Page 61 of Iron Heart
“Uh-huh.” I purse my lips at her. “Not like a date.”
“What?”
“Savannah. Look at me.”
Reluctantly, she does. Her guilty expression tells me everything I need to know.
“Vannah, I am not going on a double date with you.”
“It’s not —”
“Yes, it is. I know what you’re trying to do.” I pause. “And thank you. Really. But I’m not in a frame of mind to pretend to be interested in some guy for an evening. I just need some time, okay?”
Savannah lets out a soft sigh. “He really did a number on you, didn’t he?”
Vannah is such a great friend. She avoids saying Dante’s name at all costs, because she knows it hurts me to hear it.
“Yes,” I admit, looking down at my hands in my lap. “But honestly, I brought it on myself. I know I should never have let myself believe there was anything between us. I still don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”
“If it’s any consolation,” she murmurs, “the few times I saw the two of you together, I really thought he was into you.”
“I’m not sure it’s any consolation at all.” I force myself to smile. “But at least I wasn’t the only one taken in.”
* * *
Days later,I’m on my way out to cover a story that for once is at least mildly interesting. It’s a group of twenty-somethings (Frank made sure to stress to me that I need to really hammer the “millennial” angle) who have started a vodka distillery in the area. They make their vodka out of local potatoes. Their eventual goal is to raise all their potatoes themselves on some farmland they just bought together, and have their whole business model be entirely self-sufficient.
I’m on my way out to the warehouse that houses their distillery — wondering if the tour they give me will include a vodka tasting — when I figure out that I’m lost. The warehouse is in an industrial part of town I don’t know very well, and apparently the map app on my phone doesn’t either. When I get to what is supposed to be the address, there’s nothing but a large, overgrown parking lot. Frowning, I pull over to the side of the road and type the address into the app again, but it just gives me the same location.
“Dammit,” I grumble. I don’t have a phone number for my contact person, just an email exchange, and there’s no guarantee they’d see an email if I sent one now. Thankfully, I’m about ten minutes early for the appointment. Hopefully I can figure this out and still arrive on time.
I’m on the right street, anyway. I can’t be too far from the place. Maybe if I just drive around a little, I’ll run into it.
I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and pull back onto the street. I start to drive, peering at every building I pass. None of them looks right. Before I know it, I’m nearing the end of the road — a dead end with a chain link fence around a vacant lot to one side, and a short gravel road leading to a rusted-out, abandoned-looking building on the other.
I pull off onto the gravel road, searching for a space wide enough for me to turn around without stopping. As I get closer, I notice there are vehicles parked on the far side of the building. Two of the cars are late-model, expensive-looking sedans. One is black, one a strange metallic hue that seems to change colors depending on how the light hit is. The third is a small light-colored panel truck that looks familiar, but I don’t immediately realize why.
A group of men stands next to the cars. One of the men in the group catches my eye as he raises both hands, almost in a “surrender” gesture. Frowning, I slow down to watch from a relative distance, but as I do I feel a jolt of recognition.
The man with his hands up is Dante’s brother Dominic.
I slow to a stop, my tires crunching on the gravel. A couple of the men turn to look, alerted by the noise. Their eyes narrow, their bodies tensing. Dominic turns his head as well, but then one of the other men barks something at him and he turns away quickly.
What is going on here?
I’m caught between the urge to peel out of here and the compulsion to stay. At least long enough to find out if Dominic is okay.
Then, before I can make a move one way or another, two of the men start toward my car.
Shit.Adrenaline spikes in my veins, so quickly that my scalp starts to prickle. I glance at my phone. Should I call 911? Should I just leave? Should I play dumb and act like I’m not as freaked out as I suddenly am?
Fear of making a wrong move ends up paralyzing me. The men are almost at my car before I shake myself out of my stupor. Acting on impulse, I open the door and quickly step out so they can see me.
“Can I help you?” one of the men half-snarls. He’s short and stocky, with dark hair and a mustache. He’s dressed in normal street clothes, but the backs of his hands and his forearms are covered in tattoos. His voice is low and raspy, and sends a chill of fear through me.
“I, uh, just got lost on my way to an appointment,” I say, a slight tremble in my voice. “I was just pulling in here to turn around… and I happened to see someone I know in your group over there. Dominic.”
“Is that right?”