Page 55

VICTOR

“ G ino?”

My voice cut the silence like a blade, but the moment I heard myself speak his name, I knew. Barbara’s eyes were wide, her body stiff as stone. Gino’s arm was locked around her waist, his pistol pressed to her head.

“Sorry, Mr. Cardello,” Gino said, his voice dry as dust. “You know how it is.”

Betrayal has a distinct taste—bitter, like scalded coffee.

Kowalski pushed himself up, rubbing his wrists and rolling his shoulders. A sick grin stretched across his face as he cracked his neck. He glanced at the revolver in my hand, bored, like a man eyeing yesterday’s newspaper.

“Thanks for getting me out of that scrape, Gino,” he said as he shot me a knowing look. “You’re always so helpful.”

My gut twisted. My mind raced, connecting dots I should have seen long before now. The leaked plans. Our compromised safe houses. Phil’s murder. And now, Barbara’s house.

“How’s about you hand over that gun,” Kowalski said, taking a casual step toward me. “And we chat man-to-man.”

I shifted my stance, weighing my options. None of them were good. “So what now, Gino?” I asked, my voice calm despite the fire burning in my chest. “You think Kowalski will take care of you like I do?”

Gino tightened his grip on Barbara, and she let out a small whimper. My jaw clenched.

“Don’t take it personally,” Kowalski said, grinning as he grabbed my revolver by the barrel. I let it go. “Business is business. Now, let’s talk terms.”

“I thought you wanted me dead,” I said, stalling for time, gauging my options. They were few and grim.

“Oh, I do,” Kowalski said with a lazy shrug. “And you will be. But a dead man can’t sign papers.”

“Papers?”

He jabbed my chest with the barrel of my own damn revolver. “Yeah, papers. You bled me dry, Cardello. Robbed me blind, and you’re going to fix it.”

I stole a glance at Barbara. Her fire had dulled, her gaze glassy and distant. She was pulling inward, shutting down. I couldn’t let them take her like they had taken Phil. Like they would take me. Or worse…

“Fine.” The word tasted like bile. “I’ll sign whatever you want. Just let her go.”

Kowalski let out a laugh, thick and wet, rattling in his throat like a clogged drain. “You really have gone soft, huh? Pathetic.” He turned to Gino. “Hold on to the broad for now. We’ll see how cooperative he really is.”

Gino dragged Barbara toward the living room, his pistol never wavering from its mark. She walked like a marionette, her limbs moving in mechanical compliance. My gut churned as I watched them disappear around the corner.

“And you”—Kowalski gestured toward the dining room with the revolver—“have business to take care of.” His grin stretched the seams of his face, like a mask about to split.

I moved slowly and deliberately, desperately buying time I didn’t have.

The stiff leather soles of my shoes scuffed the floor with every shuffled step.

My eyes flicked to the living room where Barbara sat perched on the edge of the sofa.

Poised. Composed—regal, even. A Los Angeles aristocrat to her core, even now.

Gino hovered over her, pistol in his sweaty grip.

Bastard .

Papers were neatly fanned out on the dining room table, a fountain pen resting in front like an executioner’s blade. Kowalski slid one of the documents toward me, the rustle of paper against wood absurdly gentle given the current situation.

“These are nice and legal. My boys worked real hard making sure everything’s in order.”

I scanned the page, my eyes catching key phrases—“transfer of ownership,” “intellectual property,” “full rights.” It was worse than I thought. He wasn’t just reclaiming the stolen project—he was seizing control of my entire operation.

“You can’t be serious,” I said with an incredulous scoff.

“As a bullet in the brain.” Kowalski shifted his gaze to Barbara, then back to me.

He leaned against the wall, chest puffed up like a prizefighter who already knew he’d won.

He twirled the revolver in his hand, then pointed it lazily in my direction.

“Here’s your shot to make things right. You sign these, and maybe I let your lady friend walk away. ”

I stared at the papers. “What guarantee do I have?”

“Scout’s honor.”

