Lucia was a Pavoni.
He was a fucking fool for ever doubting her.
Anteros turned off the engine after a few minutes but watched the building for over an hour. People went in and out, mostly ones he didn’t know, but a few he did, like De Lucas he wasn’t surprised were loyal to Lucia. One person caught his attention, though not his surprise.
Governor Dubois, the fucking spineless prick who hadn’t been responding to any of their messages, entered the building. Anteros stared at the faceless black door Dubois had disappeared through as the wind kicked up, leather jacket stretching over his muscles as he flexed and relaxed his folded arms. He wondered how long Lucia had been in correspondence with the asshole, wondered if they’d been working together throughout their entire liaison.
Curtains rustled on a second-floor window, catching his attention. Just half a face appeared next to the filmy fabric, but it was unmistakable. Skin like sunlight, eyes bright and blue. Frankie. Their stares collided, then she quickly shut the curtains and disappeared.
That more than anything fucking enraged him. How dare she show up after a month away, give him a taste of what he’d been missing, then just fucking vanish? Goddamn tease. Even the curtains’ flutter after she’d gone was a fucking tease.
She knew exactly what she was doing giving him that book, writing that message—and if she didn’t, he’d show her.
Anteros tore out into the street. As much as he wanted to scale the wall and climb into Frankie’s room, it was too damn risky. One hour of recon wasn’t enough to know what else was in there.
Back at the club, the first thing Anteros did was find the Wolves. In the VIP section, they reclined on a sateen couch and smoked hookah. Puffs of sweet-smelling smoke wafted into the curtained off area, making it hazy and foggy. Pretty Boy’s arms were lazy over the back of the couch and Little O sucked on the uncoiled hose, blowing a big puff. Their eyes were red and glazed. Crazy A didn’t participate.
“Get the fuck up,” Anteros said.
“We’re taking a vacation,” Little O responded, blowing another puff of smoke. “You don’t give us enough vacation days. We’re filing a complaint with OSHA.” There was a deadness to Little O, a glassy film that coated his eyes.
Pretty Boy took the hookah and puffed. “That’s not who you file the complaint with.”
“Fuck you,” Little O responded without heat.
“You lazy fuckers are going to help me kill Governor Dubois,” Anteros cut in. Pretty Boy dropped the hose, which hit the polished floor with a clang.
“That’s a vacation I can get behind,” Little O said.
When Anteros finished filling them in, they decided grabbing Dubois before he reached his home in Albany was best. It would be easier, less messy, if they avoided the governor’s mansion. Assuming Dubois spent a few hours at Lucia’s, they only had a few hours to do the grab if they were going to do it that night.
And Anteros wanted to do it that night.
Pretty Boy drove and they arrived by dusk. The city was like an old photo, the blues and oranges of sunset muted by the gray of falling night. A light snow fell, dusting the cement. As the Wolves observed the door, Anteros found himself staring at the second floor, studying the curtains for the slightest flutter.
It was almost two in the morning when Dubois’ sandy blond head came out. The guard he’d brought opened a jet-black umbrella, reflecting streetlights as it got wet. They got into a charcoal SUV—just one guard and one driver they noted, and pulled away from the club. Pretty Boy followed at a close, but not too close, distance.
“Shit, he’s going to the private airport,” Little O said when the car made a left turn.
“Knock him off the road,” Anteros replied evenly. Pretty Boy revved the gas until they were side by side and, with a violent jerk, swerved the Escalade. They caught the driver unaware and knocked the SUV into the guardrail, causing it to tumble down a small hill.
Anteros thrust open his door,
Dubois’ screams for help turning to distorted yowls in the night. Gripping the metal guardrail with one hand, Anteros flung himself toward the overturned car. The wheels were still spinning, heat from the car warping the crisp night air. As Little O went and pulled Dubois from the upended vehicle, Crazy A put four bullets in the guard and driver—head and heart, two for each.
“You’re so bad at returning our calls,” Little O said, grabbing Dubois by the hair. Dubois stopped screaming when he saw who’d come for him, but he grappled with the grip at his head as Little O shoved him head first into the Escalade. “It really hurts a girl’s feelings.”
Pretty Boy slammed the door shut, the inky tinted window reflecting all four of their faces.
Pretty Boy tied Governor Dubois to a thin, metal chair. In a soundproofed room at the back of the club, it was like someone had thrown a thick blanket over the place. Only the occasional thump of a heavy beat rattled the barren walls.
“I don’t know what the misunderstanding was here, men,” Dubois said, frantically trying to make eye contact. There was a crescent-shaped cut bleeding into one eye, and his shoulder was out of its socket. Dubois was probably in pain, but he would be out of it soon enough.
“Let’s talk this out like men,” Dubois attempted. Anteros shot a look at Pretty Boy, who then reached into his back pocket and pulled out a strip of fabric.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Dubois squirmed in the chair. “Hey wait—” Pretty Boy shoved the fabric into his mouth, tying it around his face.
When Dubois was secure, Pretty Boy joined the Wolves near the door, standing behind Anteros. Eyes wide, Dubois still sought to make contact as if it would save him. Exhaling, Anteros put one hand on his head and regarded Dubois. A traitor, but more than that, a visage of his old life.