Page 52 of Small Town Secrets

Surely things can’t get any worse?

Condensing all her problems like that made her eyes stung and her throat tighten. Not that she’d had any shortage of tears lately. She only let those fall when she got a moment away from Whitney.

She could have tonight. To feel sad. To feel a little hopeless. Before she’d do what she’d always done and find a way to dig them out of this pit. Even when she’d already thought the odds were impossible to overcome. Even when she’d already thought she had nothing.

There’s always something more to lose. Isn’t there?

She didn’t know how to fix any of this, only that the guilt of Whitney having to endure so much upheaval spurred Laila away from feeling sorry for herself for too long. This would have to be her rock-bottom. Soon enough, she would pick herself up and get back to making the best of a sucky situation. Her dreams of a better life would come true.

Because some things couldn’t be burned.

All the work she’d done so far. Her nearing graduation day. She still had those. And Ramos or not, her life would improve.

It had to.

Adrian hid in the shadows behind the bright lights and cameras at LA’s new number one morning TV show, The Wake-Up Call. An apt name given Enzo Costa sat with the show’s two hosts up ahead on a cozy blue couch, laughing and chatting through a commercial break, about to receive the biggest shake-up of his entire life.

After getting hold of Enzo’s schedule, this window in his plans had been chosen as the ideal moment to bring him in. What was supposed to be a lighthearted guest political commentator spot, would soon become anything but.

But why here and why now? Because Enzo wouldn’t be within the fortress of his home or office. He’d be in a public setting. On live TV. With less protection around him and without the advantage of his usual controlled environment. The show’s producers had jumped on the idea. Drama, and a spike in tv rankings, in exchange for this calculated chance to take down Enzo Costa.

The commercial break ended, and Enzo used the remaining seconds before the cameras cut to him to straighten his blue-gray suit and run a hand over his dyed-brown hair. The older man seemed to also want to hide his years with an unnatural covering of brown fake tan. In the next beat, the male host began addressing the show’s audience through the camera, and Adrian and the agents beside him readied to pounce.

The female host cut in now and ran through a short list of Enzo’s achievements, before introducing him. Though she held an expected morning TV style exaggerated smile, her gaze flicked over to Adrian with the hint of a nervous grimace.

It had been decided that Adrian would be the public face of this arrest. The syndicate already knew about him. There would be less risk to anyone else involved.

But right now, he wanted to give Enzo a little more time to settle in. To feel sure about himself. He allowed the man to embark on a long explanation on his views on a local politician’s campaign strategy, to make a joke that earned laughter from the hosts, that small high point seeming like a better opportunity for Adrian to interrupt. Just as Enzo’s greed had interrupted and disturbed the lives of so many others.

“Excuse me, Mr. Costa,” He kept his voice even and composed, stepping past the cameras. “We need you to come with us. Now.”

Enzo stopped mid-sentence and his expression went slack with shock and confusion. Six agents lingered back, out of the camera’s view, but ready to help Adrian at any moment. Even more agents filed in from two side-doors, outnumbering the few men Costa had brought for protection.

Enzo’s gaze darted about, before he recovered with a forced smile and a chuckle of fake merriment. As though he sought to stall for his next move. Ever the lawyer. Ever the politician. Ever the criminal looking for a way out. “What is this all about?”

“I’m sure you know.” Adrian shifted to a position behind the couch and hooked his fingers under Enzo’s armpits, bringing his hands behind him and hoisting the man out of his seat. “And I’m sure you don’t want me to list your alleged crimes here on live TV. So, it’s best you come along now.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Enzo struggled and turned a pleading look to the hosts beside him, those two now clutching each other some yards from the couch.

But Enzo had a solid three decades on Ramos and his struggling and pleading couldn’t stop the metallic click of Adrian’s cuffs around his wrists—a sound that brought a genuine flutter to Adrian’s heart—even if he didn’t yet know whether this arrest would be enough. Whether he would be able to get back to his life with Laila. Or whether she would even want him back.

At least there’s one less syndicate person on the streets. And the ringleader, at that.

Actually, more than one syndicate member. Because, at that exact moment, all the extra agents here to help Adrian unleashed a symphony of scuffles and more clicks of handcuffs, as each of Costa’s men here also got arrested.

Amongst all the shouts and movement came another distinctive sound, the tap of high heels over the polished concrete. Rochelle stepped out from the fray behind the cameras. She clutched a burgundy purse and a slow and knowing smile, looking pristine as ever. “Does the name, Rochelle Ferrara, sound familiar?”

As much as Adrian had tried to stop her from being here, Rochelle had insisted, and the next few seconds made him a little glad she had.

Enzo’s leathery cheeks turned instantly pale, and his eyes glazed over like he’d seen a ghost. And maybe, to some extent, that much was true. He’d figured Rochelle too rich and stupid to ever find out about Rudolph Manzinni’s detour into crime. But here she was. Back from the past to haunt him.

Either way, he stopped struggling—and cameras still rolling—he didn’t fight Adrian’s next effort to move him on. His shoulders slumped and his step were shuffled, but he followed every directive on the way to the elevator.

Just like a man who understood that life as he knew it was over.

Thirty-One

Laila killed the engine to her car, her eyelids heavy and her limbs aching from another overnight shift at the grocery store. The time on her dash said 7:10 am and, yet again, a pale morning light crested the roof of her house up ahead. One of the few houses to survive the fires three months ago.

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