Ties That Bind (10 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“You smell like a brewery.”

“Distillery,” Mitch corrected.

“Is this still about Coppell?” Mike asked, sinking into one of the metal chairs lining the warehouse hallway. “Because he wasn't worth it you know. He killed-”

“Yeah, yeah, hundreds of people. I've got it, Mike. No need to relay the history of the mafia for me.”

“Is it Vinetti?”

Mitch frowned. “Surprisingly, Jimmie's a pretty level guy. Haven't had a real problem with him yet. Most of that's Ashli's doing, I think. She's throwing us together at every turn. She's not really giving him an opportunity not to trust me. Helped, of course, that I kept her alive during that ambush in Atlantic. He's got some pretty big deals in the works. He’s been expanding everywhere but the capital funds are all legit. We're supposed to be meeting with Terenari but it keeps getting shuffled between the other deals we've got going.”

“Nicolai Terenari?” Mike leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We've been trying to pin him down for years. He moved out west and left all our undercover men behind. We haven't been able to get anyone in since then.”

“Terenari's a smart guy. He keeps a really tight knit group beside him. They've been with him since he was still blackhanding neighborhood merchants.”

“You know him then?”

“Knew him. Past tense. I haven't spoken with him or any of his family since I was a kid.”

“Maybe-”

“One mobster at a time, all right?” He shook his head at the audacity of the suggestion. “What do you know about a Teresa Vinetti?”

“Never heard of her.”

“She's Jimmie's sister. No contact with the family it seems. At least, not in the time I've been around them. I get the impression she and Jimmie had a falling out when they were younger and she's stayed in the periphery since then.”

“I'll see if I can find out anything,” he nodded. “Now, off the record,” he dropped his voice, “what's going on, Mitch?  I haven't seen you this out of sorts since, well, never.”

Mitch considered the many things he wanted to ask...most notably what other moves the IOC was planning behind his back. But he knew that line of questioning would only put Mike’s guard up. Instead, he offered him a friendly smile. “Want to tell me why you gave up a cushy job in D.C. to become my field officer again?”

“Nine to five didn't suit me.”

Mitch cocked his head, the unease in Mike's voice obvious. Surely he knew that was a pathetic answer. Mike hadn't been his field officer in over three years. It hadn't been until the month before Coppell's death that he'd returned to the minefield of daily operations. Even with his freelance status, Mitch was smart enough to know no one would choose such a demotion. The more Mike paced along the edges of the room the more the hairs on the back of Mitch's neck began to rise.

“Vinetti?” Mitch guessed. “Is he the reason you're back?”

“I advised you not to take this case, remember?  Don't try and throw this shit back at me now.”

“So the IOC wants Vinetti and don't trust the freelancer to get it done,” Mitch surmised. “Good to know.”

“Mitch-”

Mitch waved off the denial. This was the reason he stayed at arm’s reach from the IOC – just like any other government entity they cared more about rules and regulations than real life scenarios. “For the record, I'm not drunk,” he countered. “I just haven't been able to change my fucking clothes. I haven't seen a bed in two days and have spent the last two weeks flying all over the damn country. Your little escapade with Sonny has put everyone on edge so I don’t see any rest in my near future either. So, stop dispensing the bureaucratic bullshit and just let me do my job.”

Mike knew better than to argue. It would only add fuel to Mitch's simmering fire. He didn't blame him for the anger – in his better days, he could remember the life and death situations that Mitch faced. Mitch had been straddling this line longer than any agent in the history of the bureau. That he continued to bring in collars without getting himself killed was a testament to the 24 hour wall he kept built around himself. But Mike knew a single crack in that armor could destroy everything.

“Mitch?” he softened his voice, counting on it to make Mitch turn. “Steer clear of the girl, all right?”

