Avenge: #3 Romanian Mob Chronicles

A
venge Copyright ©
2015 by Kaye Blue

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to real people, locales, businesses, or events are unintentional. This work is intended for mature audiences only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

B
e
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“
H
ow is he this week
?” the woman asked the orderly, her voice low, though she knew the patient probably couldn’t hear her, wouldn’t respond if he did.

“Same as he was last week,” came the reply. “Do you have it?”

The woman handed the orderly an envelope filled with her weekly tithe, and he snatched it up eagerly, counting the bills with the same speed and greed as every other exchange.

“Eight. Nine. Ten. Crisp, too. A pleasure as always,” the orderly said before he pushed his cart out of the room and down the hall, the squeak of the wheels letting her know when he was out of earshot, letting her know she could relax.

She did her best to loosen tense face muscles, but they tightened again when she looked at the man, saw the weeping quarter-sized sore on his ankle. After rooting around in a drawer, she found antiseptic and bandages, and cleaned and wrapped the wound as best she could.

In theory, she was paying the orderly for just this type of thing. To keep an eye on the man, make sure he was getting the best possible care, that wounds like these, and all of the other things that slipped through the cracks for people like this patient, people who didn’t matter, got taken care of.

A bitter snort bubbled from her throat, her shoulders shaking with the sound. Best possible care? What a joke. He was disposable, tossed away and forgotten here, and her thousand-dollar tribute, the money she paid to ensure that the man got even some of the attention he needed, wouldn’t change that, no matter how hard she worked to earn it.

But she wouldn’t stop.

Would give all she could to ensure that he got at least a little of what he deserved. Or more likely, she would pay as long as needed to help calm the guilt that ravaged her.

She looked at the man through tear-clouded eyes, his face a mask of serene repose that could have been mistaken for sleep.

Or death.

But it was neither. No, the man was stuck between life and death, his body living, changing as the beginnings of the beard that sprouted from his face showed, but the soul that had animated that body, the vibrant person he had been, was gone, or at least not accessible to her.

She lowered her gaze from his face, and the tears increased as she looked down at the shoulders that had once been strong, the arms that had once held her now shriveled in a cruel pantomime of what they had been.

She reached for his hand, rubbed at the cool, paper-thin brown skin that had once shone with life but was now gray and dull like the room that surrounded it.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, squeezing his hand tight. “I’m sorry.”

And then she let the tears come, cried until there were none left, at least none for this visit. Then, when she was done, she wiped her face, pressed a kiss against the man’s cool cheek, and left.

And as it always happened when she left him, after she had spilled her tears, that pit of anger that lived in her sparked again.

But it wasn’t a blazing inferno that raged out of control. No, this fire was more like ice, a solid weight in her chest that simmered low and intense but controlled. The heat from that fire was the thing that fueled her, kept her going when she thought she would quit. And that fire would only be extinguished when she’d done what she’d dedicated her life to.

It would only die when she’d gotten her revenge.

A
nton

“
S
it
,”
I said firmly
, speaking loud enough to be heard over the old man’s deep, chest-rattling cough, the sound ringing loud in the small office tucked on the bottom floor of his sprawling home, the same home I had grown up in.

After a lingering look through watery, jaundiced eyes, Christoph Constantin Senior, a living legend of the Romanian mob and criminal underworld, known for his wisdom as much as his brutality, the respected and beloved leader of Clan Constantin, complied.

That he did so told me all I needed to know.

“I’m infirm, but I still have my wits. Don’t test them, Anton,” he said as he gingerly lowered himself into a padded chair.

“Of course not, Christoph,” I said, making sure he couldn’t interpret the words as placation or condescension, knowing he wouldn’t tolerate either.

He coughed, the deep, heaving wheeze rocking through his ever-shrinking body.

As a child, I had viewed Christoph Senior as all-powerful, and as a man, I hadn’t ever considered a world without him in it.

Now, it was all I could think about.

Ravaged by time and illness, the Christoph he had been only barely existed. The old Christoph flashed through sometimes, the towering man he had been managing to eclipse the frail, sickly person he had become, but that happened less and less often. Each time I looked at him now, I saw the end, could almost hear the ticking clock that seemed to grow louder each day.

The squeeze in my chest made me look away.

I had long ago tossed aside that child’s view of Christoph Senior, knew that he was, as we all were, simply a man. But I still mourned the loss of all he had been, regretted that a once-towering figure had been reduced to ash, a little bit more of the man he’d been fading each day.

He reached for the glass that sat across from him, hand trembling and then dropping under the weight of it. Wrinkled face set in a determined expression, he lifted the glass to his mouth, drank slowly.

Water sloshed out of the sides of his mouth and down to wet his chest, but I ignored it and didn’t make any attempt to help. His pride could not have borne it, and I had no wish to cause him any further distress.

“How is Adela?” I asked after he finished his drink and set down the glass.

“She lost a son. Her youngest. How do you think?” he replied gruffly.

