Page 38 of Tangled Vows

Our contacts on the street provide us with the name of Tommy-No-Nose, along with some details about him.

Tommy Simeone.

He’s thirty-two with a few arrests, mainly for assault and possession of firearms. In other words, he’s just another henchman. Someone low on the food chain. This baffles me and Ivan even more. What the fuck motivated him to put that bomb in my car? Because I didn’t know he even existed prior to his attack. I’ve never met him in person or heard his name on the street.

Of course, this is only natural since Simeone operates in the southern part of Miami. But still, I am amazed to hear that Clare and I were targeted by this Italian enforcer.

There’s only one way for us to get an answer.

Having a chat with him.

Yet, we can’t do that in public. We can’t just barge into Giorgio’s, guns blazing. We like to keep things nice and neat. Nothing sensational—cops get a hard-on whenever they come across scenes of mass shootings. The Bratva doesn’t like the police breathing down its neck. More than that, Simeone is an experienced enforcer. Taking him out won’t be easy, especially if our first shot misses. We need the element of surprise.

Rurik tries to prove himself invaluable yet again when he suggests putting a GPS tracker on Simeone’s car. But, this time, we don’t need any high tech to determine where we should hit our target. The information we’ve got from our contacts is clear: Simeone loves his strip clubs. In particular, he loves visiting Kayleigh’s Cabaret, a strip club just five blocks away from Ocean Drive.

I can cut tension with a knife when Ivan’s Ford rolls into the underground parking lot of Kayleigh’s Cabaret. I’ve been aching to get a hold of this son of a bitch ever since I woke up in that hospital bed.

“Are you still with me over there?” Ivan asks, throwing quick glances around at the stationary cars.

“Right here,” I say in a steady voice. “We’re looking for a black Chrysler 300C.”

“Not the car I’d choose if I wanted to keep a low profile,” Ivan says.

“He doesn’t,” I remind him, locating the vehicle in question. “There.” I point up ahead and to the left. “Between that red Nissan and a blue Cherokee.”

“Nice,” he praises, his Ford rolling past the Chrysler.

We’re in luck—there is space in the corner, well out of the reach of the fluorescent lights overhead. My brother reverses into the spot.

“If Simeone is our guy, he must have been following orders,” Ivan says. “He can’t have done this on his own—he just doesn’t have the resources.”

I roll my shoulders, feeling a buzz in my head. “I don’t know, bratishka. The whole operation cost him just forty-two-and-a-half thousand. It’s a lot of money for a henchman, but it’s not that much. You’re right about the first part, though. Henchmen don’t take initiatives. They get paid to follow orders.”

“So, what if this guy’s capo gave him the order?” Ivan poses the question I have been dreading. “Won’t that mean we’ll have to take him out, too?”

“I would tear that fucker apart—I know that much,” I admit, my voice bass-deep. “But I doubt Viktor will give us the green light for that. You heard him back there. Tommy dies; nobody else.”

I grip the door handle and get out. There’s a strong smell of gas in the air as I settle my gaze on the strip of concrete between those cars. Ivan begins to speak, but just then, my ears catch voices in the air. I gesture to him to quiet down, spotting three figures well away from our spot. They’re strolling across the parking lot, their chuckles loud enough to reach me.

“5’10”, black hair, light build and a beard.”

Dmitri’s description comes back to mind, those three closing in with each passing second. They’re about twenty yards away when I identify Simeone. He’s in the middle. A shorter guy with blond hair and a stocky build is on his left and a much taller, more athletic one on his right.

I reach into the holster around my chest and yank out my pistol, cold metal against my skin. But, in the blink of an eye, that much-needed element of surprise is gone. Ivan leans on the hood of his car, his watch making a short, sharp sound upon making contact with the aluminum.

Those three, they stop laughing, their gazes fixed on the corner. They take their guns out from behind their belts. Tommy’s the first to pull the trigger. The crack of his bullet resounds through the parking lot as I drop to my knees. The side of my head rests against the driver’s door of the Cherokee; more bullets whistle past, some getting lodged into the side of Ivan’s Ford. Smoke rises from the bullet holes. Ivan ducks to avoid the fire.

I steady my breath, understanding that we’re pinned down. Another bullet hits the tire on Ivan’s car and air shoots out. The tire flattens, the rim hitting the ground with a deep thud. I tilt my head back and sneak a peek over the hood of the Cherokee.

Holding my pistol with both hands, I aim at the short guy to my left. By now, he’s much closer, his own weapon clicking on empty. I’m just about to squeeze the trigger when he sprints off towards the Chrysler. More slugs shatter the side of the Ford. The rumble of a powerful engine is clear amidst the chaos.

A trail of gas from underneath Ivan’s car is trickling across the ground. I’ve got to move. Keeping my head down, I crawl away from the Cherokee. I catch the reversing lights of the Chrysler out of the corner of my eye, moving around the front end of the Ford.

My heart sinks the second I notice Ivan lying on his side. There’s a hole in the left shoulder of his jacket. Blood has stained it and has reached all the way down to his forearm. He gazes at the ceiling.

The Chrysler barrels towards the exit of the parking lot.

I shove my gun back into its holster. I grab Ivan by the torso and turn towards the wall behind me, dragging him with me.

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