I sneered. “That’s rich, even for you.”

Kowalski’s grin widened. “Believe what you want, but this deal ain’t getting any sweeter.” He flicked his wrist back and forth, the revolver making an easy arc through the air like a metronome. “Clock’s ticking, Cardello.”

My mind scrambled for a way out. A bluff, a stall—anything. Nothing came. I lifted the pen. It was heavy and ice-cold.

I glanced toward the living room. Barbara’s eyes locked on mine—hollow, desperate. She shook her head ever so slightly, pleading for me not to give in. But what choice did I have?

“Vic-tor,” Kowalski singsonged, drawing out each syllable, his tone dangerously patient. “We’re waiting.”

I put the pen to the paper and paused, letting the moment stretch like taffy. “I didn’t realize we were on first-name terms, Henry .”

Kowalski’s jaw twitched, just a flicker, but enough to know I’d struck a nerve. “You’re about to be on dead-man terms if you don’t sign the damn papers already.”

A deep indigo inkblot bloomed where the pen’s nib connected with the page. I squeezed the pen tighter, its weight crushing my hand with the burden of what I was about to do.

“If I sign these, it means nothing without a notary. They’re just pieces of paper.”

“That ain’t your problem, sweetheart. I’ve got people for the formalities.” He leaned in, his breath a mix of cigar smoke and rancid meat. “Less talking, more signing.” He tilted the revolver toward Barbara. “Before I lose my patience.”

I scrawled the first letters of my name—Victor Car—then hesitated.

Just long enough to make them watch. Then, I deliberately botched the rest, twisting the ink into a jagged mess of lines that spelled “Cardeyo.” I signed each document with the same subtle error, banking on the slim chance that Kowalski wouldn’t notice.

I set the pen down gently, like it was a loaded weapon.

“There, it’s done.”

Kowalski snatched the papers, eyes gleaming like a kid with his first nickel at the candy counter. “See? That wasn’t so hard.” He stacked them together, tapping the edges straight against the table. “Maybe you are smarter than you look.”

I exhaled and slumped in my seat in feigned defeat, masking my relief. The documents were worthless as they stood, but Kowalski’s ego was too big for him to suspect a trick. He thought he’d already won. We weren’t safe, not by a long shot, but I’d bought some time.

“Hey, doll face,” Kowalski called to Barbara. “Make yourself useful and fix us a drink. We’ve got some celebrating to do.”

I tensed, waiting for Barbara to resist, to say something that would set him off. Instead, she rose slowly and walked to the liquor cabinet, her movements fluid but subdued, like a cat conserving its energy.

Kowalski turned back to me, smirking. “Don’t get comfortable. You’re still a dead man.” His voice dripped with condescension. “But since you were so cooperative, I’ll let you choose how it goes down.”

“Let her go, Kowalski. She’s got nothing to do with this.”

He shrugged, light as a card trick. “Wish I could. But she’s a witness now. You get it.” His grin stretched, lazy and cruel. “Now, what’s your poison? A bullet? Cement shoes? Or maybe you’d rather swing like a Christmas ornament—just like your pal.”

Ice water poured down my spine as my mind shot back to Phil—hooked like butcher’s meat, his skin in ribbons.

Kowalski snapped his head toward Barbara. “Where’s my drink?” he barked.

Gino nudged Barbara with his elbow. She reluctantly reached up to the top shelf of the liquor cabinet for a glass. My heart pounded in my ears, drowning out rational thought.

“Let her go, and I’ll come quietly.” My voice cracked. “I’m begging you.”

Kowalski let out a dry chuckle. “Begging doesn’t suit you, Victor. I’m starting to lose respect.”

I forced a nervous laugh. “Respect is the least of my worries.” I was out of options and out of time.

Barbara’s hand flicked up to the top of the liquor cabinet.

For a split second, it looked like she was reaching for another glass.

Then her fingers closed around the snub-nose pistol I’d stashed there.

My mind screamed at her to stop, to wait—but it was too late.

