The Don's Enforcer Page 7

  "As you say, sir," she returned.

  "Right then, get me that report and have Danny's people look into her more closely, and her family. I want everything that she's done and everyone she's met since she started kindergarten: financials, legal, relationships, social media, family connections. Make sure she's not in bed with the Bureau or any of the other bastard feds." He signaled to Danny, beside him on the right, who acknowledged the order with a crisp nod.

  "Immediately," Margot agreed, opening her ever-present tablet. Jimmy looked away from her, frowning when he realized his beauty had moved. He scanned the room quickly, and found her on Ricardo's arm, walking slowly through the crowd. They were headed toward the door, but slowly. Ricardo stopped to exchange greetings with one of the finance crew and she waited demurely at his side, the perfect companion.

  "Danny, make sure they don't leave yet," he ordered. Danny ran the enforcement crew. By day, Danny and his soldiers functioned as the corporation's security division. Jimmy was the corporation's Chief Operating Officer and CEO. Max's crew were more tech geeks than bruisers, but he was a brilliant financier, one who straddled the line between the family business and corporate accounting geek quite well. He managed the corporation's financial arm but was also Jimmy's money man. Max's modern version of tribute and protection payments didn't necessarily involve guns or violence. Those who got above their station or attempted to withhold profits from the corporation could easily find their credit frozen, their bank accounts emptied, and even their physical assets suddenly under new family ownership. Mario was his senior strategist and planning chief, much like a consigliere of old but with the contemporary title of Chief Information Officer.

  "When they do leave, I want a tail on them – a guard for her."

  Jimmy watched the couple a moment longer as Danny acknowledged the directive and spoke into his mic. He watched her, his gut churning. Rosalia Isabelle did not appear to be a woman who was infatuated with her newlywed husband, thank the good lord. She appeared disconnected, without a smile on her face as she looked directly ahead of her, studying something or someone on the far side of the room. She did not lean into Ricardo, or look up at him with the gaze of a lover.

  Instead, she held herself upright, allowing but not seeking the touch of his hand at her elbow. Jimmy looked more closely and saw that hand at her elbow was not mere guidance. Ricardo had his hand clamped tightly around her arm, just above the joint.

  Jimmy's green jealously turned a murderous red with rage.

  "I think it's time I met the lovely Rosalia," he announced, unsuccessfully suppressing his rage. He could hear it in his own damn voice.

  Danny immediately stepped forward and cleared a path, with Margot and a guard – Lanz tonight – behind him. The other two meandered through the crowd, so that they could come up behind Ricardo and Rosalia, boxing them in.

  Ricardo recognized Jimmy immediately, his impassive mien draining away for a moment before he came to his senses and smiled a welcome. He didn't drop his hand on Rosalia's elbow, though, not even to offer to shake Jimmy's hand. "Boss, how are you? You got holiday plans?"

  Jimmy gave him an even stare, then looked pointedly at Rosalia. "I don't believe we've met. I'm James Savaggio, Jimmy now that we've met."

  Rosalia opened her mouth to speak, but Ricardo interrupted, almost petulant. "Boss, this is Rosalia, my wife. Rosalia, I'm sure you remember that I've told you about Don Savaggio."

  Even Jimmy caught the note of warning in Ricardo's voice. Rosalia visibly paled, but held out her free hand in response. Jimmy reached for it automatically.

  Her musical voice tempted his inner caveman as much as the soft hand in his. "It's very nice to meet you, sir. Ricardo was just telling me how grateful he is that you've organized this company party so early in December, so the gathering doesn't conflict with all the other upcoming holiday events."

  Jimmy heard the dulcet tones of her voice roll over him and struggled to contain his reaction. Inside his pants, his cock hardened to rigid proportions. Mio Dio, he nearly said aloud. Her hand was living velvet in his, and her voice created a dull ache in the small of his back. He had to have this one, he thought. Tonight.

  Dinapoli could be damned.

  "Ricardo, I'm going to dance with Rosalia now," he announced.

