“Then I wouldn’t really call it misogynistic,” she says. “You’re more of an equal opportunity asshole.”
“Well, then, I guess we’ve got a deal.”
“Guess so,” she whispers, tilting her head as she licks her lips. She leans closer, the tip of her nose brushing against mine, her mouth a breath away when tapping echoes through the library.
Fuck.
I press my pointer finger to her lips, stopping her, and get to my feet, the movement pushing her away from the chair. Seven lurks near the threshold, holding my gun, freshly cleaned. Scarlet stands up straight, frowning, and I pause in front of her, gaze scanning her, before I pull my hand away.
Nudging her chin, I lift her face up.
She looks almost disappointed.
“Business first,” I say quietly. “Maybe afterward there will be time for some fun.”
Chapter Fifteen
The stench of bleach makes my nose twitch, thick in the air, burning my lungs as I inhale the odor. Ugh. The living room has been thoroughly scrubbed, faster than I thought humanly possible.
It’s clear, as I watch from the doorway, that this isn’t the first time this has happened. They seem more on top of things than the professional Crime Scene Clean-Up crews in the city, and those guys have plenty of experience.
Lorenzo stands just two feet or so in front of me, so close that I could touch him if I wanted. His plain white long sleeved shirt is all jacked up in the back from the gun he shoved behind him, right in his waistband. Freshly reloaded, I’m guessing. The silencer is no longer attached, fisted in his hand, as he stands there, staring at his black leather couch.
He’s trusting. Or maybe just reckless. I could snatch the gun from his pants and shoot him in the back of the head before he even knew it was happening. I’m not going to, of course. I’m just making a point.
I could.
If I wanted.
But I don’t.
“We could throw a blanket over it,” one of the guys says, breaking the silence. I don’t know his name. Hell, I don’t know his number. He’s just... one of them. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark features, dark voice. Everything about him is dark, down to his all black clothes.
They’re all wearing black, I realize, as I glance around the packed living room, except for Lorenzo, who dresses more like some hoodlum/model hybrid. It’s weird, right?
I don’t know.
I’m still not even sure what I’m doing here.
“A blanket,” Lorenzo says, not sounding convinced.
“Yeah, you know, or one of them covers,” the guy says. “The ones they put on couches. What are they called? Uh...”
“Couch covers,” Lorenzo says.
“That’s it!” The guy snaps his finger, pointing at Lorenzo, looking damn proud like that was some big revelation. “A couch cover!”
“That could work,” someone says—the oddball of the group, the lone blond guy in a room full of mostly Italians. “My granny has one of those on her couch, hiding this big ass wine stain. It’s ugly, you know, but it could do the trick.”
Lorenzo turns his head, regarding the blond, his expression as flat as his voice as he says, “You gonna go rob your granny of her couch cover?”
He shrugs. “Well, yeah, if you need it, sure.”
Lorenzo stares at him for a moment before turning back to the couch. I shift to the side a bit, peeking around him. There’s a bullet hole in the back of it, where the guy had been sitting. It’s not that bad, but it’s noticeable, which I guess is a problem.
“Just get rid of it,” Lorenzo says, waving toward it. “I’ll get a new one.”
The guys jump into action, teaming up and grabbing the couch, picking it up to move it.
They barely get it away from the wall when Lorenzo yells, raising his voice, damn near growling. “Put it back!”
The men are confused. You can see it in their faces as they cast him concerned looks, but I know what the issue is. Behind it, a hole is blown into the wall, a hell of a lot bigger than the one on the couch. Which, again, I’m guessing is problem.
They drop it back into place, stepping away, giving the couch a wide berth like it might attack them.
“Find some fucking duct tape or something,” Lorenzo says, turning, storming past me. “Fucking incompetence.”
He makes his way back to the library, the door slamming so hard I flinch.
The men stream out of the room, moving past me, all of them except for Seven, who stands near the window in silence. It doesn’t take half a dozen guys to find duct tape, but I’m guessing none of them want to be the one who ignore an order.
I head to the library to check on Lorenzo, my hand grasping the knob when Seven’s voice calls out, “Don’t do it.”
I stall, glancing back, seeing he followed me out, his expression serious.
“If the door opens, he’s liable to shoot,” he says. “He probably won’t even look to see who it is.”
I slowly pull my hand away from the knob, casting the door a sidelong look, as the men filter back through the hallway, one of them carrying a roll of silver duct tape.
“Come on,” Seven says, motioning to the living room where the men congregate. “Join us.”
I hesitate before going back that way, giving the library door one more look. The guy with the darkest features layers duct tape over the hole before dropping the roll onto the coffee table in front of him. They all go back to hanging out, like nothing had happened, barely missing a beat as they pick up liquor bottles, someone rolling a blunt.
I don’t know what they did with the body.
Someone took him out the back door before returning, empty-handed.
“Scarlet, right?” Seven asks, lingering by the door.
“That’s what he calls me,” I say, pausing beside him. “My name’s actually Morgan.”
Seven smiles, holding his hand out. “Pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Seven.”
I shake his hand. “Do you have a real name?”
“Bruno,” he says, “but you can just call me Seven. It makes things easier around here.”
“Seven,” I repeat. “It doesn’t bother you that he refuses to call you by your name?”
“Why, does it bother you?”
“No,” I say. “Not really.”
I’m surprised by my own answer. It’s true, it doesn’t bother me that he doesn’t call me Morgan, although the first time he called me Scarlet, it hit a nerve. Holding my arm up, I shove my hoodie sleeve up, glancing at the tattoo on my wrist. My Scarlet Letter, he calls it. If only he knew how close that was to reality...
“Is he okay?” I ask, dropping my arm again. “Lorenzo?”
“He’ll be fine,” Seven says. “He just loses his cool every now and then. When the door’s closed, leave him alone. When he feels better, he’ll come back out. His library is off limits so don’t go in without permission. If the door’s open and he’s in there, consider whether or not you really need him, because he’s just as liable to shoot you as he is to say ‘come in’.”
I blink at him. “I feel like I should be taking notes.”
“Probably ought to,” someone else says with a laugh. I glance over at the other guys. They’re all looking at me, but it was the blond that spoke. “He’s Natural Selection, live and in the flesh. If you want to make it, adapt, because it’s survival of the fittest around here. He weeds out the weak.”
Hence the missing numbers, I’m guessing, but I don’t say that. I don’t say anything.
Reintroductions are made by Seven. He calls me Morgan, giving the others the courtesy of their real names. Three, the blond guy, turns out to be Declan Jackson, while Five, the one with dark features, is named Frank Romano. The others, they all blend together, and I’m not trying to be an asshole about that, but they’re just Italian guys with Americanized names. There’s a Joey, a Johnny, something else... whatever.
There aren’t any more chairs, so I end up sitting on the coffee table, ignoring the alcohol, passing on smoking, trying to keep a clear head, but I get a contact high pretty quickly. They’re all nice, I guess… nicer than I’m used to. Time fades away as they kid around, and I laugh a bit at their antics. They’re almost like young boys, telling fart jokes.