An Obsession with Vengeance (Wanted Men Book 3) Read online

  They don’t know anything. Relax.

  To his credit, at least attempting professionalism after the initial eye-rape, Eberto slowly stepped forward and offered his hand. A hand she was loath to shake but did anyway because it was expected of her. He released her immediately but continued to stare at her in a way that spooked the shit out of her. Not at her body anymore, but straight into her eyes. “You have the cash, chica?” he asked.

  Striving to appear unaffected, she moved to the side and reached behind an exposed steel girder to bring out a plain black over-the-shoulder carrier bag. Her movements were slow and measured, careful. She held it tightly in her grip, not stupid enough to hand over $50,000 until the drugs were in her possession.

  Machete lifted the back of his shirt, and she heard rather than saw her bouncers tense as he went into the waist of his jeans. But all he did was pull out a package the size of a hardcover novel. She took it from him when he offered it to her.

  “What’s this?”

  “A goodwill gesture from my brother,” Eberto said, making her nerves stretch. His brother? She was now dealing directly with the freaking drug lord’s immediate family?

  “Why is he extending it?” She fished some more, desperate to know what was going on here.

  “He wanted to let you know he appreciates the business and hopes to continue working with you. Maybe he thought to soften you up before you meet to discuss a new deal.” The smirk that pulled his full lips up showed no humor, and Sydney knew right then that something had changed. This wasn’t a goodwill gesture but a message of some sort. But because this wasn’t her world, she was clueless as to what it meant.

  Oh, Emily, what have I done? she wailed silently.

  Emily had been her best friend, and she was the reason Sydney was standing here praying she made it through this. They’d met in the hospital and had been sent to the same halfway house after giving birth to their babies. Emily had had a girl. After struggling for nearly a year to make ends meet, they’d eventually gotten jobs in the club Sydney now owned. They had helped each other by trading off; when one worked, the other babysat. Their children had grown up together, the four of them eventually sharing an apartment. Until last year, when everything had changed.

  After Sydney had bought Pant from the previous owner in the deal of a lifetime, Emily had become one of her full-time managers. Much to Sydney’s dismay, her friend had also started using drugs. She had excused herself to use the restroom before leaving work that last night, and Sydney, exhausted and ready for bed, had gotten tired of tapping her foot and had gone in to hurry her along. Emily had been slumped against the far wall, half-dressed, eyes staring straight ahead, an open baggie in her limp hand, spittle running off her chin.

  OD, the EMTs had said. Looks like she got some tainted product.

  Grief-stricken, Sydney hadn’t even begun funeral arrangements when another blow had landed. A gruff social worker had shown up to take Emily’s eleven-year-old daughter, Eleanor, away the morning following her mother’s death. Sydney would have done anything to have been able to keep the young girl with them, but the worker had told her they’d found Emily’s father and he wanted his daughter. Because Sydney wasn’t a blood relative, she wasn’t entitled to any more details and no further contact would be allowed. Reminders of the past make the transition too difficult for the child, the woman had said. Sydney hadn’t agreed with that, but in the end had had no choice but to let Andrew’s sister of sorts go.

  Her pain had reached yet another level hours later when she’d walked in and seen Andrew’s shoulders shaking as he’d lain in bed crying over the sudden loss of their family. She’d snuggled up behind him and comforted him as best she could, but her anger had grown by the minute.

  It wasn’t until the funeral two days later—as she’d stood there holding her son, staring at her best friend’s casket, sobbing because no one had brought Eleanor—that Sydney’s fury had boiled over. She’d returned to the loft with Andrew and spent the rest of the day stewing and planning. By the time the club opened that night, her mind had been made up. She wanted the reason for their grief out of her club and would do whatever she could to make that a reality. She’d gone downstairs and headed straight for the darkest corner, where she knew a trapper—the bastard who drew the buyers in—hung out. No matter how often they were driven away by the NYPD, one always showed again. She told him what she wanted and gave him her number. It had taken five nights of the same routine, speaking to a different face every time, before she’d finally gotten a call from Luiz Morales. They’d met, discussed the details, and agreed on a deal. She would make a buy once a month and be the sole distributor in her club, and he would keep out any competition. One year had been agreed upon, and they would revisit their arrangement when the time came to discuss any increase in product or alteration of the deal.

