Maybe Marco’s right. Maybe I am pussywhipped.
In my line of work, that’s a terminal sentence.
How can I ever look at Candi the same way? How can I ever trust her again? I am aware that, as twisted as it is to say so, her heart was in the right place when she leaked that intel to the Brunos. She was convinced that in handing over information about our shipment, she was saving women from trafficking.
Does that make her actions forgivable, though?
And how can I be certain my wife won’t get brainwashed by the Brunos again?
“Armani? You coming back to Earth or what?”
“What?” The word snaps out of me.
Dante hands me the phone so I can look at Clayton’s photos.
“He’s made appearances at all the usual Bruno haunts,” Clayton is saying. “He likes the racetracks, but not for business. He likes to bet and he’s garbage at it. Either he’s wealthy on his own, or he’s digging into Sergio’s deep pockets already, because he’s out tens of thousands.”
“What else?” Dante prods.
I slide the phone back to Clayton and give him a nod, trying to tune back into the conversation.
“He’s got a taste for Italian food. Visits two, three restaurants a day and doesn’t lay down a dime at any of them. He drives two different black SUV’s. A Cadillac, and a Suburban he picked up brand new off the lot. I spotted a woman with him twice, but I couldn’t get a good look at her, and she was never in the frame long enough for a photo. She doesn’t hang around, but he seems protective—or maybe just controlling of her.”
“He has a weak spot, is what you’re saying?” Marco ventures.
Clayton shrugs. “Women always are, aren’t they?”
The men look at each other and I resist rolling my eyes. These three are protective of their women to a fault. If that’s how this guy views his girl, too, she might be a good target for maneuvering him.
“Any idea who she is?” I ask. “Bratva too, or…”
“Don’t know nothing yet,” Clayton says. “But I’ll find out soon enough.”
Dante claps Clayton on the shoulder. “No doubt.”
“That’s not all. He was driving around with a group of men yesterday that I didn’t recognize as Bruno’s regulars. I’ve scouted and surveyed those properties enough to know who his standard soldiers are. These guys were all in suits, very official looking.”
“Feds?” Marco says. “You think this guy could be a plant? The FBI trying to set Bruno up?”
“Doubtful,” I say. “My guess is, more Bratva. Higher-ups. Any idea where they were going?”
Clayton winces. “No. Caught ‘em by chance when I was out driving. Got one pic, but it’s shit.”
The phone comes back to me and I look at the photo, Dante leaning over my shoulder. It’s an out of focus shot, a black Cadillac SUV with four or five men inside, barely visible through the tinted windows. The outlines of faces and shoulders aren’t detailed enough for us to identify the men.
“I’m going to assume this group all have the same purpose. All Bratva, and all here for Sergio,” Dante says grimly as he crosses the office and pours himself a drink from the sideboard.
Marco follows suit, then offers Clayton a drink but not me. He’s still salty from our disagreement the other day. It’s funny that it still bothers him and here I am, not giving a shit. Or I guess just giving a shit about much more important things. Like my duplicitous, backstabbing, manipulative little wife. She needs to be punished, needs to swear her loyalty to me anew. I go through a mental checklist of everything I’ll need: blindfold, handcuffs, a remote-controlled vibrator. I have a few ideas in mind.
“Armani? You in with this plan?”
Fuck. Glaring at Dante, I ignore his irritated sigh. It’s the second time I’ve been caught with my head not in the game, and it’s pissingmeoff. I need to get my shit together.
“Clayton wants to infiltrate.”
This pulls me firmly back into the present. “No. Hell no.”
Clayton spreads his arms. “I’ll just catch one of his henchmen on the side at the track, strike up a conversation. Lube him up with some hard liquor and see what comes spilling out.”
