At the island, Emory chopped vegetables as Amelia navigated the kitchen with heartwarming familiarity of where the spoonsand pots and colander all lived. On an empty terrace beneath a sky-stained grey, they shared a quiet, uninterrupted dinner until the wind nearly toppled the table, and Emory decided that that was their cue to head inside.
Amelia packaged up the leftover spaghetti and homemade bread as Emory washed dishes in the sink. When his phone vibrated in his back pocket, he dried his soapy hands and fished it out.
SoCal calling…
Emory excused himself into an adjacent corridor and answered.
“You called it,” Corey shouted over buffeting wind before moving inside. “The kid was a go-between. He heard the plans from Torres, who was in the room when Disco went over marching orders that day. Torres instructed fuck-face to funnel information to a Velasco associate. Kid claims he had no idea he was set up. He thought the associate was working for Viktor.”
“Fuck,” Emory sighed. The boy was expendable. Torres was not. Under Disco’s mentorship, he’d been marked for captainhood. “What’s left of the kid?”
“A couple inches of life. You wanna close it?”
“Yes. Slowly.”
“You wanna do the honors? We’ll keep him alive until you can get here.”
Emory chewed on the prospect. It wasn’t as if bloodlust didn’t tempt him too. He kept alive the image of Amelia in the backseat of an SUV with a gun to her head and the kid’s hand clamped over her mouth.
That keepsake became his North Star. Guided by its light, Emory walked his own path toward vengeance, tantalized by its violent end. He would carve out the boy’s eyes and tongue but leave his other senses. The kid could listen to Emory sharpening his knife, feel the strips of skin leaving his body, taste his own flesh.
In the courtyard, wind ripped the honeysuckle vines from the stucco wall and flower petals swirled in the squall. Amelia loved thoseflowers. In the kitchen, she hummed as she dried dishes, the familiar melody comforting and sweet.
“No,” he said. “I’ve got plans tonight. But make it memorable. You get me?”
Emory had talked in riddles for so long. The true meaning of things was a dead language. Corey translated just fine and expelled a gritty laugh.
“Oh yeah. We got plans too.”
“When you’re done, find Torres. I want everything he knows about Ivan; where he is, what’s next. I don’t care how long it takes or what you have to do. You understand?”
“A few are rolling on him now.”
“Good. After Gio’s funeral, you’ll take over Las Vegas post. Disco will report to you. Pete can cover your territory until Jack and I come up with a permanent solution.”
Silence crowded the line long enough for Corey to light up a cigarette and take a heavy drag.
“Disco ain’t gonna like it.”
“I don’t give a fuck what Disco likes!” Emory boomed. “You think I care what he wants? You think his ego means shit to me? I should exile him to Redding post and be done with it.” Emory gripped the window frame as thunder rattled the pane.“Tell Disco to get his house in order and call me when it’s done.”
“Roger. Rest easy, Chief. We’ll get it sorted.”
Emory ended the call with grim satisfaction. He could stomp the heads off snakes, but treachery was a leviathan he couldn’t slay alone. That meant identifying the trustworthy in the ranks.
Back in the kitchen, he sat at the island across from Amelia but stewed in his anger.
“Everything okay?” she asked as she dried a wooden salad bowl.
“Just tying up loose ends,” he replied, a bluff she saw right through.
“You’re brilliant. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
Amelia put on a darling smile, though concern stirred in her eyes. Somewhere she learned to walk the tightrope between askingtoo many and too few questions. Mirabelle must’ve taught her that.
“And you’re incredible,” Emory said. Though entirely sincere, it was meant to redirect. “Thank you for dinner. It was also incredible.”
“I’m happy you liked it.” Amelia retrieved a pot from the drying rack and returned to the island. “The key is to roast the tomatoes and garlic for the sauce. Oh, and the secret ingredient is pancetta.”
