drinker. Besides, Maynard’s was the only bar in town, and she’d just come from there. Where had he been drinking?
She crossed her arms and waited for him to pick up the keys and try again. “Did you hear me? I need to talk to you.”
“Yeah.” He groaned as he pushed his door open, the crescent moon and lack of street light meant she couldn’t see much beyond his severe glower. “I heard you.”
He disappeared deeper into his house, leaving the heavy wood door wide open. She followed and pushed the door behind her. “I got an interesting visit from the sheriff today. You told him about our encounter. I want to know why.”
“Sarah.” He strolled across the large living room, and his lowered tone hinted at fatigue. “Now’s not a good time.”
“You promised you’d keep our night a secret.” She continued after him, up a set of stairs with a painted white banister. “Of all people, did you have to tell Sheriff Marlin? It would have been less awkward if you called my dad and told him the gory details.”
“Leave your dad’s number on your way out and I will.”
She stopped in her tracks while his broad back disappeared around a corner. What a jerk. Not once did he bother to turn and look at her, and now this snarky reply? Heck, he didn’t so much as turn on any lights so she could see where she was going.
His dispassionate dismissal had her releasing a soft growl. She marched onward, now indifferent about her intrusion in his house. He’d intruded on her entire life. Exploited her trust. She would get an answer.
A bright white light came on at the end of the upstairs corridor, and she called after him, “I’m talking to you.”
“I know.”
She strolled through a door and rested her hand on the frame, pausing. Dean stood within a fully tiled bathroom, a heavy stream of water filling the sink and disturbing the quiet.
He scrubbed his hands in quick motions under the taps, again, not looking at her, though he did speak. “Given how fired up you are, I’m sure there’s not much I can say right now that will make you hate me less. The sheriff asked where I was that night. I couldn’t lie. Can we drop this now?”
His left bicep rippled from beneath his dark gray t-shirt, though she could only see one side of him since he stood in profile. Her breath quickened at the size of him, his clear physical strength and unrefined air. Even when in a prickly mood, he still got to her.
He should be the last man I want right now.
“You could have at least warned me.” She dipped her attention to the occasional flash of a white hand towel in the sink, unable to figure out what the hell he was doing or why. “The surprise official visit came while I was at work.”
“I don’t have your number, remember?” He turned to her, his face pale and sporting a somewhat clammy sheen. “Though, you’re comfortable enough to follow me around my house, so maybe I should?”
Her gaze dropped and snagged on the state of his right arm—a bandage at the top with a crimson bloom soaking through, his forearm streaked in red despite his covert scrubbing.
“Holy shit!” She charged forward, her anger collapsing as she reached for the towel in the sink—a towel that, on closer inspection, was tinged pink. “What happened to you?”
She wrung out the towel and began wiping at the remaining blood down his arm, working her way up to the ineffectual bandage.
Dean’s iceberg gaze didn’t waver from hers, though it took on a harder edge. “I happened to be strolling by the nursery just as the Chadleys were trying to demolish it. One of them threw a bottle, and I got this.”
He lifted his arm, gesturing to his concealed injury.
“And the sheriff didn’t call the doctor for you?” She yanked off the bandage and winced at the open wound there. No wonder the sheriff had asked her not to tip off Aggie about the nursery. “This wound needs stitches.”
He shrugged and pulled off his bloodied shirt. “The sheriff tried to call the doctor and got no answer. Anyway, I can handle this. I’ve had worse.”
She shook her head at his overconfidence and the sheriff’s lack of action. Dean lowered his injured arm and grimaced through the effort.
“The way I see it you have two choices.” She tossed the stained bandage into a small trash can near the sink. “I can get you to the nearest hospital, but that’s a good hour away, or you can take a seat on the edge of that bath over there, and I can stitch you up myself.”
She nodded at the bath but kept her attention on him. Even covered in dirt and blood, Dean drew her in, enough to make her forget her earlier anger. Enough to make her launch into action just so she could stop staring at him, and because she also didn’t like to stand idle when someone clearly needed help. “Do you have a first aid kit?”
He pointed to the sink. “Drawer to the left.”
She turned away and found a navy-blue case about the size of a toolbox and somewhat larger than the usual home first aid kit. The damage to his bicep appeared small, but the area would get lots of movement, and the constant seeping meant the cut ran too deep to heal unattended.