Mitch stopped mid-stride, whirling to face him. In all their years together, Mike had never once given him suggestions on how to handle himself. And yet it was a warning he knew better than to dismiss. “Ashli,” he nodded solemnly. “Yeah, I don't need the bureaucrats to tell me that.”

“That was from me, Mitch, not the home office,” Mike admitted.

Of course it was. The IOC didn't want Mitch to know Ashli had been bedding feds but Mike didn't want caught in the crossfire either. Mitch clapped his shoulder as he walked past. “Yeah. I know that, too.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The lack of sleep and adrenaline rush from his meeting with Mike was difficult to shake. Standing in the doorway of the Verona Ballroom, he watched the party goers warily, the unfamiliar faces doing nothing to settle his stomach. He was thankful he at least looked the part. Someone- Ashli, he assumed- had the forethought to lay out a tuxedo for him and he'd managed to pull it on and hustle downstairs before he was missed.

“Going to block the doorway all night?” Sonny asked, slipping an arm around his shoulder. He patted the stubble on Mitch's chin. “Geez, kid, when was the last time you slept?”

Mitch tilted his head to the dance floor where a hundred couples were swirling about, flashy sequined dresses and black ties decorating the bare wood floor. “Quite a turnout for your birthday,” he chuckled.

“Got some good presents, too,” he laughed, taking Mitch's arm and pulling him toward the bar. “Ashli's got me shacked up in some room on the 19th floor. Place is smaller than my bathroom back in Atlantic. What's up with that?”

“Punishment for the Gucci princess comment?” he guessed, knowing how conniving Ashli could be when she wanted.

Sonny frowned- he'd obviously not considered this. “Speaking of unpleasant things-”

“I heard,” Mitch grimaced, stepping behind the bar to pour himself a glass of whiskey since the bartender was taking too long. “Feds?”

“No,” he cut him off. “I had another unexpected visitor yesterday.”

“More unexpected than the IOC?” he laughed and followed Sonny to a table on the fringes of all the activity.

“Nicolai,” he said in a hushed, almost ominous voice. “That son-of-a-bitch showed up at the casino demanding to talk to you.”

“He knows I'm working for Vinetti.”

“Didn't seem to give a damn. He is one lunatic, man. He nearly strangled two of my guys.”

“Nicolai?  Our Nicolai?” Mitch asked, disbelieving.

“I'm telling you, he's been reading too many Al Capone biographies or some shit. He just stormed in and started trying to take people out all by himself. He's gone off the deep end,” Sonny managed in a hoarse whisper.

Mitch contemplated as he sipped his drink, wondering why Nicolai didn't just come speak with Jimmie if the meeting was that urgent. “Is he trying to off load something on the east coast?”

“Didn't mention it to me,” he answered, shaking his head. He dropped his head by a fraction, causing Mitch to lean closer to hear. “Antoinette was with him.”

Mitch couldn't control the sputter in his usual calm. His glass dipped precariously close to the floor, Sonny catching it as if he had anticipated the move. “W-what?”

Sonny nodded, leaning back into his chair to avoid the gazes he knew were now focused their direction. “I know,” he whispered, in an attempt to commiserate with Mitch.

Hostile and disquieting thoughts rushed through Mitch's mind and his blue eyes flashed to Sonny with grief stricken aggravation. “No. You don't.”

“Mitch, where were you all afternoon? I thought you'd be sleeping,” Ashli's sing-song voice cut through their tension, both men offering her false smiles. She glanced from one to the other, her eyes appraising them with a steady gaze. “Have I interrupted again?”

Mitch didn't bother to respond but lurched from his seat and pulled her toward the dance floor. Ignoring Sonny's penetrating gaze, Mitch moved them further into the crowd, enveloping them within a hundred scents of expensive perfume. His throat constricted and he stopped, sucking in several gulps of air before pulling her into his arms.

“You're shaking,” she said, her eyes widening in alarm.

He nodded, allowing her the observation without denial and tugged her body closer to his.

“Talk about something, anything, just for a few minutes, all right?”

