Page 74 of A Murderous Crow
“What happened to the moving company I hired?” I demanded.
“Uh, yeah – we canceled that. Figured we’d save you a few bones,” Fear said.
“What the fuck are you all up to?” I demanded.
“Nothing much – just feeling her out. She’s kind of a timid little thing.”
“She’s almost as tall as I am,” I said. “Save me your bullshit.”
“She may be as tall as you are, but one stiff breeze she’s liable to blow away. Seriously, I like mine with a little meat on their bones. What’s it like to fuck a twig?”
“Oh, shut up,” I grated, and Fear laughed on the other end of the line.
“Where is she now?” I demanded.
“With Reaper, headed on back over to your place and the re-established fuck studio. Torment should be there already; he’s stocking her fridge.”
“Seriously?” I demanded.
“You let her go with Reaper?”
“Hey, that was Grim’s idea.”
“Who else is at my place?” I demanded.
“Uh, nobody that I know of.”
“Jesus Christ, Reaper and Torment,” I pinched the bridge of my nose and took a steadying breath in and let it out slowly.
“Relax,” Fear said. “I Reaper’s been on a short leash since that thing with Hangman’s girl, and Torment… you know what? On second thought, you might want to get over there.”
“Fear, I swear to God,” he laughed and hung up. He was good at that, the fucker – sowing fear and watching the chaos unfold. I shook my head with a small smile and looked at my calendar.
I wasn’t really all that worried, to be honest. Reaper had a deep respect for women who were still breathing, and honestly when it came to Torment, it was all about what kind of mood he was in. I figured that if there was ever an introduction to the deep end of the pool and it was sink or swim, Fear had set up a perfect opportunity for Savannah to learn and to learn fast.
I just hoped that Torwasn’tin one of his moods – he could put thecruelincruel intentionsand pull some fucked up shit. He loved to watch a motherfucker squirm. Just as long as that fucker wasn’t my Savannah, we’d be cool.
I had too much to do today, and I was stretched like a rubber band. I was irritated with Synister – this had him all over it. He’d likely seen the charge to the moving company and had gotten into things. That’s what I got for having each other as backups on accounts.
I’d deal with that later – tonight I was meeting with Luca Di Maritzi over a rather nice Italian dinner to talk business. Mostly about using some of his warehouses as pop-up underground fight locations. So… underworld real estate bargaining, which just so happened to be my niche and thus I was required to appear.
I got through the rest of my day as a mundane before I switched gears into full club life, even if I wore an Armani suit. I took the Porche, because riding in an Armani suit would have been idiotic and I didn’t have time to go change… not that biker wear was appropriate for Luciano’s. Far from it.
Still, it was intriguing, this prospect… the Italians had actually reached out tous, which meant we were certainly going places when it came to our underworld dealings… still; it was an interesting and potentially volatile cocktail as theydidbutt heads with the Colombians from time to time.
It gave Syn and I some pause, wondering if they were trying to butter us up to turn on Castañeda and his boys, which we had no interest in doing. Not unless the Italians had a very sweet offer indeed to make us. Castañeda and the Colombians were our main cash cow. We did the odd street deal here and there with the local gangs, but there was nothing like the Colombian’s money; so long as the supply chain didn’t dry up from Parris Island anytime soon.
Of course, it’d been America’s prerogative since something like the early 1970s to destabilize South America, and nothing about that had really changed; thus, I didn’t perceive that being a problem anytime soon.
Luciano’s was a small, but fine dining experience. You wouldn’t find your typical tourist fare here. Jacket and tie required, hats off before you even stepped through the door – an elegant sign out front stating the rules clearly. It wasn’t one of those places you walked into in your summer shorts, flip-flops, political tees and a baseball cap being loud and obnoxious about your First Amendment rights to free speech or whatever.
That was liable to get you a swift escort out into the back alley for an even swifter and unimaginably brutal lesson in how free speech doesn’t equal freedom from consequences by the rather large and intimidating Italian men in the corner boothreading the newspaper and chewing on toothpicks. Seated with them was a familiar pair of faces, Death and peeking out and around looking my direction was Shade. Death inclined his head ever so slightly, and I threw him some barely perceptible chin. The guy reading the newspaper beside him barely glanced in my direction, but that glance was enough to take itallin.
Yes. It wasthatkind of establishment, and a relatively new addition to Savannah at that; the neighborhood it inhabited near the water, but also newly gentrified causing an already strained housing market to become completely unbearable for the lower and what was left of the rapidly shrinking middle class.
Which was not my problem, thankfully. Never had been, and never would be as long as I did my part and kept myself and everyone else out of prison for any term length of time. Even then, we had sheltered assets that were untouchable from our legitimate ventures, held in offshore accounts and invisible to nearly any but the most elite of forensic accountants.
“Corvus, for Luca Di Maritzi,” I told the hostess at the podium greeting guests and looking up reservations. This was the kind of place that reservations were all but required, but if you wereverylucky, or willing to wait; you could snag a seat in off the street. Typically, the wait was two hours or better, though.