His eyes glittered, and I could see that he wasn’t just speaking of his wife’s loss.

Petey Constantin, for all his flaws, had been loved by his parents, his loss acutely felt, even after what he’d done, the shame he had brought to his father’s name. When he’d lived, Petey had been liked by all but respected by few. But he hadn’t known that, had believed he had a place as head of Clan Constantin, a place he’d never take so long as his brother Christoph Junior lived.

And he’d been right. Even if Petey had been suited for leadership—something that, as fond of him as I may have been, I readily admitted he had not been—Christoph Junior was the first son, entitled to his father’s seat by birth and tradition, something that Petey—or anyone else—couldn’t change.

But Petey had been ambitious, and that ambition had driven him to the worst of offenses, had caused him to plan an attempt on Sorin Petran’s life in hopes his brother Vasile would retaliate and kill Christoph Junior, clearing a path for Petey to take over. A convoluted plan doomed to failure, and that failure had cost Petey his life.

In some ways, I understood what Petey had done, knew all too well how hard it was to accept one’s role in life. But now, Petey would never have that chance.

“I spoke with Vasile and Sorin. I thought it would be better if I handled those conversations,” I said, looking at Christoph Senior again.

The old man nodded his approval. “The Petrans have always thought fondly of you, and I don’t know if they would have felt the same about another Constantin. And I wouldn’t want to risk my last son.”

The words, his tone, the unspoken repudiation of me barely stung, not anymore, but I felt that faint twinge, an echo of the pain that had once been so strong it threatened to shatter me. Now, it was only an instinct, a reflex. I’d made my peace with who I was, where I stood with Clan Constantin and with Christoph Senior. He trusted me with responsibilities that he did few others, respected me as much as he did anyone else, and that was enough.

“I thought you’d agree. Vasile is understandably upset, but I don’t think he will retaliate further.”

“I hope for my son’s sake and for this clan’s that you are right,” he said.

The old man stared at me, eyes searching. “Do you think Christoph Junior knew?”

I shook my head. “I was there, heard Petey with my own ears. Christoph Junior didn’t know. And besides, would he have supported his brother in the plot to get rid of Sorin if he knew Petey’s ultimate aim was his death?”

Christoph looked away, reflective. I was reflecting on all that had happened too. Petey had plotted to kill Sorin Petran, and ultimately his own brother. None of us had ever expected such a thing, not from the youngest Constantin, the fun-loving one, the one always quick with a joke. The harmless one.

Harmless.

I almost laughed at the thought.

This life had long ago taken away my capacity for surprise, had left me more than wary, but what Petey had done was shocking, even to me. The desire for power, the quest for elevation I understood, but family, our clan, was our bond, the only thing that meant anything. And for Petey to plot against it, to try to bring it down, had an effect on us all, even Christoph Senior.

It was also a useful reminder, one I planned to heed. Christoph looked at me again, but I couldn’t quite read his expression. “Maybe he had another plan. Thought he could betray Petey before he went through with it.”

“No. He had no reason to. Christoph Junior knows that after…” I paused and then began again. “He knows that he will lead. No reason to get on the bad side of the Petrans, especially so early in his tenure. They are respected and powerful; he wouldn’t risk it.”

“And are we not? Does Clan Constantin mean nothing?” the old man asked, phlegmy voice going stronger as he clenched his hand defiantly.

“Christoph, you know what Clan Constantin is, and you know it’s that way because you made it. People respect us because of you. They like Christoph Junior, but he’s new, unproven. It would be foolish to test the bonds of loyalty, especially against such a formidable opponent.”

I would pit my clan against anyone’s, knew that our men were strong and loyal. But the Petrans were strong, stronger than us in many ways, particularly in their influence on other clans. Admitting so was only an acknowledgment of reality and not a concession of weakness. Which made it a very good thing that our clans had always been cordial if not close and had worked cooperatively for decades, Christoph and the senior Petran having had ties in the old country.

He watched me, and if I hadn’t known better, I would’ve thought I saw a spark of pride in his eyes. Or maybe it was wishful thinking on my part. In either case, he nodded. “I agree. Junior is untested, and when I’m not around, people might feel free to question his leadership. Which is why I asked you here today,” he said.

“Whatever you need,” I replied automatically.

“I’m putting Christoph Junior in charge. He has to learn, and what better time than when I’m still here to help guide him?”

“Smart, I guess,” I said, speaking slowly as I considered the possibilities. Junior was a wild card, and I’d always banked on him having more time to grow into his role, thought he might settle some before he took up leadership. But that wasn’t to be the case, it seemed, and I couldn’t say for sure whether I thought he was up to the challenge.

Christoph raised his grizzled brows. “Guess?”

I weighed my words carefully and then decided on candor. Christoph usually appreciated that.

“Even if he’s making decisions, everyone will know that you’re behind them. And even if you aren’t, they will think you are. They won’t respect him. Not when you still breathe.”

