Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2) Page 4

  “Sounds like him,” Seven says, still lurking in the doorway.

  The detective seems to just notice Seven’s presence, a look of contempt passing across the man’s face. “Pratt.”

  “Jones.”

  “I see your choice of friendships hasn’t gotten any better.”

  “And I see you still get your rocks off fucking with people.”

  “That was always you, Pratt. Quick to sell out everyone for a dollar.”

  “Me?” Seven comes further into the office, leaving the door wide open, his quick advance making the detective step back. “You want to talk about selling people out?”

  I glance between them as they shoot daggers at each other. “Are you two... flirting? Because it’s kind of turning me on.”

  Okay, now those daggers are being shot at me.

  “Sit down, Seven,” I say, shoving the chair beside me toward him before I point at the detective. “You, too, Detective Fuckface. Plant your ass in a chair. Let’s chit-chat.”

  Neither man listens to me right away, but Seven’s common sense kicks in after a moment. He sits down, not saying another word.

  The detective follows his lead, taking a seat behind his desk, his eyes fixed on me. “Lorenzo Gambini, I presume? Or would you prefer to be called—”

  “Sir,” I cut in before he can say Scar. “You can call me sir, if it gives you the tingles. Otherwise, let’s just stick with Gambini.”

  He sits quietly for a moment, stewing, before he asks, “What do you want? Huh? You think you can show up here and threaten me?”

  “Threaten you?” I look to Seven. “Did I threaten him and already forget about it?”

  “I didn’t hear a threat,” Seven says.

  I glance back at the detective. “Didn’t think so. I’m just here to check up on a case.”

  “Make an appointment,” he says.

  “I’d rather not,” I say, “so I’ll just sit here and wait.”

  I think he thinks I’ll give up and go away, or that I’ll do something to justify him having me thrown out of the building, but I’m smarter than that, and I’m stubborn as shit. I’ll sit here for a fucking week in silence if it means I win.

  It doesn’t take a week, though. Hell, it only takes a few minutes. A few minutes of him trying to ignore my presence before he gives in. Weak.

  “Fine!” He throws his hands up. “Tell me what you want from me and then get the hell out.”

  “Kassian Aristov.”

  He blanks.

  Full on, no fucking poker face blanks.

  There’s this thing people do when death is imminent, this look that comes over them. Sometimes it only lasts a second. All color drains away. Eyes widen. Jaw goes slack. They almost look dead already, life non-existent, when the realization hits them that they’re completely fucked and there’s no way to stop it from happening.

  That’s the look he gets on his face right now.

  Dead man walking...

  “I can’t talk to you about a case that doesn’t involve you,” he says, choosing his words carefully.

  “Oh, do you have a case that does involve me? Because I’d love to hear about that one.”

  He glares at me, still as white as a ghost.

  “Well then, in that case, we can stick to Aristov,” I say. “I’m actually here on behalf of someone else, so don’t you worry your pretty little mind... you can tell me all about it.”

  “You’re here on whose behalf?”

  “Morgan Myers.”

  There he goes blanking again. Panicked.

  “Well?” I snap my finger at him. “The sooner you get with it, the sooner I’ll go.”

  He clears his throat and looks away, absently shifting things around on his desk. “Miss Myers can’t speak for herself anymore? She has to send you to rough me up?”

  “Jesus fuck.” I look at Seven. “Did I miss myself roughing him up now? What’s happening here?”

  “Beats me,” Seven says, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m surprised he hasn’t told you everything. He’s always been good at ratting people out.”

  Something strikes me then, something in Seven’s clipped tone, and I laugh as I turn back to the detective. Motherfucker. Turns out I might be dealing with backstabbing Lando. “No way, you? Tell me you didn’t snitch on a fellow officer.”

  “He shouldn’t have been working for the Italians,” the detective says. “He betrayed the badge.”

  “Ask him how he knows,” Seven chimes in. “Ask him how he found out I was on their payroll.”

