Page 17 of Wicked Lies

“It’s not that simple. I don’t want to go in guns blazing. I want to use a quieter approach, and send a message without starting a war.”

“What does that have to do with me?” Nick stretched his legs out in front of him, wishing he could lay his pounding head against a nice soft pillow.

“I want you and Samson to set up a meet with Valentin. Reinstate the reasons why getting in our business isn’t advantageous at this time.”

Frank sounded like a college graduate, even though he’d never made it past tenth grade. Valentin was just another thug looking to make a name for himself, and Nick wanted nothing to do with any of it.

“C’mon Frank, Samson and I don’t do that kind of work anymore.” He shifted forward. “I think it would be better—”

“I don’t pay you to think,” Frank interrupted with a menacing glare. “I pay you to do as you’re told.” He kept his voice silky smooth, but his meaning was clear. “Just 'cause you’re walking around in designer clothes and screwin’ every high-class piece of ass in the club doesn’t make you a celebrity.”

“Me and Samson made the Oasis what it is today. You don’t need us busting heads anymore. You got plenty of other guys who—”

“Are you telling me how to run my business?”

“I’m just sayin’—”

When you came to me, you were nothing but a punk in need of a big favor.”

Frank used Nick’s past like a noose around his neck. The more he resisted, the tighter Frank pulled. Lately, Nick was choking.

“You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

Even if Frank wasn’t shoving it down his throat regularly, he would never forget. How could he? That day changed his life forever.

A hot, steamy July night in Brooklyn felt like walking through water, and unless you were from there, you couldn’t know it. On nights like this, everybody hung out on the front stoop because their tiny, airless apartments were stifling.

Nick climbed the stone steps, and the animated crowd became silent. They stared and whispered behind their hands, and he knew something terrible happened.

The cops asked him if he knew anything about domestic fights, yelling, and screaming. He knew too much about it. It was his life for all his growing-up years.

Arms held him back, but he broke free and followed the trail of yellow crime scene tape to his mother—dead on the kitchen floor. Nick’s heart shattered into pieces, but her bloodied face and broken body weren’t a surprise.

Guilt propelled him out of the room, then from the apartment. The cops called out to him, wanting to question him, but they’d be no help. His mother would become another statistic of another brutal animal who didn’t deserve to live.

He hit the street running. By the time he barged into Frank’s office, he wanted revenge. His mother’s death wrecked him. He wanted his father to pay for what he did.

“No, I haven’t.” The familiar tic in Nick’s left eye kept a beat with the pulse in his neck.

“Good, good.” Frank stood, moved around his desk, then placed his hand on Nick’s shoulder. “ I know I can always depend on your loyalty.”

“Right.” Nick wanted to shrug Frank’s hand away, but he knew better.

“I’d like the issue with Valentin taken care of as soon as possible.”

“Sure.” Nick nodded like an obedient dog, then stood, hoping to end the torture.

“Oh, and one other thing.” Frank paused. “We don’t have to worry about Jimmy anymore.”

Nick furrowed his brow.

“Consider him paid in full.”

* * *

“What the fuck?”Samson jumped off the couch in Nick’s office and paced the floor. His best friend wasn’t known for keeping a lid on his emotions, and after the fuck-ups of the last year, he was wound tighter than usual.

“He says we’re the only ones he wants handling it.” Nick rolled his eyes at the obvious bullshit.

---