Page 16 of Edge of Ruin
“Dude.” Duncan’s voice dropped fifty degrees. “That’s no bag you’ve got there. That’s Nell’s precious little sister. You don’t get any further from a bag than that.”
I gritted my teeth. “I didn’t mean to imply that she was a?—”
“Shut up. Just stop being such a stubborn, bad-tempered, contrary dickhead. I send a hot, sexy little red-headed thing your way to liven up your lonesome, monotonous existence, and what do you do? You bitch! You complain! Jesus, Jack! Get the fuck over yourself!”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Me, shut up? You’re the one who woke us up out of a sound sleep at six-thirty in the morning! Seriously, though, stay frosty, man. Those bastards are looking hard for her, and if they find her, she is meat. And so am I, incidentally, if Vivi doesn’t stay okay. You have got to convince her to lay low. Keep quiet. Sculpt stuff. Make earrings. Whatever the hell keeps her busy and out of trouble.”
“Yeah, right,” I scoffed. “Like I can ‘convince her’ of anything.”
“Come on, man. Sweeten her up. Seduce her. Whatever works for you guys. God knows, you’re suffering from testosterone poisoning. Unload some of that energy before you hurt yourself. Get your dick out of the deep freeze and use it for something useful. Melt her brain. Do what you have to do. Find a way to keep her safe. Or else.”
I hung up on him, slumped in my chair, dropped my throbbing head into my hands, and shifted uncomfortably in my jeans. I was going to rip out my seams if this bullshit went on much longer.
Sweeten her up. Seduce her. Melt her brain.
Duncan’s blunt suggestions had merit, but there was a small but problematic snag.
The brain in question that was melting was my own.
Chapter Seven
John did a drive-by of the Jersey City address stamped on the outside of the mailer. The one with the Vivi D’Onofrio art box in it. Excitement pulsed through him. Finally, a new lead, after these weeks of waiting, listening to Haupt’s shrill, repetitive lectures.
Two weeks ago, he’d ordered the gift box from Vivien D’Onofrio’s website, for the modest price of $115. Today, it had arrived. Finally, a chunk of meat to throw to the old shitbag. Finally, something to fucking do.
He was trembling with sexual anticipation. Vivien was a skinny little thing compared to her older sisters, with no tits to speak of, but her ass was nice and round, and he liked the fiery hair and the full, pink lips.
He bet she was excellent at sucking cock. She’d have ample opportunity to demonstrate her skill. Girls tried so hard to please when they were motivated. And bad-boy Johnny knew just how to motivate them. Oh, boy, did he ever.
He no longer bothered to ask himself why he hung around to take the abuse from Haupt. John was a skilled professional, at the top of his game, and very highly thought of, in certain, extremely select circles. He didn’t need the money. He could retire right now if he wanted to.
But he wouldn’t. He’d gladly kill for free, for the fun of it, but he didn’t advertise that fact. It was bad for business. Besides, he liked money just fine.
But this job had gone down the tubes weeks ago. It was like he was cursed. At this point, it had gotten under his skin. He’d lost his professional detachment. He’d gotten personally invested in the outcome. That was dangerous. A man had to be able to walk away when he reached a point of diminishing returns.
His returns on this job had been diminishing almost from the start, but here he still was. Taking it up the ass, day after day.
He couldn’t help but persist until he won, after what he’d been through. He’d been insulted, thwarted, shot at. Stabbed, for God’s sake. That sneaky bitch Antonella had practically punctured a kidney. He’d needed internal and external stitches to fix the damage. He was still on antibiotics. It was still bruised. It still hurt.
Those girls were his. All three of them. He wanted to feel their hot blood pumping over his hands. Wanted to feel each of them in turn, flailing desperately in his grip. He wanted to hear them shriek and beg, in vain.
Vivien was the obvious one to target now. Security was too tight around the other two. When the dickheads currently fucking Nell and Nancy were put down like rabid dogs, the situation would be different. Then the way forward would be clear. Simple.
But Vivien had not cooperated. She’d dropped out of sight. She could no longer be found on the crafts fair circuit, nor had she been spotted, on video or in real time, outside her sisters’ residences, or their new lovers’ residences, either.
Maybe she was hiding here. In any case, whoever lived at this Jersey City address was going to get a long, chatty visit from John about that mail-order business, and where its owner could be found.
A car stopped outside. John slumped, watching. Four large, burly men in dark suits got out and trotted up the steps of the place.
They entered without knocking. The subtle bulges under their jackets were immediately recognizable to a trained eye. Oh. Shit.
John’s teeth began to grind, and he clicked open his laptop, typed the street address into a search engine, scanned the hits.
Fuck. Braxton Security? He knew the name. It was the security firm that rich prick Burke, Antonella’s boy toy, was affiliated with. She’d based her fucking mail-order company out of a goddamn security firm. Swarming with ex-military types, mercenaries, spies, techs.
John was not going to have stimulating chats with anyone today.
