Eulogy Page 3

— Notes from interview with Agent P, FBI

  Luciana

  I was going to get fired.

  Fired.

  My hands shook as I made my way into Nikolai’s office. I’d only ever spoken to him three times.

  The first time I’d almost blacked out from nerves and forgotten my own name.

  He hadn’t been amused.

  The second time had been at the office Christmas party. I was singing karaoke, and I wasn’t necessarily doing a bang-up job. The YouTube video was paired with howling dogs, if that gives any sort of clue to how great of a performance I gave.

  And though I’d like to say the third time was a charm… it wasn’t. I had toilet paper stuck to the heel of my shoe, and he’d been kind enough to point it out during a staff meeting.

  My face was red for a week.

  Suffice it to say, I did not have high hopes for this meeting. There were only three reasons Nikolai called people into his office. To fire them, yell at them, or make them disappear.

  I knew it was an urban legend, office gossip, something that they tell the new employees in order to put the fear of God in them, but it wasn’t necessary. He was terrifying without all the stories about him working for the mafia or, my personal favorite, being a distant relation to Jack the Ripper.

  I inwardly rolled my eyes.

  People needed to get lives. You’d think that working for one of the richest men in the world, one of the more infamous, would be exhausting, and it was, but my co-workers still found time to spin story after story.

  “Miss Smith.” His lips curled around the word in amusement as if he knew something I didn’t.

  I winced at the use of my last name, the only name that had been given to me before I was dropped off at the local orphanage was tucked away on my birth certificate and on old school reports, I’d taken my adoptive parents’ last name of Smith the minute I turned sixteen and never looked back. I was a Smith.

  My old name held memories of foster care, being passed from home to home, never finding a place or a purpose.

  Until a family had finally decided they liked me enough to adopt me.

  Mom and Dad were in their seventies and hadn’t even spoken English when I’d first moved in with them, but they loved me.

  And love didn’t really need words, did it?

  Just actions.

  I took a deep breath and smoothed my hands down my black pencil skirt. My electric blue heels clicked loudly against the marble floor as I walked through the massive glass door and faced my doom.

  Maybe it was the caseload? I was a junior assistant to one of the ten lawyers he kept on retainer, and I never complained.

  But I did tend to take on too much.

  Which meant I could be missing something.

  Shoot.

  I mentally kicked myself; that was what I got for trying to claw my way to the top.

  “Miss Smith.” Nikolai didn’t even bother to look at me. Maybe he really was a serial killer; the man had no heart! I was getting fired most likely, and he was staring out the window birdwatching! “Have a seat.”

  I quickly sat in the nearest leather chair and folded my hands in my lap, then unfolded them, only to fold them again. I was losing it. He wasn’t going to judge my posture.

  Though when he did turn around, I straightened.

  Mouth dry, I watched his dark eyes take me in, as if he was taking stock of every damn thing I was doing wrong by simply existing. My hands started to sweat as his perusal continued.

  Finally, finally he let out a long sigh as if the world was disappointing him — a if my presence disappointed him — and sat.

  It was hard not to notice the tattoos on his fingers.

  Had those always been there?

  “Tell me, Miss Smith, do you enjoy working for me?”

  Was this a trick question?

  I waited, weighing my words, and finally just chose honesty. “I love my job. I’ve been staying late so I can take a bigger caseload. If there’s anything more I can do to—”

  “No,” he interrupted, “that’s not why you’re here.”

  “Oh.” My heart raced as I waited for him to say exactly why I was sitting in his office after hours.

  In the dark.

  “I need you…” He lowered his voice.

  Oh no, was he hitting on me? He was a married man. His wife was gorgeous; she was on every magazine in the world for her classic style. They were like American royalty.

  “…to do me a favor.”

  “A favor?” I shot up out of my seat as anger sliced through me. “Look, I don’t know what you thought was going to happen, but I don’t give those sort of favors, sir.”

  His lips twitched, and then a laugh escaped between them.

  It sounded so foreign.

  So gruff that I immediately decided the man had probably laughed twice in his life. It was the only explanation.

  “Sit.” He full-on grinned.

  I didn’t sit.

  “You’ll do better than I thought.” He seemed amused at my outburst. “If you let me finish, I’ll continue with the job offer, or are you too offended for me to continue? By the way, I love my wife, my very pregnant, very beautiful wife.”

  Shame washed over me. “I-I’m so sorry. You just said favor and, I know I’ve reported a few cases of sexual harassment—”

  “Come again?” His voice thundered. “Sexual harassment? Who’s been harassing you? Name. Now.”

  I fired off the names of two of my superiors; one had cornered me a few times near the restrooms by my desk; the other tried to grab my breasts from behind then said he’d been joking.

  He wrote the names down. “They won’t be living very long.”

  My eyes narrowed.

  He just shrugged. “I know people. Consider it done. It’s the least I can do since I’m about to owe you a favor and, Miss Smith, I do not like having debt.”

  “Living?” I was still stuck on that part of the conversation. “You mean they won’t be… living, breathing—”

  “Let’s focus on you.” He changed the subject and stood. “You’ll need to move. The situation is delicate. And you’ll need to sign an NDA. If you break the NDA…” He shrugged.