  She rewarded his decision with a soft, swift gasp. Ricardo stiffened and didn't release her elbow.

  Jimmy turned his gaze on the man, making sure Ricardo saw nothing but absolute command on his face. "You'll excuse us now," he bit out.

  Ricardo was a fool. He released Rosalia, but slowly, as if he did so only because he had no other alternative. Jimmy, who had not released her other hand, drew her closer and tucked her under his shoulder before turning them both away from Ricardo. If he had his way, he wouldn't let Rosalia out of his reach again. Business, the family and his famiglia had always been the foci of his life, but few crossed from business and family to famiglia. One touch of Rosalia and he was mentally moving her over that invisible boundary.

  The dance floor was across the cocktail lounge. The lights were lowered and the music loud enough to make talking difficult. In front of him, Danny was already speaking into his mic, so the tune shifted to a slower, softer sound as they entered.

  Jimmy turned to the darkest corners of the room, keeping Rosalia at his side, and merged into the shadows. He picked a point near the back wall where others were also coupled and turned slightly so that Rosalia would come up against him on the dance floor.

  "You are breathtaking," he murmured against the top of her hair, wrapping his hands around her. He shook as he pressed his hands to the small of her back and held her against his chest for the first time.

  Mother of God, he was going to lose control over his body right there on the damned dance floor. His balls were already tight and his cock harder than granite, straining against his trousers and unmistakably pressing into her stomach.

  She was not unaffected either. Her small hands reached up and settled on his shoulders, not clinging to him but certainly not trying to create any distance. Against his chest, her breasts shifted and he felt her nipples press against his pectoral muscles.

  What would he give to have her bare, skin-to-skin?

  His whole fucking kingdom, he thought, remembering the ill-fated story of Bathsheba and King David. Ricardo was going to die, and this Bathsheba in his arms would be his reward. At least he didn't already have a wife. That would have been a complete mind fuck. He felt a moment of sympathy for the poor street kid who'd become a mythical king, then shook himself.

  Once upon a time, the wily, manipulative bastard sent Bathsheba's husband to the front lines to die a warrior's death.

  Jimmy didn't intend to bother with that subterfuge. He'd do whatever he had to take the girl, and if that meant Ricardo had to go, then Ricardo was a straight up dead man.

  EXCERPT FROM Los Ángeles Vengadores

  ONE

  She strolled haughtily into the cantiña, unconscious of the patrons that noticed her. Skin tanned to a pale gold, her hair was a telling white blond, so light it was almost platinum. She walked in wearing a backpack and a knee-length dress stretched over the round, tempting curves of her ass, approaching the bar without a care in the world.

  Jesse watched her from the end of the dark, polished board and wondered. He knew instinctively she did not belong in the den. And it truly was a den. The stools, tables and American-style booths in the dim center section were populated with low-level crooks while the more dangerous drug runners and gang barons clung to the dark in their booths along the exterior walls. Drugs and guns were traded openly, in full view of the patrons. There were fights; men were stabbed and shot in the cantiña and the alley behind. This foolish girl, almost assuredly American, stuck out as much as a Cabinet Secretary and her entourage would have done.

  Jesse, on the other hand, blended into the crowd. He dressed in their black snap-down shirts, let his jawline grow permanently scruffy, sunbathed duri
ng the daylight hours until he was so dark his skin was almost a native hue, took up the deplorable habit of smoking so thickly that the stale scent felt branded into his skin, drank tequila, and waited.

  He'd been waiting for months, sure that the one named Manuel would return. He intended to wait as long as required. Revenge, and it would be sweet and cold, would be his on the day Manuel appeared.

  Tonight, though, he could watch the blonde. Her hair swung temptingly. He considered her alluring backside, now tauntingly presented as she leaned over the wood to make nice to the bartender. Her skirt pulled as she shifted. The blood rushed from his head, making him lift his eyes and shift on the stool to conceal his reaction.

  Blonde was the wrong color for her, he decided. Her hair should be darker. Not black – but at least brown or dark red.

  The bartender frowned at her disapprovingly, but shrugged and pointed upstairs.