  “Oh, I don’t have to ask,” I say. “He sold you out to save his own ass.”

  Nobody says anything, which really says everything.

  “And you didn’t return the favor?” I ask Seven. “Didn’t take him down with you?”

  Seven shakes his head.

  “He would’ve,” the detective said, “if he thought for a moment that they would’ve believed it. They hailed me a hero for that arrest. How else do you think I got this cushy private office?”

  “Sure as hell isn’t because you’re good at helping people, huh?” I laugh again, sitting up in the chair, getting pretty tired of dealing with this jackass already. It’s no damn wonder Scarlet faded out whenever he touched her. I ought to break every fucking bone in his hands for doing what he did, despicable piece of shit. “Morgan Myers... you’re going to tell me what’s going on with her case.”

  The detective is quiet, like he’s thinking about how to answer, before saying, “There isn’t one.”

  Did I just hear that right? “What did you just say?”

  “There is no case,” he says. “We investigated, nothing panned out. Miss Myers was advised to handle it herself, since it’s a civil matter.”

  It’s not often I’m rendered speechless, but it’s been happening quite a bit lately, and it always seems to have something to do with Scarlet.

  It’s blowing my goddamn mind.

  “A civil matter,” I say. “Which part? Because I’m just wondering whether murder or kidnapping is the civil matter, legally speaking. I might be interested in partaking in one or the other, if that’s the case.”

  “Look, I don’t know what she told you, Gambini, but there was no kidnapping. Aristov has a right to his daughter. Morgan kept the kid from him for years prior to this, and she wasn’t charged with kidnapping, either. So like I said, it’s a civil matter. If she wants us to do anything, she needs to sue for custody and get an order filed with the courts, something that can be enforced. And last time I checked, Miss Myers was still very much alive, which means there wasn’t a murder.”

  “Attempted murder, then.”

  “There’s no proof he tried to kill her,” he says. “At most, with just her testimony to rely on—if she’d even testify, which she won’t—it gets pled down to simple assault. He pays a fine, takes anger management, and that’s the end of it. She’s also welcome to petition the courts for a restraining order. Again, that’s something we can enforce.”

  He’s got an answer for everything, an excuse as to why they’re not doing a damn thing to help her.

  “Fair enough,” I say, “but riddle me this: if she gave birth at sixteen, which is under the age of consent, why wasn’t he charged for that? Pretty sure that’s one hell of a cut-and-dry felony.”

  “There was never any complaint of statutory rape.”

  “Not even when a man over twice her age signed the birth certificate?”

  He stares at me in silence.

  “Huh, so either you ignored that little fact or he never signed the birth certificate, which means he’s either guilty of statutory rape or he’s guilty of kidnapping her child. Which one is it, detective?”

  He still says nothing.

  Knowing what I know, I’m betting it’s the kidnapping. Some bullshit piece of paper issued by the government would mean nothing to Aristov. He doesn’t need the validation.

  But it also means he’s got no legal right to her.

&
nbsp; “Do you like it?” I ask after a moment of strained silence. “Does it make you hard, bending over for the Russians, letting them fuck you?”

  He glares at me.

  “It’s okay, you can admit it,” I continue. “We’ve all got our kinks. Bet you love it when they come all over your back and treat you like a little bitch.”

  “Fuck you,” he growls. “You don’t know anything.”

  “I know you sold out a grieving mother, and I know you fed her a bunch of bullshit about how you were going to help. I know she let you stick it in, because she loves her kid, thinking you were a good guy that was going to help her with this. But you never planned to do a goddamn thing for her, did you?”

  “I’m doing all I can for Morgan,” he says through gritted teeth, his nostrils flaring. He looks like he wants to tear me to pieces. Awesome. “You think I don’t wish I could get the kid back for her? If it was in any way possible, I would’ve done it, but my hands are tied. You just don’t cross Aristov.”

  “Careful, detective,” I say. “You’re sounding a bit like a coward right now.”