  I half expected him to laugh and say, “I’ll break your legs.”

  He didn’t.

  “What exactly is this… favor?”

  “A business associate of mine is in desperate need of a lawyer, a good lawyer, someone young who can stay with the business for life.”

  “Life?” I repeated. “You’re joking.”

  “I rarely joke.”

  Shocker.

  “Can I think about it?”

  “You’ll be given a company car, your choice, of course.” He ignored my question.

  “My choice of the cars they have?”

  “Your choice of car. Period. They’ll take care of the details. I believe they replace the car every two years. Your housing is taken care of. You have six weeks’ vacation every year, and your salary will start at six figures. The particulars are up to them, but their last lawyer, upon retirement, could afford to buy an island and live on it.”

  My mouth dropped open.

  He smiled, or at least his face moved a bit before he opened a leather black portfolio and turned it toward me. “You just need to sign on the dotted line.”

  “But—” I pressed my fingers against my temples. “—you can’t be serious? What if I hate it? What if I’m not good enough? I’m only twenty-five.”

  “Ninety-day-test period.” He shrugged like the entire offer wasn’t insane. “If you hate it, or if it doesn’t work out, we’ll find someone else.”

  “I’m not…” I hated to ask it, but a car? Housing? “…I’m not doing anything illegal, am I?”

  He didn’t answer. He locked eyes with me and whispered, “Nothing we do in life is ever truly legal, Miss Smith. And I’m not at liberty to discuss their business deals, but know you won’t be burying bodies, no.”


  He seemed amused at his own joke, while I was ready to puke at the idea. After being beaten in some foster homes, passed off like trash, the last thing I could stomach was violence of any kind.

  I was the girl who actually threw up while watching Die Hard.

  Pathetic.

  “Think of the money.” The guy just wouldn’t stop. “Your parents could retire. You could send them on a nice long vacation. They still work their hands to the bone. Imagine the life you could offer them.”

  Straight to the point.

  My heart clenched.

  Dad had a heart condition.

  Mom still worked as a bookkeeper, and Dad had done janitorial jobs until he couldn’t work anymore.

  They’d worked their whole lives, sometimes two jobs to help put me through college. Part of the reason I’d even taken the job with Nikolai had been because I could help support them, but it wasn’t enough, it never was, especially with Dad’s medical bills.

  There really wasn’t anything to think about, was there?

  It was life-changing money.

  It would give them back what they’d given me.

  My greatest purpose had always been to repay what they’d given me the day they said they’d always wanted a little girl, in their broken Italian accents.

  I bit down on my lip and nodded. “Where do I sign?”

  “Good girl.” He winked and handed me the pen.

  The minute my name slid across the white paper, the minute the black ink stained my thumb, I felt it.

  Like the universe was trying to warn me.

  Like the air itself was charged around me.

  I wasn’t just signing for a job.

  My hand shook as I finished writing the date, and when I looked up into Nikolai’s black-as-death eyes, he whispered, “Raise hell.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Look, I did my job. I answered your questions. Talking about Chase isn’t going to get you any closer to infiltration… now, is it?”

  — Notes from interview with Agent P, FBI

  Chase

  I woke up with a pounding headache between my temples and the all-too-familiar feeling in my chest.

  When I sucked in a breath, it felt like my chest cavity was cracking in half; I exhaled and tried to focus on something other than the sharp ache tightening around my body, threatening to tear me apart. The pain of loss was always shocking, severe, and then, suddenly gone.

  Followed by complete emptiness.

  I slammed my hand down on the mattress and checked my phone. Nixon had called. Frank had called. Even Phoenix had called.

  What? Did they think I was dead?

  I winced; even the simple movement of turning onto my side had my body ready to heave everything I’d eaten the day before onto the floor.

  Had I even eaten?

  My blurry vision narrowed in on the massive amount of texts from the guys and then the missed calls.

  The only thing that mildly intrigued me was a voicemail from Nikolai, probably checking in to see if I wanted him to kill me.

  I’d texted him last week with one thing on my mind.

  Death.

  Mine.

  And he hadn’t tried talking me out of it, just calmly listened as I told him my plan to take out the De Langes as painfully as possible. Once every single one of them was dead?

  I had nothing left.

  He’d agreed on one condition.

  The bastard never said what the condition was, but I figured he would tell me when the time was right.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and let the silence of the house surround me; it still smelled like new paint.

  The smell made me want to puke. It reminded me of painting; it reminded me of her.

  And yet I stayed here.

  Haunting her, the same way she was haunting me.

  I peeled off my shirt and flipped onto my stomach in an attempt to get comfortable and sleep off my hangover. I was just dozing off into another nightmare of her face as she fell in slow motion to the ground, blood dripping from her nose, when the doorbell rang.

  I put a pillow over my head and gritted my teeth.

  It rang again.

  I didn’t even know it had been installed.

  “Son of a—” I quickly put on my discarded jeans. Whoever was on the other end of that door was going to meet a quick death. I grabbed my gun and shoved it in the back of my pants as the doorbell continued to ring as if it was a competition to see how many rings it would take to make my head explode between my ears.

