Page 68 of Dirty Deeds

“She’s gone.”

Sometimes we gotta fight for that happy ending.

CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE

ENZO SCOTTO

If I didn’t just getthe protective glass on my phone fixed after I smashed it two nights ago, I’d throw the fucking thing again. I’ve been calling Danica for the last twenty minutes only to get her voicemail every damn time. I can’t call Slim because I’m a dick and forgot to ask for his number.

I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for why she’s not answering me.

The client was late.

The showing ran over the allotted hour we gave her.

She forgot her phone.

She left it in the car.

The possibilities are endless and yet something tells me, I have every reason to be concerned. I should’ve never agreed to let her go in the first place, but I’m not the guy that stands in his woman’s way. Plus, I could sense she was starting to lose it being cooped up in that apartment. The fucking thing didn’t even have a television.

I’m about to call Ro to see if she’s heard from her, when my phone rings with a call from my father. Stepping away from the jobsite, I make my way outside and answer. Maybe he knows why the fuck Danica is not picking up the phone.

“Son.”

It’s his tone that makes me go completely still. It’s the same one he used when he told me I had to say goodbye to my brother, that they were turning off the life support.

“Enzo,” he calls again.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Yeah.”

“I don’t want to you to panic because that won’t do anyone any good, but Danica is gone. She went to the showing like she said, and she told Slim to wait outside. A half hour went by, and no one showed to view the house. That’s went he went inside and saw the back door open. It looked like there were signs of a struggle, but what’s more alarming is that the backyard is all wooded. Slim found a set of footprints and we believe it was Matthews. My guess is he lured her to the property staging a phony appointment.”

The air leaves my lungs and I brace a hand against the side of my truck. How could I be so stupid? I gave that motherfucker a clear shot to my girl, and he took it.

“He could’ve taken her anywhere. Riggs thinks it may lead to Great Kills Park. If that’s the case, finding her is going to be hard. He probably had his car parked there and by now they could be anywhere. The man is clearly not working with a full deck, and this is out of his wheelhouse, he’s going to realize how badly he fucked up and he’s going to make a mistake. We just have to be two steps ahead of him, so I want you to think real hard. I need you to think if there is any place he might take her.”

I struggle to focus. Great Kills Park runs into the same marina that Brent keeps his boat. With that in mind, I disconnect the call and climb into my truck. Danica is only in this situation because of me and now it’s up to me to get her out of it.

Turning the key in the ignition, I throw my truck into drive and speed away from the site. It takes me fifteen minutes to get to the marina and my father blows up my phone the entire time. I don’t bother searching for a spot. I leave my truck in the middle of the street. That’s when I spot Brent’s Mercedes at the end of the lot, another car blocks it. I don’t know if that’s a coincidence or what, but I don’t waste any time checking it out. Instead, I head straight for the dock, adrenaline pumping through my veins as I reach the boat.

There’s a small wooden ramp that leads to the front deck, but the shit is warped and creaks when you walk across it. I walk around, trying to figure if there’s another way for me to get on board when I hear two men arguing, one of them Brent.

Shit.

I jump onto the deck of the neighboring boat and hunker down.

Brent is on the back deck, arguing with the other guy making headlines, his business partner, Edwin Guthrie.

“How the hell am I going to get her out of here? I brought her to Raritan Bay, the farthest this boat will take us is Jones Beach. You need to help me,” Brent hollers, tugging at the ends of his hair.

Jesus Christ.

Guthrie advances toward him, looking just as frazzled as he pokes a finger against the middle of Brent’s chest.

“I got my own problems, motherfucker. I need the money to get out of town. Because of that stupid cunt you married, they know about my involvement with the Yankovich ring. No way in hell am I going down for that.”

“That’s not my fucking problem,” he shouts, gripping Guthrie by his shirt. He spins him around, pinning him to the side of the boat. “That money isn’t yours.”

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