I pick up, and I don’t say a motherfucking word.
I’m met with silence, and then? “What’s up, asshole? Roberto Barbieri asked us to call you.”
Barbieri? What the fuck? The name has instant alarm bells ringing in my head. Barbieri and Charlie used to have some dealings back in the day. The Italians are based out of New York, but they’re always looking to move in on new territory. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that I’m hearing from them now. Seattle has been a largely unclaimed territory for months. In fact, this probably should have happened much sooner.
“Roberto Barbieri shouldn’t even have this number,” I growl into the phone. There are sounds of a scuffle on the other end of the line, and then another voice speaks. These are the brothers, Theo and Sal. Barbieri’s sons. Their reputations precede them, just like mine does. And from the calm tone and the fierce intelligence I can hear in this guy’s voice, I’m talking to the older brother right now—Theo.
“Mr. Mayfair, we met back in Seattle a couple of months ago. I believe we had a common enemy. The Monterellis? You took care of one brother. We took care of the other.”
Huh. I’d had my suspicions about that. I did end Frankie Monterelli, yes. He was the last person I killed, and the fucker had been going for his gun. When his younger brother, Archie Monterelli, was killed at St. Peter’s Hospital, things really started to get complicated for me. “I remember,” I say. “The cops pinned me for that one, too. Made life very difficult for me and my girl.”
“We’re sorry about that. The method of execution’s usually enough to tip the cops off over here in New York.” The method of execution being a Columbian Necktie. I remember Sloane telling me the blood had hit the damn ceiling. Not my style at all.
“Seattle cops don’t know shit about Roberto Barbieri. And they don’t care, either. You guys made a mess.”
“Irrespective of what happened, Roberto wants to hire you. He’s offering big money for you to fly out to New York.”
“I don’t work for other people, Theo.” I throw in the name just to let him know I’m aware of exactly who he is. I can almost feel the fucker squirming on the other end of the line.
“You’d be a contractor. My father would give you free rein to handle the job however you pleased. You’d be here for a couple of days, do the work and then you’d be flying home again. Simple.”
Well that’s fucking strange. I thought for sure this would be about claiming the city that Charlie Holsan left behind. And now it looks like Barbieri wants me to do a job for him in New York? That’s bullshit. He has plenty of morons on hand to pull the trigger of a gun. His sons, for instance. No, this is about Seattle. The bastard’s just being sneaky about it.
“The kind of jobs your father hires men like me for are never simple. I’m west coast these days, Theo. And I don’t kill people for money anymore. Tell your father thanks but no thanks. Don’t call this number again.”
I hang up before he has chance to say anything else. There isn’t a single thing he could say to me to change my damn mind. I have a very clear vision of how I want my life to be in the future, and getting caught up in this shit does not feature whatsoever.
No, you’re all about the white picket fence now, huh, motherfucker?
I’ve forgotten to shove the old me back into the vault. He thinks all of this is highly fucking entertaining. I brush the thought aside, determined not to let my jacked-up past dictate how I think and feel now. I won’t let what’s gone before ruin what could be. If I did, that would make for a really shitty life indeed. I wonder what Pippa, Sloane’s sometimes best friend and my sometimes therapist would make of me torturing myself like this. She hates me, but she’d probably try and talk me down. Try and make me cut myself some slack. Fuck. I’m probably due an appointment with the woman, but damned if I wouldn’t rather shove burning-hot pokers into my eyes right now.
Michael’s waiting for me outside the gym when I pull up and park the Camaro. His grim expression matches my own. I take one look at him and I know something is wrong.
I sigh, jamming my hands in my pockets, letting my chin drop to my chest. “What? What the fuck is it now?”
Michael’s mouth pulls into a flat line; I do not like the concerned look in his eyes. “Lowell,” he says. “Detective Lowell’s back in town. And she’s got a fucking army of DEA agents with her.”
Chapter Nine
Sloane