In a single, fluid motion, she wheeled around and fired.

The pistol cracked, splitting the air like lightning.

Gino staggered back, clutching his shoulder, his face a mask of shock and pain. Blood bloomed through his fingers, dark and spreading—like the ink I’d let bleed on the page.

That’s my girl .

“Jesus Christ!” Kowalski spun, his eyes wide, disbelief plastered across his face.

He barely had time to process before I slammed into him, clawing for the revolver. He staggered back, his body a dense, unyielding mass. But I didn’t stop.

“You son of a bitch!” he roared, voice cracking with fury and fear. He swung at my head, wild and desperate. His stout fist clipped my cheekbone—a white-hot jolt to my skull—but I held on.

With a desperate twist, I wrenched the revolver from his grip. It burned hot in my hand, alive with the tension of the moment. Kowalski’s eyes locked on mine, surprise and realization dawning in their beady depths.

I leveled the revolver, dragging the barrel up from his chest to his face—slow, surgical.

“Any last words?” I spat, breathing hard.

Kowalski opened his mouth to speak.

“You know what? I don’t care.”

The trigger pull was slick and smooth. The gunshot struck like a gavel.

Kowalski’s head snapped back, and a crimson bloom unfurled between his eyes. He swayed for a few beats. Then he dropped—boneless, gone.

I stood frozen, the revolver still aimed at the empty space where his head had been. The room was eerily silent, as if the very air were holding its breath. Slowly, reality sank in, cold and heavy. It was over.

“Barbara,” I breathed, turning toward her. She still held the pistol in her hand, her eyes fixed on Gino’s struggling form. He was still alive. Pain rolled off him in waves as he labored for breath.

I rushed to her and pulled her into my arms. She was stiff as a board, her body unyielding against mine. Her pistol hit the carpet with a soft thump.

“It’s all right now,” I whispered, running a hand through her silky golden hair. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The shock coming off her was a cold front that threatened to freeze us both. I held her tighter, trying to will some warmth into her.

“You were so brave,” I murmured, my voice cracking. “I’m sorry, Barbara. For everything. This is all my fault. My stupidity brought this to your door.”

Realization hit me like a sucker-punch.

“Where’s Frankie?” I asked, panic rising in my throat.

“At Edith’s,” she answered mechanically.

“Oh, thank God.” I let out a shaky breath.

A whimper. Gino. I’d almost forgotten he was still in the land of the living.

I pressed Barbara’s head firmly against my chest, shielding her eyes, covering her ears. Like that could keep my world from staining her forever.

Without hesitation, without a word, I raised the revolver and fired.

The bullet struck Gino in the chest with an irrevocable thud. Dead center. His body crumpled like wet paper.

The room deflated, the tension hissing out like a punctured balloon. I holstered my weapon, scooped Barbara to me, and held her tight enough to melt her into me if I could. My knees went weak. My head swam.

“Thank God,” I whispered into her hair, savoring the scent of her. “Thank God you’re all right.”

She was silent, her body still and rigid. Something was off—maybe it was the shock, maybe it was something deeper—but I didn’t care. She was here. She was safe. She was mine.

“Pack a bag,” I said softly into her ear. “Do you want to go downtown or to Malibu for the night?”

She pulled back just enough for our eyes to meet. But she wasn’t seeing me. Just the space behind me, hollow and endless. “Victor, I?—”

“You were amazing,” I cut her off, not wanting to hear whatever doubt she was about to voice. “So strong, so brave.” I stroked her cheek with the back of my hand, then leaned in to kiss her. She didn’t resist, but she didn’t melt into me either.

“Victor,” she started again when I broke the kiss. “We need to?—”

“We need to get out of here,” I said, taking her by the shoulders. “Barbara, listen. You’ve been through hell tonight. You need rest. We’ll figure everything out tomorrow.”

She opened her mouth, but no words came. Whatever she wanted to say was lost, buried somewhere deep. She pressed her lips into a thin line and nodded.

Her eyes were as vacant as a ghost town.