She raised an eyebrow in confusion but he was paying her no mind, his head already thousands of miles away. “I did want to talk to you about earlier, in my office.”

He managed a weak smile at her nervousness- it was so patently unlike her. “I'd rather we not talk about that. Blame the honesty on my exhaustion, if you would.”

“I actually didn't mean
that
,” she frowned. “I was curious about something else entirely.”

“That's unlike you,” he said, giving her sidelong glance of disbelief.

“I can have multiple pursuits at one time,” she grumbled. “I was just curious if you no longer value your life or if angering Jimmie is just an amusing pastime for you.”

He couldn't help but laugh and she pulled away from him, instantly offended.

“I'm serious.”

“Oh, I know you are,” he managed through continued laughter. He sent her an apologetic smile and opened his arms, waiting for her to forgive him. With an exasperated sigh, she slid back into his arms, his hands pulling her closer than before. She dropped her head onto his shoulder, the hard, drawn muscles not surprising her. “You aren't going to answer, are you?”

“An hour ago I would have said I don't give a damn if anyone, including Jimmie, shot a round through my skull.”

“And now?” she asked, puzzled. “Has something changed so drastically in the past hour?”

“Perhaps,” he murmured, giving her a lopsided grin, “perhaps not.”

“You are maddeningly confusing at times; do you know that?”

Hours later, once the party was in full swing, a handful had secluded themselves in one of the private conferences. Although the banter was convivial, a nervous undertone put everyone on edge. Except Mitch. For him, Vinetti’s turmoil was no longer even on his radar.

Mitch balanced his arm on the back of Ashli's chair, his fingers threading through the loose tendrils of her hair absently. She tried to send him a look of warning, but his eyes were focused somewhere far beyond the table, his eyes darker than she'd ever witnessed. Jimmie's gaze drifted to her in between breaks in the conversation but rather than the furious reproach she'd expected, he tilted his head questioningly. She offered him a quick shrug, and his face broke into a deep scowl, his brows furrowing in bewilderment.

“Mitch, what do you think?” Sonny was the one to finally grab his attention.

His eyes roamed the table, a handful of men and Ashli, something telling him he had missed something important.

“About the federal intervention?” Sonny supplied and Mitch offered him a half smile in thanks.

“I'd only worry when they stop searching.”

“Because that means they already have something. Yeah,” Sonny nodded, “that's what Jimmie said, too.”

“I’ll make a few phone calls, see what I can dig up,” one offered.

“Until then, just clean house and keep everyone in check, right?”

“No need to ramp down I don’t think. Mitch? Jimmie?”

Jimmie looked to Mitch but he was once again miles away. “Nah, I think we’re good. But if anyone hears anything-”

“No problem.”

When the men starting saying their goodbyes and letting Ashli led them to the gaming floors, it was Mitch who was the first to disappear. Jimmie was only steps behind.

“Feds hitting Sonny really bothered you?” Jimmie asked, moving to stand beside Mitch at the edge of the terrace balcony.

“Hm?”

“Feds and Sonny?” he pressed.

Mitch shook his head. “Sonny keeps a clean house. Federal intervention doesn't worry me.”

“You and Ashli looked pretty cozy on the dance floor tonight.”

“You really want to discuss me and your sister?” Mitch asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Is there something to discuss?”

Mitch laughed at the seriousness in Jimmie's voice. “Not if I can help it. Damn you're overprotective, aren't you?”

“She doesn't make the wisest choices for herself,” Jimmie shrugged. “Or the family sometimes.”

“Then trust that I will,” Mitch sighed. “You shoot people. She sleeps with them. Everyone needs a hobby.”

Jimmie opened his mouth to argue and then closed it. Mitch had a way of stating that obvious in such a matter of fact manner that it made it impossible to be angry at him for it. Instead, he clinked his glass with him in accession. “And you?  What's your hobby?”