  Within a week, Sydney had found herself handing over $50,000 in return for packets of dust, rocks, and ice—cocaine, crack, and crystal methamphetamine. The next month it had been E, H, and acid—ecstasy, heroin, and LSD.

  Her thinking at the time? Anything to keep the tainted drugs from my club. Her thinking now? I wish I’d defined “anything,” because the last twelve months have been the most stressful of my life.

  Once her head had cleared and she’d realized what she’d gotten herself into, regret over her utter stupidity had been immense. She should have continued the tired drill of calling the police and having them scare the pushers away. Even though it had seemed redundant. They would come in, get rid of the five dealers in that one call, and in the next hour ten more would show because they were like roaches. But, had she stuck with her routine, at least she wouldn’t be here, and her livelihood—and so much more importantly, her and her son’s lives—wouldn’t be on the line.

  Andrew’s image came to mind and on its heels, Emily’s and then Eleanor’s. And Sydney finally felt that calm she’d been looking for settle over her. She would be smart about this. She needed to think about the best way to deal with what she’d brought about and then do whatever it took to fix this massive mistake before it was too late.

  Focusing, she once again did what was expected of her. She opened the package she held with a small blade to check the contents. She punctured the clear blue plastic outer wrapping and withdrew one of the small baggies, which was decorated with cute little anime girls. Jerks. Had these little pictures drawn Emily in? Or had she been too anxious to get at what was in the package to even notice the pictures?

  Sydney opened the baggie of heart-shaped pink pills, withdrew one, and quite easily ground it between her fingers—she had to make it seem as though she cared enough for her customers to check the poison, even though she had no intention of parting with it. She’d done her research and knew that homemade product should be uncoated and powdery, and if it didn’t crumble easily, it might just be an over-the-counter pain pill they were using to sucker her with. Again, not that it made any difference to her.

  “Thank Luiz for me, would you?” She remained totally professional despite the scared girl she felt like deep down. “Where is the rest of my order?”

  Eberto nodded, and Crooked Hair went over to drag a black duffel out from behind one of the torn salon chairs. It must have been hidden before they arrived. He opened it and showed her the usual neatly packed items. Drugs. So many drugs. God, she felt dirty. And so scared she was numb.

  She nodded and handed off her own bag before stepping back again.

  Eberto copied her actions by riffling through what she’d given him. He closed the zipper and put the bag over his shoulder. “I got a daughter around the same age as your boy. We should get them together.” He patted the money and tipped his chin before turning and walking away.

  Sydney wasn’t sure how she stayed her position, but she managed it until the two disappeared. Then she was staggering back, allowing the fear climbing up her throat to come out
in a harsh breath. He knew about Andrew! How? Why? Why would they have looked—?

  For the same reason she’d looked into them. It paid to know who you were dealing with. How much you could get away with—if anything. Luiz Morales was one of those more interested in the bottom line than anything, which was why she’d chosen to go to him rather than another dealer. She’d thought he wouldn’t poke his nose into the hows and whys as long as he got his money and she continued to buy his product.

  So why had Machete mentioned Andrew? Why now? Would they threaten her son if she refused to continue buying? Would she be doing this until she eventually got caught by the authorities? She nearly shuddered right off her feet at what he’d suggested. Andrew wasn’t even thirteen yet! And he’d said his daughter was about the same!

  “You ready, boss?”

  She schooled her features and turned to face her patiently waiting protection, nodding when they looked at her closely. Ready? No. I am not ready for any of this.

