Page 22 of Wicked Things
“No, you did not. You came here to kill me. Now how am I supposed to take that, Zeth? Lying down, with a happy smile on my face? I don’t think so.”
“You should have thought about that before you started fucking with my shit back in Seattle.”
He grunts. Running his tongue over his teeth, he stares at me for a moment, not saying anything. It’s almost disturbing. Roberto Barbieri is very different to the crime bosses I’ve had dealings with in the past. When his gaze meets mine, I see none of the drug-induced madness that plagued Charlie. I see none of the ego and arrogance that Julio suffered from. Roberto is a clever man. Incredibly intelligent. When I look into his eyes, all I see is a blank, vacant wall staring straight back at me, and that’s more dangerous that insanity and ego combined any day of the week.
“If you’re not going to eat the steak,” he says slowly, “then perhaps we can skip ahead to some desert.” He raises his hand, motioning to one of the waiters. A guy standing by the door notices him immediately; he doesn’t come over, though. He turns and hurries out of the room, returning seconds later and rushing across the floor toward us. There are no plates in his hands. Instead, he places a thin manila envelope down on the table next to me, inclining his head respectfully to Roberto before he hurries off again. I eye the envelope, huffing.
“What’s this?”
“This is a gift from me to you. Think of it as an apology for our previous misunderstandings. Go ahead. Open it.”
“I’m not interested in gifts from you, asshole.”
“You’ll be interested in this one, I promise,” he tells me, smiling ever so slightly. I push back from the table, rising from my seat. I fucking refuse to engage in game playing with this man. I point blankrefuse. Roberto’s smile broadens. “Are you sure you want to do that?” he asks. “A series of events have been set in motion back in Seattle. It is within your power to control these events should you wish to, but only if you remain seated at this table. Only if you open the envelope and see what is inside. Once you walk away, there will be no stopping what is to come.”
I know an empty threat when I hear one. He’s bullshitting me. He has to be. He just wants to tug on my strings, make me bend to his will. He’s spinning me a line. If I sit back down, I’m giving him exactly what he wants. I need to go back to go back across the road and rethink how I’m going to approach this problem. Turning, I begin to walk away.
“If you love her, you’ll stay,” Roberto calls.
I stop dead in my tracks. Spinning slowly on the balls of my feet, I about face so that I’m staring at the sick fuck once more. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I snarl.
“It means you need to sit back down and survey the contents of that envelope, Zeth. I’m sure you’re going to find it a very interesting read.”
Damn him. I am going to enjoy gutting him from stem to sternum so fucking much. If he’s hurt her…If he’s so much as breathed in her general direction, I’m going to unravel his intestines from his body through his fucking mouth and I’m going to be laughing like a fucking psycho while I do it.
It kills me to sit back down at the table. Fuckingkillsme. But I do it.
Inside the envelope is a DEA report. A short one. I scan the pages quickly, my eyes scanning over the information, my blood pressure rising by the second. Lowell’s been at it again, but this time she’s not gunning for me. She’s doing something far, far worse. She’s going after Sloane. Lacey’s autopsy report is difficult to read. There are photos. Photos of her body. I slide them back inside the envelope, face down, refusing to look at them.
Cause of death: overdose.
A series of records, showing Sloane checking an extraordinarily large number of morphine vials out of the dispensary follows in the next report. There are a list of dates, all only a couple of days leading up to Lacey’s death, showing exactly when Sloane requested the morphine. Unlike all of the other entries in the report, Sloane’s requests for the painkiller don’t have a patient’s name or case file number next to them, which leaves the reader of the report left guessing the purpose for such large quantities of the drug.
“Lacey was shot,” I say slowly. “She wasn’t poisoned.”
Roberto pouts, his mouth drawing down at either corner. “The coroner’s report indicates otherwise, it appears.”
“Didyoudo this?”
“No, I did not. It seems your friend at the Drug Enforcement Administration has grown tired trying to pin something on you and appears to be pursuing other avenues.” He continues eating. “You know how long a new mother is allowed to spend with her child after she gives birth inside a state facility? It varies from state to state, prison to prison. Maybe the lovely Doctor Romera will be lucky and find herself remanded in a liberal establishment. She might be allowed to keep your bastard with her for a month or so. Maybe even three, before he or she’s taken by the state.”
Ice is forming inside my lungs now; it’s almost impossible to breathe. “Sloane did nothing wrong. There’s no way she’ll be convicted of murder.”
Roberto shoots me a pitying looking. “I’m a criminal, Zeth. I spend a lot of my time breaking law. I also spend a lot of time reviewing police reports, assessing whether I need to have one of my men killed because he is likely to go to jail and can’t keep his fucking mouth shut. I can recognize a concrete case when I see one. I know exactly what’s going to happen to you girlfriend. As soon as that file hits any judge’s desk, a warrant for Sloane’s arrest will be issued. Following her arrest, her bail will not be granted. There will be public uproar. A caregiver in a position of power, murdering a fragile, mentally disturbed young woman, poisoning her and then burying her body out in the woods? The media will have a fucking field day.
“There will be a trial, an unsuccessful appeal process, and then Sloane will be sentenced to life imprisonment if she’s lucky. If she’s not lucky, she’ll be given then death sentence. They’ll want to make an example of her. Did you know, the preferred method of capital punishment in the state of Washington is hanging? I thought it was lethal injection. Turns out I was incorrect.”
There are no words to describe my fury. I can’t seem to see beyond it. My vision is strobing, lights flashing, and a sharp, stabbing pain is lancing through my head. I don’t know what to do first—leap across the table, grab hold of Roberto and repeatedly smash his head against the table until his skull cracks open, or head straight back to the airport so I can find Lowell and torture the ever loving shit out of her.
“I can understand your anger,” Roberto says. “But I’m showing this to you so it can be avoided. There’s a way to make this case file disappear. There’s a way to make sure it never even makes it in front of a judge.Ican make that happen.”
I know where this is going, and I don’t like it. He’s going to want me to work for him in exchange for burying this and making it go away. So fucking predictable. Lowell is going after Sloane because she knows how much it will hurt me. Roberto is using Sloane’s safety as a carrot, so he can get what he wants from me.
Being with Sloane makes me weak.Sheis a weakness. I fucking fell in love with her though, and I wouldn’t,can’tchange that, so these are the cards I have been handed. What’s going to happen when our child is born? Are people like Lowell and Barbieri going to go on the hunt, trying to kidnap him at every possible fucking turn? Woe betides the person who fucking tries.
“Say it,” I growl. “Name your terms.” It’s funny how a plan can change so dramatically in such a short period of time. Half an hour ago, I was wondering how many people were going to be witness to me planting a bullet into the head of the Barbieri family patriarch. Now, I’m wondering what I’m going to have to do in order for him to help me. I hate this. I fucking hate it so much.
Roberto cuts another piece of steak, spearing it, eating it, chewing it in the most infuriating, disgusting manner, his jaw working overtime. “I only want your help. A temporary solution to an ongoing problem. You see, I’ve had a change of heart. I know now that having a man like you working for me all the way across the other side of the country is a horrible idea. You resent me. I’d go so far as to say you hate me.” My expression must let him know he’s right on the money. He laughs softly. “So all I’m asking of you is this: you know the lay of the land in Seattle. You know the organizations and factions who are going to cause trouble during this shift in power. Instead of you keeping the peace and maintaining order yourself, I’m asking you to train my chosen representatives to run the west coast for me instead. Show them how things work out there. Introduce them to the people they’re going to need to know. Most importantly, keep them out of trouble.”