  “I’m being realistic,” he says, running his hands down his face. “Unlike Morgan, who seems to think she can go up against him and not lose everything. I mean, Christ... what does she expect? She’s alive. She escaped with her life. She ought to be grateful for that! The kid... the kid is fine. I get that it sucks, but she’s with them, and she’s... fine.”

  “And you just took the Russian’s word for that?”

  “Of course not,” he grumbles. “I’m not an idiot. I made him prove it. And the kid, you know... she’s fine. He has her. She’s fine.”

  I’m beginning to question if he believes his own words. He’s said she was fine so many goddamn times that I think he might be trying to convince himself of that.

  “I take it that means you’ve seen her?”

  He looks at me, going white again. Uh-oh.

  “Where’s he hiding her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Nothing.”

  Lying son of a bitch...

  I shove up to my feet, towering over the desk. “You wanna know what I know, detective?”

  “What?”

  Snatching ahold of his shirt, I fist the collar and yank him up out of his chair. He grabs the desk when he slams into it, bracing himself as I pull him to me. I stare him right in his eyes, face-to-face, so damn close our noses almost touch.

  “I know if you ever lay another finger on Morgan, I’ll cut your dick off and fuck you with it,” I say. “And then, when I’m done, I’ll shove it down your mother’s throat while I fuck her. You got me?”

  Blinking rapidly, he nods.

  I shove him back into his chair, and he damn near falls right out of it, alarmed. Man, you don’t even know how much I want to shoot him in the crotch right now, just pump bullet after bullet into the man’s puny balls.

  “I’ll be seeing you around, Detective Fuckface,” I say. “Next time, though, you might not like me so much.”

  “See, that was a threat,” Seven chimes in, getting to his feet. “I heard it that time.”

  I laugh, walking out, leaving the precinct without bothering with anybody else.

  Stepping outside onto the sidewalk in front of the precinct, I pull the small tin from my pocket to grab a joint.

  “Uh, boss,” Seven says, pausing beside me. “Might not be the best place to light up.”

  I shrug that off, lighting it, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke for a moment before saying, “What are they gonna do, arrest me?”

  “Probably.”

  I take another hit of it, nodding, before strolling away from the entrance, heading to where the car is parked. I lounge in the passenger seat, steadily smoking, letting it soothe my nerves and clear my mind as Seven drives. The windows are rolled up, so he’s probably getting a bit of a high, but he doesn’t complain about it.

  “He saw the kid,” I say after a moment, “which means Aristov kept her around here.”

  I can feel Seven’s gaze flicker my way as he says quietly, “His refrigerator.”

  His refrigerator.

  What the fuck?

  “Seriously? You think he’s keeping her in his refrigerator? Jesus Christ, Seven, who is he, Jeffery Dahmer?”

  “No, I’m not saying he... you know. But when we were at his house, when I went to the kitchen to wait... there was a picture on the refrigerator. A drawing, stick figures and a house. You know, stuff kids draw.”

  “And you didn’t think to mention that before now?”

  “No,” he admits. “I didn’t know we were even looking for a kid. You didn’t tell me, so I didn’t realize it was important.”

  I’m thinking about that as we head back into Queens, approaching my house, my gaze steadily watching the mirrors, making sure nobody is following us. Can never be too sure. It’s bothering me, what Seven just said. “How many stick figures?”

  He pulls into my driveway, casting me a curious look. “What?”

  “How many people were in the drawing?”

  “Uh... two. A guy and a kid, it looked like.”

  Shit.

  I sit there, even after he cuts the engine to the car, staring out the windshield at my house. It’s after sunrise now, which means Scarlet is probably awake in there, roaming around.

  “What are you thinking, boss?” Seven asks.

  I’m thinking life is going on without Scarlet, the world is still turning, and that’s going to hurt the fuck out of her. You see, that’s the thing about grief... it feels all-consuming. It makes it feel like time stops, because for you, it does. Life as you know it ceases to exist, but for everyone else, it just keeps going on. And sometimes, you know, if it stops for too long, there’s not much chance of you ever catching up.