  Had she any idea the worry and fear, the bone-chilling nightmares her altruistic plan would bring her, she never would have set out on this journey. She’d have attempted to deal with her best friend’s death in another way. A safer way. A way that couldn’t possibly get her or her son killed. Or worse. Because, yes, when dealing with the underbelly of New York, she knew there were things worse than death.

  Coming to the end of yet another repetitious article on fluctuating oil prices, Luiz Morales dropped the Times on the spotless surface of the coffee table and turned to watch his younger brother enter the room. He observed him for a moment.

  Eberto paused to withdraw a vial from his pocket, unscrewed the top, and snorted the white powder from a tiny spoon attached to the lid.

  How had this happened? How had he allowed this habit to form? He wasn’t blaming his brother. No. Luiz blamed himself. He’d been charged by his mother on her deathbed to care for her youngest son, and Luiz had promised he would. As hard as it sometimes was—some days near impossible because Eberto had no impulse control, especially when he was high—Luiz didn’t mind the job. Hoped if the tables were turned, he would be afforded the same offer of shelter and protection. He wasn’t sure on that, though, because as the years went on, his brother’s main flaw continued to be a problem. Eberto lacked the ability to respect, which made him rather fearless. A dangerous thing in the world they lived in.

  As had been happening more and more, a dark trickle of blood seeped from Eberto’s right nostril but was instantly caught with a waiting tissue before it could hit the marble tile. Luiz turned away and strolled to the window. His view from the sixtieth floor of the CitySpire building was a much-sought-after one, as it included Central Park. The ice in his glass clinked as he swirled the liquid around.

  “You do know what it means when your nose bleeds directly after a bump, don’t you?” he asked idly.

  “Yeah. Doc said something about a deviated septum. From allergies, not the coke.”

  Of course. Denial was so tiresome. He got to the point of the visit. “Have you arranged for someone to go to Pant? If they arrive after midnight, that should allow Ms. Martin enough time to unpack the product and be ready to sell.”

  “You think this one won’t come out as empty-handed as the others?”

  He could hope. But in all honesty even that was gone now. He hadn’t wanted to accept this, but it seemed he had no choice. That call was going to have to be made. Luiz tongued his one chipped incisor. He did not want to involve himself with the Russians. Especially the Tarasov organization. But business was business.

  “I want you to find me Vasily Tarasov’s private number,” he said reluctantly. If he had to talk to anyone, it certainly wouldn’t be some underling.

  “The Russian? What the fuck for?”

  Luiz looked back at the harsh demand to see his brother’s hands were curled into fists; his chin was stuck out in a show of aggression. Always such a hothead. Dare he share what this meant? He weighed the pros and cons and decided Eberto didn’t have enough invested for this to really bother him, so he explained.

  “Ms. Martin’s club is in an area of Manhattan that is surrounded by Russian interests. I had someone look into who one would speak to if they had our type of problem to discuss. The Tarasov name came up.” Unfortunate, because that organization was a powerhouse not many would voluntarily tangle with. Luiz included. “If Ms. Martin has their backing, it would explain why she had the skin to renege on the deal she made with us. She must feel . . . untouchable.”

  He pictured the beautiful blonde and felt himself stir at the type of touching he’d like to engage in with her. This situation just might afford him that opportunity.

  “Why do you care about what she does with her product anyway, bruh? You got your money from it. Who gives a shit what happens after that?”

  Luiz ground his teeth together as he fully turned from the sparkling lights that could be seen through the leafless trees in the park. Bruh. What did that even mean? “At this point, what has been done with the product isn’t really the concern. Aside from the principle of the matter, it’s what will happen when she decides to stop playing her game.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Maybe if you could think clearly, you would. There was a reason dealers should never be users. Luiz started from the beginning, in the same tone he’d use with his five-year-old son. “Large buys that don’t follow with an influx of new customers, or a request for more product to keep up, equal nondistribution. But we already know Ms. Martin isn’t distributing, correct?”