  I stumbled to the door and jerked it open. “What the fuck?”

  A woman.

  Really?

  Had the guys really resorted to prostitution? And what the hell kind of prostitute wore a cheap business suit from the nearest mall?

  I pinched the bridge of my nose as I leaned against the doorframe. “Go away.”

  I couldn’t even look at her fully.

  But I glanced enough to see honey highlights, a wide smile, and large eyes.

  “What the hell are you smiling about?” I groaned. “I said go away. I’m sure they’ll still pay you for your…” I waved her off and tried shutting the door.

  A black and white heel wedged between the door and the frame.

  I sighed down at it and said in a low voice, “Listen very closely. I have absolutely no problem burying a body in my back yard. Yours won’t be the only one, and I’m sure the others need some female companionship. If you don’t leave, your only choice will be knife or gunshot.”

  “That’s not funny.” Her voice was low, a bit husky.

  “Wasn’t joking.” I crossed my arms and finally stared her down. She was pale, her right hand held a portfolio, and she was gripping it so tightly her fingers looked like they were going numb. I frowned and narrowed my eyes. “Why are you still here?”

  “You hired me,” she said slowly, and then her eyes widened. “Am I at the wrong house?” She quickly grabbed her phone with shaking hands, dropped it onto the ground face down, then mumbled, “Shoot,” before picking it up and looking at the severely cracked screen. “This is Bella Sera Way, right?”

  Every fiber in my body said to lie. “Yes, it is. Sorry for the trouble. Have a nice trip back into the city.”

  I tried shutting the door again.

  That damn heel wedged between the door for the second time.

  “Look.” My control was barely holding on, and I meant every word about burying her body; I just needed to grab a shovel. “I need you to listen to me very carefully. Can you do that?”

  She nodded, her smile back.

  I hated that smile.

  I hated her. Immediately. Immensely.

  Hate wasn’t a strong enough word for what I felt for the woman who’d interrupted my nightmare, who smiled like there was a reason to.

  “I need you…” I spoke slowly. “…to get the hell off my property before I shoot you.” I pointed to the driveway. “So walk back to your car—”

  She winced.

  “Where the hell is your car?”

  “I was told you would provide one.”

  Hands shaking with rage, I managed to at least get out, “Wait here,” before I ran back up the stairs, grabbed my phone, and actually checked my text messages.

  Nixon: New lawyer for the Families. She’s headed your way, Chase.

  Phoenix: Don’t shoot her, Chase.

  Phoenix: I mean it.

  Phoenix: Chase? You can’t keep burying people in the back yard.

  Sergio: She’ll need access to everything. I’ll be there in a half hour.

  Phoenix: Chase. Answer me, damn it!

  Tex: Kill her.

  Tex: Do it. Phoenix is turning purple.

  Tex: Just a flesh wound.

  Phoenix: Don’t listen to Tex. He’s probably as hung over as you are.

  Dante: …Are you awake? Bad news. A woman is headed your way, try to be nice…

  Dante: You do remember what that word means, right?

  I
scrolled through the rest of the texts and finally got to the very first one from Nixon, sent this morning at five a.m.

  Nixon: You dropped the ball with the one job I asked you to do. I asked Nikolai for help. He’s sending someone for the Families. She’s starting with Abandonato finances — and you’re in charge. Happy hunting. Oh, and don’t kill her. He said you owed him a favor anyway.

  Why did everyone assume I was going to kill her?

  Damn it, Nikolai.

  They didn’t need to know that I’d told her I would at least three times.

  I quickly dialed Nixon’s number.

  “Shit,” he breathed. “She has a family. You can’t just go around killing people because you’re pissed at the world!”

  The old Chase would have laughed.

  The new Chase was annoyed as hell.

  “I didn’t shoot her.” Yet. It was still on the table if she kept sticking her damn shoe in the doorway. “And what the hell is she doing here? Now?”

  “Nikolai put her on a jet last night, sent over the paperwork early this morning.” Serena started crying in the background. “Look, I’ve got shit to do, deal with it!”

  “Nixon—”

  He hung up on me.

  The bastard actually hung up on me.

  I called Phoenix.

  “Fuck…” Phoenix threw something. I heard a shatter and then, “Where’s the body?”

  “I didn’t—” I started pacing. “Do you really think it’s smart to send the new family lawyer into the lion’s den? I already threatened to kill her.”

  “So you didn’t?”

  “If I had, I’d be calling Tex, not you. He’s the only one capable of burying a body in under fifteen minutes.”

  Phoenix cursed under his breath. “Stop timing it, Chase. That’s a new low, even for you.”

  “Coming from a rapist?” I snapped, my anger taking over.

  “Wow,” Phoenix’s voice cracked. “You know what? Good luck.”

  He hung up.

  Sergio didn’t answer.

  Tex’s phone was off.

  What the hell was I supposed to do?

  I tried Nixon again.

  He answered amidst Serena’s screaming. “Do your job, Chase! This shit ends now! You want to kill people? You want the world to feel your pain? Fine. Do it on your own time, but you still work for me. So get your pathetic ass off the phone and into the shower and make it work!”