Christoph’s face turned into a grim frown before he barked out what passed for a laugh, bitter though it was. “I barely breathe,” he said, but then he nodded. “But you are correct. They won’t respect him, which is why you’re going to help them,” he said.

It was my turn to be surprised. “Me?”

“You. And don’t insult me by pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about. They take their cues from you, and if you listen to Christoph Junior, follow his leadership, they will too.”

“You know I won’t do anything else, but I still can’t see how I’d be of much help,” I said.

“You’ll set an example,” he said. “And make one out of those who don’t follow it.”

So I was to be shield and spear, wielded by Christoph Junior, a man that I had known for all of my living memory, but one that I was not sure I respected. I had cultivated a reputation, and a well-earned one, for my willingness to address slights against the clan. I didn’t mind though, because disloyalty in whatever form was the ultimate sin, at least in my book, and if my reputation made people less likely to be disloyal, I’d gladly take advantage. Even if it was for Christoph Junior’s benefit and not Clan Constantin’s.

“I understand,” I said.

“Do you, Anton?” the old man asked.

“I do,” I repeated.

“I hope so. Because the fate of Clan Constantin rests on you helping with this transition, probably more than you’d think. And after…you’ll be there for him?”

“I will,” I said without hesitation because there was none. No matter how I felt or didn’t feel about Christoph Junior, his success as leader would ensure the continued success and prosperity of Clan Constantin. And I would do anything for that.

“Good—”

Another cough, deep and rasping, cut off his breath. And it was followed by another, and then another, until he wheezed, searching for air that was not coming.

I rushed to him, grabbed one of his frail shoulders, wanting to help, but unsure of what to do.

I watched him, but then turned when I heard the door open and saw a woman rush in.

She held a white plastic tube in her hand and, without pause, stepped between Christoph and me, sticking the tube into his mouth at the same time as she pushed my hand away, then put hers where it had been.

I jumped back quickly, but not before I felt her warm, strong fingers brush against mine, the touch barely a whisper, but one that jolted me and then lingered, the spot that she had touched tingling from the contact.

I stared at her blatantly, assessing, not that she seemed to notice. Her dark hair was pulled back tight, giving a perfect view of the side of her face she had turned to me. Her prominent cheekbone was the first thing that drew my gaze, sharp and defined but still soft-looking.

I dropped my gaze lower to her smooth neck, her creamy brown skin looking almost edible. My heart thudded, so I looked down further to the stiff white jacket. The uniform she wore was functional, but it didn’t hide her abundant curves, the top straining across her more-than-ample breasts and doing the same across her full hips.

She was very pretty, but not in a flamboyant way. She seemed earthy, wholesome, the girl next door, or at least what I’d imagine one looked like from what I’d seen on TV.

Everything about her was foreign to me. Just this brief glimpse proved that she was unlike anyone else in my world, proved that she shouldn’t be here at all.

But that knowledge didn’t temper my response to her, didn’t even begin to slow the desire that had begun to churn through me. In this moment, my world had narrowed to her, to the fantasy of what it would be like to touch her, kiss her, take her…

Christoph Senior’s sharp, painful-sounding cough chased the thought away and reminded me of where I was. I spared the woman another glance, still desirous of her, more than I wanted to admit, even to myself. And even more wary than I had been just seconds ago. One look at her had made me forget myself, made me get lost in fantasies that had no place in my mind. And that was dangerous.

She was dangerous. And I couldn’t let myself forget it.

I shook off the vestiges of the desire that the woman stirred with seemingly no effort, and then turned my focus to watching her work. She hurriedly yet deftly patted Christoph Senior on his back and held the tube to his mouth.

Had I not had my eyes glued to her, still felt a feeling I could only describe as alive where her fingers had touched me, I wouldn’t have believed it was happening. Not ever,
ever
, had a stranger been inside the house, let alone moving freely as this woman seemed to be. All of the men who had access had been vetted by me personally, and household staff worked under ever-watchful eyes.

This type of freedom was unprecedented. Yet here she was, in the flesh. Appealing flesh, I couldn’t help but notice. But that wasn’t my concern. What mattered was who she was and why she was here.

“That’s right. Deep breath. Slow,” she said, her voice low and soothing. As she spoke, I imagined that voice close to my ear, the woman who possessed it in my arms.

I frowned.

“Who are you?” I said flatly a few moments later.

She didn’t look at me, just kept focused on Christoph Senior.

“Deep breath. Deep breath,” she said in that soft, soothing voice that managed to be calm without sounding condescending, one that I was far too aware of, especially given the circumstances.

She reached into the pocket of the white smock she wore, pulled a small metal canister out of it, and went to latch it on the tube. Before she could snap it in, I reached out and grabbed her wrist, squeezing hard enough that the bones started to give way, but not hard enough to break them.

She turned then, her honey-colored eyes wide with some emotion. It wasn’t fear and it wasn’t surprise, the two with which I had the most familiarity. I couldn’t quite place it, and the way she stared at me, long lashes fluttering, stirred something in my chest.