Another nod and she sprints off, Torino following her in an attempt to keep up. Fucker needs to get fitter, fast. She’ll out run him soon, and that’s no good for me at all.
I wander after that, taking in the darkened view as I make my way back slowly. It's cold out, fresh. Leaves crunch beneath my feet. I can’t remember the last time I was here—a year ago, maybe. I look out at the park from the apartment often, stare at it blankly, but I don’t really see it. It’s just a canvas of beauty in this dead city, somewhere that placates the masses, gives them room to breathe. It's just apertures of elegance attempting to override the grit that lives here. None of us are anything but that really—gritty—despite the suits on our backs. This ink beneath mine proves my own heritage well enough. Nothing really hides it, no matter how I try.
That dirt is engrained.
Deep down where no one wants to go.
There isn’t one decent human with my amount of wealth in this city that earned it legitimately. They schemed it into their pockets or stole it from someone else, all the time smiling sweetly to the crowd to hide the reality under their skin. Or maybe they killed to get it like I did, proving their worth in a city full of worthlessness.
“Would you mind?” a twenty-something woman asks, approaching me from the side. I gaze at her as she hands me a phone, all smiles on her face and a young guy at her side. “If you could get the city lights in the background that would be great. We've just moved here.” I huff and look at them, head tilted at their idea of couplehood.
Stupid.
They keep that shit up and they’ll spend their lives with nothing but a few dollars in their pockets, hoping for the best.
I shake my head and take the picture anyway, wishing them luck with that fucking endeavour, no matter how pathetic it is, and head off to the apartment.
Eddie is waiting by the time I get there, his black suit firmly in place at the front of the inconspicuous jaguar he’s brought out for me.
“Boss,” he says as I walk up to him.
“She not down yet?”
“No.” I look up at the frontage, staring at the penthouse as dawn breaks behind the building. “You want me to go get her?”
I smile and open the car door, shaking my head and waving my hands at him for the keys. No, she can have her ten minutes for what they’re worth to her. Jeans, or whatever fucking clothes she’s putting on, need a certain amount of time to consider.
As does this goddamn deal we have set up. Nathan seems to be on it, timelines all perfected as if he’s done this sort of shit a thousand times. And Quinn, well, last time we spoke he was polishing his weapons. Seems that’s the calm he brings when he’s getting ready for death.
I pull out my phone for the only call I have left to make, starting the engine. Harvey Witherton. New York’s Federal director of the FBI. Snivelling scum, but useful scum.
“Vico.” His voice comes down the line at me. There’s a scuffle in the background, a door being closed.
“Harvey.”
“What do you want?”
“I want my ports secure on the nineteenth. DEA and Border Patrol aren’t welcome after four p.m.”
“Fuck’s sake, Vico. Why?”
“Yakuza.”
There’s silence for a minute, nothing but breath on the line. That word should be enough for him to get my fucking drift, though. They’ve been trying their best to bring the cunts under control these past few years, too. Unsuccessfully at that. Now, it’s my turn.
“How many?”
“You don’t want the answer to that. Just clean the port for me.” The door opens and I watch Hope’s legs slide in, fully exposed in a green winter dress and high heels, matching leather coat buckled at her waist. Cute. I hold the phone to my ear, distracted as I gaze at her beauty.
“Vico? You still there?” Fuck. I shake my head, focusing on the damn conversation I'm having rather than her.
“I expect it secure, Harvey. You screw me over and I’ll bring all hell down on you after I’ve finished them. You get whatever you need and you shut that shit down until we’re out of there.”
“All right, all right. I’ll call you when it’s done.”
Her lips tip up into that smile, as she looks at me, dirty, calculated. Exactly what she knows I want from her. But her eyes? They're filled with intrigue. My position in the driver’s seat should be suspect enough to have her wondering. She knows so much, though. She does. No one lives with me without knowing shit, no matter how hard I’ve tried to keep her away from my office. She’s been at some of the meetings over the years, heard the phone calls even if she didn’t know who was on the end of the line. I should trust her. I should probably trust her above anyone.
I scowl at the split lip she’s managed to cover. I should fucking apologize for that shit, too. Maybe. I don't know.
