Page 12 of A Love Most Fatal
I notice that her bumper is already fixed.
5
VANESSA
In the briefsolitude of my office, I rub my temples in soothing little circles. When work is especially bloody, I see that purple-red color of blood each time I close my eyes for hours. At the heart of it, I do not want to kill people. None of us do, we aren’t murderers. You don’t want someone like that on your team, someone wholikeskilling.
It’s not fun, it’s not sport, it’s horrific usually, but unfortunately, it’s business.
We do what we have to when we have to, because if we don’t, someone else will get us first.
Every crime family comes with its dangers, and ours is just the same. Some deal in drugs, people, gambling, fake money—whatever they’re good at. Before I was born, my father’s uncle was a relatively small fish in a massive pond. He was a runner, then a lackey, then, after getting his hands dirty enough, an advisor. By the time he became the boss, my father was seventeen. They expanded into weapons, buying and moving product into the country so it could be sold to the highest bidder.
I will not pretend that this is ethical.
But, again, it is business.
Now, we’ve only expanded our horizons; our importation of technology and weapons means that we can move very expensive products into the country and sell them to well-paying clients who want to feel safe, protected, bigger than everyone else. It also means that when something goes missing, it’s not an inexpensive problem that can be easily ignored. We’re not pushing pot here.
Willa’s husband Sean and his brother, Cillian Donovann, breeze into my office, ending my moment alone, and sit heavily in the chairs across from the desk.
“Nothing?” I ask, though their faces tell me everything.
“The other families are clean,” Sean says.
Cillian tilts his head left to right as if weighing the statement. “Well, clean is relative.”
“They didn’t steal our shit,” Sean clarifies. “No reason to believe the Garzas did it.”
“What about the Orlovs?” I ask, though I have no reason to suspect them. This boss, Maxim, hasn’t caused us any trouble since taking over, but that doesn’t mean hewon’t.
“Wouldn’t risk the relationship,” Sean says. “And apparently he’s got his own problems.”
The Garzas, the Orlovs, the Morellis, and the Donovanns run this city, each of us staying in our own lanes for the most part. Of course there are sub families, ones that report up, and every decade or so they get a hankering to play king of the hill and topple whosoever is on top. Those are some of the messiest problems to deal with because it’s not about taking out faceless strangers. That’spersonal.
“We’ll find them,” Sean assures.
A shipment of highly technical weapons was stolen last week and still have yet to be located. There were hundreds of small explosives, tiny little things that are easy to hide, almost unnoticeable, but pack a huge punch. We had buyers across thecountry ready to shell out ungodly sums of money, but then the shipment went missing. More are already on their way, but that’s money we eat if they aren’t found. It’s not like there’s insurance on illegal materials.
The cameras were tampered with and none of our guys had a damn detail to share. It’s not that nobody knows who stole the shipment—someone knows—it’s that they aren’t talking.
I think about what the last five days have entailed, which is a whole lot ofnotfinding whoever’s been messing with my shit. Cillian and Sean brought in a suspect on Thursday during dinner, which normally wouldn’t be a huge issue, but it was an obligatory dinner with one of the Old Heads who still not-so-secretly wishes my father was still alive and in charge. The kind of dinner where I must listen to slightly veiled misogyny and pretend that I respect him more than I do because clan politics are delicate.
The dude the Donovanns brought in was bleeding all over the front walk and the entryway while Mary was in the middle of dishing up lasagna for everyone. She’d quickly handed the serving tools over to my mom, who entertained the Old Head and the kids with Willa, while the rest of us took the joker to the basement.
I would prefer to not do business in house like this, but desperate times call for unsavory measures.
Cillian said the guy was the closest they’d found to the missing shipment; the owner of the last car the security cameras picked up before going down. He wasn’t in the clan, just a wannabe gangster known for selling firearms to kids.
Prick.
He was tight-lipped, only opening his mouth to shout profanities at us, and he lost consciousness after Mary worked on convincing him for the better part of an hour. Her white sweater was completely soiled, stained deep red down the frontand on the sleeves, and she would have joined the family for dessert looking just like that if I hadn’t told her to go change.
The guy was dead by the time we went down again a few hours later, though Mary swore she’d been easy on him. Said no way could he have died from that beating, even if he was on blood thinners, but sure enough, there was not a heartbeat to be found. She and Leo took care of his body, but god, it’s exhausting work running about like that while there are guests upstairs.
“It’s only a matter of time before we smoke them out,” Cillian says now. He’s all confidence—in fact, he’salwaysall confidence about things like this. Someone steals his shit? He cuts off their fingers. Someone betrays him? He kills them. It’s like this life doesn’t faze him. As the head of the Donovann family, he’s got to be tough. I’m just glad he’s on my side because he’d be a son of a bitch to kill.
“You’re right,” I sigh.