Page 50 of His Black Onyx

Chapter 24

Nate

The drive back to Boston seems longer than it's ever been, and it's not made easier by the fact that she is sitting next to me, flitting nervously and throwing me looks from the side that are filled with silent questions that I don't want to answer.

Even though the call was not a complete surprise–we all knew it would come eventually–none of us were expecting it.

At least not this soon.

Not now.

That the call came directly from our boss, Big George, was reason enough for Daveed and Mike to immediately be alarmed. He never calls us, unless he absolutely has to. And that is never more true when we are "off the radar" for a few days, which means nothing more than that we are taking a break from Covey work. It's not a problem, when the timing is right. And since George knows nothing about our plan to circumvent the Lailah problem, he had no idea that we weren't out drinking our days and nights away in Atlantic City before it was time to face the Scivolas and let them know that we wouldn't be able to hold up our end of the deal.

He still doesn't know about this girl, Malia. And while I want to believe that he'll be pleasantly surprised to learn of our plan, right now it's difficult to even consider that it may work out. Especially considering the current circumstances.

Big George didn't call us because we were needed to do something for the Covey, and he didn't call us to track down our whereabouts or to deliver an order.

None of those things.

He called to inform us that Lailah was dying.

Her diagnosis had been dire from the start. The cancer was Stage 4, and it had spread so far by the time it was diagnosed that nothing could be done to help her except to keep her comfortable. But none of us thought it would go this fast.

I didn't want to believe it could go this fast. That she could go this fast.

It feels as if a clamp has been tightened around me as we walk up to George's house, and my shoulders are heavy with burden, my chest piercing with the pain of premature grief.

She is trudging next to me, her shoulders inched up to her ears and her face frozen in an apathetic expression. She hasn't said a single word since getting into the car.

I feel like my heart is about to jump out of my fucking chest as we get closer to the front door.

What the hell is this? Since when am I the kind of man who gets nervous at the prospect of handling a difficult situation?

If anything, I should be elated. I should be excited to finally share with Big George this brilliant plan, to finally see the expression on his face when he realizes that I may have found a way for us to get out of this mess. He's always valued my ability to think quickly on my feet and find a solution when others couldn't. This is just another example of that.

But it's a solution that comes with collateral damage—a girl who has nothing to do with this. A girl who doesn't want to be a part of this, a girl who is untrained and inexperienced, and while she's not the scared little lamb I feared her to be at first, I still doubt that she has the strength and stamina to get through all of this. It's hard, if not impossible, to believe that she will.

Daveed rushes past me, pushing open the front door before I have another moment to prepare for this meeting. He ignores my angry glare and gestures for me to step inside. He holds the door open for me and the girl as if we were a long-awaited special guest.

I guess, in a way, we are.

It may be my own tension, or the fact that I notice her stiffening next to me, I don't know, but whatever the reason, I instinctively reach for her hand. And she doesn't withdraw her hand, our fingers entwining on impact. Our hands connect in a firm clasp as we enter the room where Big George is waiting for us.

He has always been a dramatic man, placing value on staging that one would only find in a movie scene. I've been in this room many times before. It's what George calls his library, even though I doubt he's read many of the books lined up on the ceiling-high shelves stretching across two walls. The high ceilings with stucco, floor-length windows, and an original hardwood floor that creaks with every step are the most memorable characteristics that round out this classic New England-style room. A bulky wooden desk with a single chair dominates the middle of it. Big George always makes his guests stand whenever they’re in this room, even though as the only one sitting it dwarfs him.

I don't even try to hold back a subtle snort when I see him there, sunken into a massive leather upholstered armchair, his thick, muscled arms stretched out on the armrests and a condescending smile on his weathered face. The stern man is holding a tumbler filled with a shot of whiskey in his stocky right hand, keeping in character as the crime syndicate boss he wants to portray.

I wait until Daveed closes the door behind us before I take a deep breath to deliver the monologue I prepared for our encounter.

But George preempts me.

"So, that's her," he says, jutting his chin in Malia's direction as we position ourselves across the desk in front of him. "She really looks like our Lailah, there’s no denying it."

I'm startled by his introductory words. My eyebrows must be touching my hairline as I exchange a surprised look with Mike and Daveed. It's the latter whose eyes tell me what I need to know.

"You told him," I say harshly, fixating on Daveed with a dark gaze.

He offers a nod.

---