Page 50 of Confession
I check my surroundings. I’m on the main floor between the bar and the mezzanine stairway. It’s a typical weekday crowd, lighter and less chaotic than a weekend. No suspicious movement, no red flags. I move over to the stairway so no one can get behind me, then I pull out my phone, scan my thumbprint, and send Sasha a text.
Can you come take over at the club?
Sasha’s reply comes through in seconds like she was watching her phone.Be there in 10.
What? Where the hell is she? The house is a solid twenty-minute drive in favorable traffic. But I’d rather she get here than answer my questions, so I just text,Thx.
I stow my phone.
I plan another circuit of the club, starting toward the bar, but I have a sixth sense for Vitali, I swear, because I look back to see him at the top of the mezzanine steps. My heart skips because I know he’s coming for me, that he’s been watching me via the security cameras. His appearance after my text is too immediate, and his eyes are locked on me.
His hands are in the pockets of his gray dress pants, his jacket parted and flared back behind them, his matching vest and watch chain on display. He’s pissed. He has been all day, and his clothes reflect it. The more stressed Vitali is, the more formally he dresses.
I go to meet him at the bottom of the steps because there’s really no choice. His jaw is tight as he nods his head in the direction of the back door. I follow him through the club.
We step out into the humid June night. The parking lot lights blaze down, picking out the shine of Vitali’s hair, sparking on his cufflinks as he crosses his arms.
He says, “You obviously weren’t going to come talk to me.”
“Probably not.”
“Was that Sasha you were texting?”
“She’s on her way.”
Vitali looks away, out across the parking lot, showing me the gorgeous profile that I just can’t look at right now. I drop my eyes to his chest, where his shirt is partially open to show the edge of his tattoos. I can’t look at that either, so I drop my eyes all the way.
That’s right, keep your eyes on the fucking ground where they belong.
I hope Vitali hits me. I hope he tells me what a piece of shit I am.
He doesn’t do any of that. Instead he says, “Fine. If that’s how you want it,” and turns away.
I swear to god, some kind of chasm opens right behind me. I feel it, the crack in the earth, the void. My head goes light and my stomach pitches as I stagger a step like I’m going to fall into that void.
I want him to hit me because that I understand, because that makes sense to me, because that feels right to me—but I don’t want him to leave me.
I grab at Vitali, catching his sleeve. He wheels on me, his dark eyes furious. He says nothing. He waits for what I’ll give him.
But I can’t give him anything. I need something from him, but I have nothing to give, and I know exactly how worthless that makes me.
So I offer the only thing I know how to do. My job. “I’ll wait on the mezzanine until Sasha—”
Vitali shoves me back, forcing my grip off him. “I can fucking take care of myself. I can’t deal with you right now.”
I turn away because I can’t deal with him either, can’t watch him walk away—and that’s when I see a car that doesn’t belong in this lot. And two men in it.
Obviously, my first thought is the DiMaggios, and I spin toward Vitali. I crowd him toward the door. He’s surprisedenough that he doesn’t shove me again, but he does resist. He’s looking over my shoulder as I yank the door open behind him.
I’m about to shove him through into the club when he snaps, “It’s the feds.”
I freeze. Shit.
I turn to face them, still keeping Vitali behind me. As the passenger gets out of the car, I recognize him as Special Agent Martin Cohen, head of the Boston office, an agent too high up to be in the field. That should mean he’s here on DiMaggio business, but he’s got another agent with him.
Vitali steps out from behind me as the two men approach. They’re dressed in plain clothes, but each has a gun at the hip. Cuffs too.
“What brings you out tonight, gentlemen?” Vitali asks.