“We’ll sterilize your wound and the needle first.” She balanced the case on a wide ledge on one end of the bath before throwing the case open and assessing what supplies he had, stopping to frown at a plastic pack containing a suture needle and thread. “You especially accident prone or something? These don’t come in your standard kit.”
She waved the pack in his direction, snatching up a small bottle of rubbing alcohol while she was at it.
His hooded eyelids narrowed before they relaxed. “Something like that. Seems you have some experience with wounds too.”
She coated the needle with alcohol and dropped some onto a cotton pad for his wound. He groaned at her touch, and not in a good way, his muscles taut with a clear desire to escape the pain. “Glass injuries come with the territory of running a bar. Besides, I grew up in the country with a clumsy younger brother.”
“And where were Mommy and Daddy while little Sarah was saving the day?” Dean’s voice echoed against the small bathroom’s walls, somehow highlighting just how alone they were together, despite his all-too-clever lift of a brow.
She took the threaded needle and gleefully dug the first stitch into his arm.
He hissed, muscles again clenching. She did her best to hide a satisfied smirk. “If you must know, Daddy was a doctor, a surgeon actually. He worked at the hospital I mentioned and taught me how to do this. A skill I’ve used on occasion over the years.”
Especially after Daddy Dearest disappeared to a new city, with a new woman, leaving Sarah alone with her brother and shell-shocked mother.
She tied the first stitch and moved to the next, figuring she’d need about six to finish the job. “And we weren’t talking about my family. We were talking about you and your propensity to cause more trouble than I bargained for.”
“Right. That.” His attention rested on her hand pressed to his naked shoulder from behind, the careful stroke of that attention sparking a dance of nerves inside her tummy. “Look, the sheriff came to me. It’s not like I went searching for someone to share our story with. And if I had wanted to talk, it sure as shit wouldn’t be with Sheriff Marlin.”
She cleared her throat, seeking distraction. “Really? So now you’re getting visits from the sheriff and lifts from him too. What am I supposed to think?”
His lips lifted into a slight smile, and his stare trekked up until he held her gaze. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I’d promise not to get you in trouble again, but I seem to have a knack for it.”
A frustrated sigh broke from her lips, and she sat behind him on the tub’s edge. The scent of his skin, including the earthy musk of outside, teased her. The man seemed set on making light of her secrecy, and still, something about him, about the way he looked at her when his mouth wasn’t moving, tugged at her sympathy.
Maybe she made the connection up in her head, but she got the sense Dean here hadn’t had a whole lot of second chances in life either—missed opportunities being something she identified with.
She moved to bury the needle for her third stitch, but he grabbed her wrist, dragging out a long silence before he spoke again. “Sarah. I really am sorry.”
A small hollow grew deep within her. She bit the insides of her cheeks, attempting to come up with a smart reply, only for nothing but a rough croak to escape her mouth.
His low, soft tone. The sincerity in his apology. She wanted to believe him, but she shook her head and tried again. “It doesn’t matter.”
Of course it does. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have raced over here.
“It does matter.” His words echoed her thoughts, and his grip on her wrist tightened by the slightest margin. “It does to me, and I made you a promise that I didn’t keep.”
She slid her wrist free of his hold and sank the third stitch in, that sinking in perfect harmony with whatever happened within her heart, the all-too-familiar plunge of disappointment. “I’m a grown woman. I’ll survive.”
His little stumble today really wasn’t the worst thing ever to happen to her, and she genuinely did forgive him, so maybe she needed to bail from his house as soon as she could.
His gaze burned into her face, creating a heat there while she fastened a new knot.
She did her best not to return the attention, even wincing as he spoke again. “The sheriff has a soft spot for you. Why?”
She dabbed blood from his wound through her ensuing lie. “Harlow’s a small town. Everyone’s invested in everyone else’s business here.”
“Sheriff Marlin showed more concern than your average. Is he family or something?”
“Something.”
She dropped the cotton pad she’d dabbed him with onto her lap. What was with his sudden questions, anyway? Though, even as she got what she wanted—uninterrupted silence—that silence provided far too much space for her to think… of her father, the sheriff, her erratic mother, Sarah’s failed engagement, and her recent forced solitude.
Heck, even her solitude wasn’t all that recent or forced. She kept to herself more than any normal person, even when she was in a relationship. Blaine hadn’t minded. Perhaps that should have rung alarm bells since he’d held his own secrets, ones that hurt her in the end.
So, maybe keeping quiet wasn’t the best thing for her. Maybe opening up to this mysterious stranger would help somehow.