  Because by the time your world moves again, everyone else is already too far gone.

  “Thinking I might make some pancakes this morning,” I say. “Maybe some bacon, too.”

  Seven follows me inside. The moment I open the front door, music greets me, rattling through the house from upstairs. Tupac. I make my way up there, the noise blaring from my brother’s room, loud despite his door being closed. I’m pretty sure I know what other noises the music is drowning out, so I don’t bother him, instead strolling over to my room.

  The door is cracked open, and I push it further, leaning against the doorframe.

  A smile slowly turns my lips.

  Scarlet’s making my bed, dancing around as she flings sheets across the thing, trying to get the corners to stay put but they’re a bitch to secure. Too big T-shirt, lacy panties, and a pair of socks tugged damn near to her knees is all she’s wearing, her hair all over the place. I Get Around. She tries to rap along to the song, only knowing half the words, fucking up the rest by just making shit up.

  Her eyes shift my way after a moment, and she startles, the singing stopping as she freezes. It only lasts a few seconds before the chorus kicks back in and she shrugs me off, singing along again as she finally gets the fitted sheet into place, moving on to the rest.

  I say nothing, just watching her. The song changes to Hit ‘Em Up. She knows even less of his one, spewing out part of a line every now and then, violent and vulgar, so damn out of place with her honeyed voice that I laugh.

  “You laughing at me?” she asks, cutting her eyes my way. “That’s foul.”

  “It’s cute,” I say, “you trying to sound hardcore.”

  She scowls as she struts over to me, pausing when we’re toe-to-toe, not even hesitating as her arms go around me, her hands meeting at the nape of my neck, fingers running through my hair.

  She stares me dead in the face, her expression stone cold serious as she says, “I will cut a motherfucker.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a second,” I tell her, leaning over, kissing her. “My wicked little belladonna, beautiful, deadly, so tempting to keep tasting but so goddamn toxic every tou
ch is just too much.”

  Something flashes in her eyes, her cheeks growing pink, a flush taking over her warm skin.

  “Is this foreplay?” she asks. “Because I’m not really in the mood.”

  “Liar.” I laugh, running my nose along her cheek. She smells like warm vanilla and maybe even a bit like me. “Are you forgetting what happens to people who lie to me?”

  Rolling her eyes, she pushes away, walking back over to finish making the bed. “How do you know I’m lying?”

  “You look like you might enjoy a good pounding,” I say. “Besides, fresh sheets... no better time than now to fuck the bed all up.”

  She throws the comforter on top of it, doing a half-assed job at the rest, before dropping to the floor on her hands and knees, looking under the bed.

  Walking over, I reach down, running a hand over the curve of her ass before slipping further down, rubbing her pussy through her panties. “You assuming the position?”

  She laughs. “I’m looking for Buster.”

  “Ah, its downstairs in my library.”

  She stands up, giving me a weird look as she pushes past me.

  “Where are you going?” I ask, catching her arm.

  “To get Buster,” she says.

  I stare at her as she pulls away, leaving the room.

  Un-fucking-believable.

  Cock-blocked by a one-eyed teddy bear.

  Are you seeing the irony here?

  The song changes, Picture Me Rollin’ blaring through the house, but in those three seconds it takes for the music to kick back in, I hear the unmistakable sound of moaning.

  Walking over to my brother’s room, I bang my fist against the door, hard enough to rattle it, before snatching ahold of the knob and shoving the fucking thing open.

  “Whoa, Pretty Boy!” I tilt my head as the door slams into the wall. “I didn’t know Firecracker was so bendy.”

  Shouts, panic, as they scramble, throwing blankets over themselves, Firecracker covering up entirely as she pushes Leo off of her. Truthfully, I saw nothing, but if I’m getting cock-blocked, so is my brother.

  Yeah, whatever... no one ever said I was mature.

  “Jesus, bro!” he yells. “Do you mind?”