  Without even the glimmer of concern, she straightened and headed for the stairwell.

  Jesse frowned. In the six weeks he'd been slumming among the low life regulars, he hadn't seen anyone pointed out of the main room. Men went upstairs to bed the prostitute who lived above the cantiña but they didn't need directions and, besides, this goddess was hardly going to participate in that disgrace.

  Suppressing a surge of nerves, Jesse tossed cash on the bar and faded into the shadows. In the back hall that led to the office and the alley, he opened a narrow door and slipped up the back stairs.

  She was there, knocking summarily on a door, which opened for her. He waited in the stairwell until she was inside and the door in the dingy corridor slammed shut. Silently he moved along the stained green rug to the door she had entered. There were two others; he suspected one led to the owner's apartment where the bartender and cantiña owner lived. The third door he'd been inside once, at the behest of the hooker – the bartender's sister. He'd bedded her, barely able to hide his distaste, and desperate to use a condom, but it was a rite of passage the other customers noted. Thereafter he was mostly ignored.

  He knew from the experience that the walls were thin, and the doors thinner. Holding his breath, he pressed close to the door and strained to hear.

  Silence was followed by a loud, mocking male laugh. He waited, but then there was a gunshot. Instinctively Jesse threw open the door and ran in.

  Jesse gaped at the woman's frozen look, the pistol dangling loosely from her fingers. She looked at him sharply and defensively lifted the pistol. He threw up his hands, looked at the body on the floor and scowled.

  "Hurry," he said, his instructions completely at odds with his expression. "The back stairs. I'll get you out of here but we need to leave now." He nodded to the open window. "They'll check the alley before they come up here."

  * * * *

  Bea's eyes widened. The stranger spoke perfect English – American English– and seemed unfazed that she'd just shot a man. It was true that the cretin was more monster than human, but even so–

  "C'mon," he said, grabbing her hand and yanking her along. Taking the pistol from her, he shoved it into his jacket pocket, making her cry out in surprise. "Just come," he repeated, and pulled her from the room.

  They heard the door open at the bottom of the stairs, so he leaped across the corridor, knocked open the door to the opposite apartment with his shoulder and jerked her inside. He slammed it closed, reaching for the cheap slide-bolt to slow their discovery. "Let's go," he said, releasing her hand, "We don't have time to waste. They'll check on the owner's sister first, then him."

  "Why?" she gasped, still in shock that he'd taken her gun, not quite believing he was helping her.

  "Later," he grunted, then shoved open the window. Below, a low tile roof shielded the entryway. A single light at the corner led to a more public square, but all was quiet, so he ducked out onto the tile roof.

  Bea swallowed hard. She hadn't expected to escape; she'd imagined, when she let herself think it through, that she'd be either killed immediately or raped repeatedly then killed. Neither possibility had deterred her in the least. Her hands shaking, she gripped the frame and swung over the sill, holding her breath as he headed for the corner and jumped confidently into the street. Looking up, he gave her an impatient gesture that would have made her humph under other circumstances, looked about and back at her.

  One deep breath and she jumped. He was there to steady her as she landed.

  Almost before she got her breath, he took her hand again and rushed her away from the front of the cantiña into the darker shadows, below low-slung roofs built so close they almost touched. There were no streetlights, but dull glows from open doors and windows spilled enough light for them to make their way into the warren of tiny, nameless alleys and side streets until finally he stopped, pushed open a rear garden gate and dragged her inside, slamming it shut and bolting it from inside.

  Bea gaped at him, breathing hard, her vision blurring. She had no idea how far they'd run, but she'd kept up with his impatient pace, despite her shock. He narrowed his eyes, practically glaring, then whipped out a hand and jerked off her wig.

  "Oh, no!" she wailed, the hairpins pulling painfully in her scalp as he rolled his eyes.

  "You can't go around in that hair color. You'll be recognized," he ground out derisively. "Now, what the fuck foolish thing was that?"