  “Yeah. Every guy I sent in came out with the same story: Go somewhere else; Pant is tapped out.”

  “Yet we know, because deliveries have been made, that this isn’t the case.”

  Eberto nodded.

  “So . . . ?” Luiz received a blank look and a couple of blinks that almost couldn’t be seen through that curtain of hair hanging in his brother’s face.

  Taking a second to make sure his impatience wouldn’t be heard in his voice, Luiz walked to the small table next to the fireplace and lifted the glass-top lid of the rosewood humidor. He chose two Stradivarius cigars over Cohibas and handed one to Eberto before taking his time lighting his own. After blowing up a curl of blue smoke, he said, “Ms. Martin has been buying from us for close to a year, which means my suppliers are used to filling that order. If, for some reason, they don’t have to do that any longer, who loses?”

  “They do.”

  “We both do,” Luiz corrected. “Because the addicts she’s supposedly hooked or supplied to over the past year who will be looking beyond her for their fix don’t actually exist.”

  “Oh. Right. Got it.”

  And the length of time that took Eberto to understand was the perfect example of why Luiz had never snorted a line. “Now, aside from the loss of revenue and customers—even though they never existed—there is the loss of face. Ms. Martin has played us. Do you see that? She’s made us look foolish with this farce of a deal. We could have been making connections and who knows how much more money with trappers in and around Pant. But we’ve stayed out as per an agreement she initiated.” He puffed on his cigar and raised his glass to take a swallow of tequila. The Don Julio REAL was the only thing he ever allowed to dull the noise in his head. “I’m curious as to her reasons for doing what she’s done. Could be she’s working on behalf of someone else? If so, I’d like to find out who that might be.” The Tarasovs? He hoped not.

  Luiz had always been a good judge of character. He found it easy to read people. If one looked closely enough, it wasn’t difficult to see indifference or fear or belligerence or respect in someone’s eyes. His mother had been proud of his empathy, a talent he would use during his upcoming meeting. And if he suspected Vasily’s organization was interfering in his business, he was going to have to think long and hard about how to react. To retaliate or walk away.

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nbsp; Puffing on his cigar, he thought back to something he’d learned early on and kept firmly in mind during his business dealings: a proud man ended up in a body bag much more often than a gracious man did.

  “Great,” Sydney muttered as she reached for the button on the dash to turn down her music. “Just what I need tonight.”

  Glaring into her rearview mirror, she wasn’t surprised to see the black Hummer perform an illegal U-turn as she continued down the street. She couldn’t deal with him right now. She was enough of a wreck without adding the aggravation usually brought on by the driver of the big sexy vehicle suddenly hugging up to the ass of her car.

  But knowing his MO, she quickly resigned herself to suffering his particular brand of company. She pulled into the alley behind her club, parked her car, and got out. She could have sworn a neon arrow had been pointing to her trunkful of illegal narcotics since leaving Union City, so she was relieved to finally be hidden from cruising cops.

  She stood, feeling her nerve endings tingle with a loathed anticipation and then downright buzz with excitement as she watched more than six and a half feet of pure male temptation climb from the driver’s side of the SUV and saunter her way. With everything going on in her life, she should not even be aware this man existed. Yet she was. So aware it was straight-up embarrassing.

  Maksim Kirov. Her bane. Her bête noire. A man she couldn’t stand and at the same time—as any hot-blooded woman would—wanted to be all over. But she never would, because he was a freaking Russian mobster. Oh, and he was a man-whore from hell and proud of it.

  He came to a smooth stop before her, his oversize tattooed body hidden by a soft-looking wool coat and another of those expensive suits he favored. His hair was dark, and cut in a Julius Caesar style that reminded her of Russell Crowe in Gladiator but sexier. Yes, sexier.

  She looked up into that unforgettable face and tried not to be impressed. Chiseled, strong, and stunning. His silver gaze—silver, for God’s sake!—was staggering in its intensity.