  Bea paused, blinking, fighting back the tears and lifting her chin as she got her breath. "Revenge," she said fiercely. "That asshole –"

  "Deserved to die a thousand deaths," he broke in waspishly, waving his hand dismissively.

  Bea gaped again, and now he scowled, his nose wrinkling and his high cheekbones burning. "What –"

  "You're a goddamned female. An American woman, for Christ sake. He would have –"

  "It was why he opened the door to me," Bea said, lightheadedness making her sway. It was the wrong time, she knew, but the nights of following the trafficker from Tijuana to Mexico City and the long, anguished day of waiting after she knew where he'd gone were over.

  "Fuck!" he practically yelled into her face. "I ought to –"

  Bea missed whatever he ought to do. The dizziness spread from her brain to her stomach, and she turned and vomited, her head dipping forward until the world turned black.

  * * * *

  Bea came to life on a futon. She could feel the lumpy cushion beneath her, the pillow solicitously tucked beneath her head. Her nose wrinkled, the stench of vomit was overwhelming. She winced as she began to open her eyes and nearly cursed at the bright light, but then sank back feeling foolish. The room, an office or study, was only dimly lit.

  She blinked twice more, then peeked out under her lashes as she heard him pacing. He had a cell phone. Unashamed, she listened, shock keeping her head on the pillow. "It's Jesse. Manuel's dead. Shot up the nose." The words were terse, but then he heaved a sigh at the reply and went on. "No, I would have if I'd gotten to him first but apparently we're not the only ones who wanted him dead." He paused again, listened, then he gave a grunt and added, "No, I can't come home now. There's something else to finish here, before I'm sure justice has been served."

  Bea swallowed hard. His easy, familiar cadence relaxed her, but truthfully she had no idea what he intended to do with her, where she was, or how she would get home. She hadn't expected to get home, if such a place still existed. Her heart beat harder as she thought of her aunt and uncle. They'd begged her not to come, but in the end had understood if not blessed her hunt, storing the contents of her apartment in their basement.

  Her backpack rested against the futon, her wig thrown on the chair across from her. She couldn't see the pistol but he had it. Jesse turned, flipped the phone closed and his loose linen jacket swung open to reveal a shoulder holster.

  His high cheekbones were dusted with a half-grown coat of black hair down to his chin, his short locks were just barely long enough to wave when he turned. His eyes – light, light gray – narrowed accusingly at her when he saw her eyelids half open, watchi
ng him.

  He came to stand beside her and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting.

  Bea shifted; obviously he was hiding her. He'd had plenty of time to summon the officials, kill her himself, or call in Manuel's minions. She shuddered at the thought, even if she would have accepted any of these fates for the privilege of doing away with the predator she'd hunted. "He seduced my twin sister at a bar in Nuevo Laredo. I saw them leave together, and when she didn't come back to the hotel, I knew. DEA agents found her two months later. The men she'd been sold to –"

  Bea broke off, but his face changed and he looked away. "She was alive?"

  "No," Bea said woodenly, pain piercing her heart and head. She nearly rolled to the floor and battled the urge to vomit again. "No, she wasn't alive. They'd left her – abandoned her – in a cage. To rot."

  He closed his eyes, paling a little. Her voice a whisper, the tears streaking her cheeks, she continued. "After she was buried, I started tracking Manuel. I knew he'd do it again. I was in the bar when she left with him – I knew perfectly well who I was hunting."

  "He took one of my sisters," he said tightly. "In Tijuana, four years ago. We found no trace of her anywhere, not until a year ago. She was abandoned on a beach south of Corozal in Belize, apparently of no further value. She'd been tortured to a catatonic state."

  "So she's alive," she whispered.

  "If you call it living," Jesse rasped, stalking away and slamming his palm against the adobe wall. "I followed him here with another girl. The buyers were waiting. I –"

  He stopped abruptly. Bea waited, sitting up carefully, smoothing her skirt over her knees.

  "I couldn't take him and rescue her," he finally said coolly, "So I followed the buyers, took them out, and put her on a plane home. By then, Manuel was gone. But I knew he'd eventually come back."