Page 46 of His Savage Vow
I’ll be right there,I reply, sliding from the bed without waking Constance. I pick out fresh clothes and then close myself into the bathroom to avoid bothering her as I shower and get dressed.
I leave the estate before the sun has completely cleared the horizon, certain I’ll be back in time to have breakfast with Constance. Paul sends me a warehouse number, and after the long drive into the city and across town, I find him there with three of his crew. The Russian sits tied to a chair, his head bowed, hands bound behind him.
“He’s pretending not to speak English,” Paul says as I approach.
“What have you done to try and loosen his tongue?”
“Nothing much yet, just slapped him around a little and restrained him. I wanted to wait on you to get down to specifics,” Paul replies. “We cracked open a few crates before you arrived,” he adds, jerking his chin toward the stack behind him. “Didn’t want to waste time if this turned out to be nothing.”
I reach down and grab the man’s head by a fistful of his short, greasy blond hair. Tilting his head back, I stare down at his blank and disinterested expression. When I let his head go, he leans over to the side and spits on the concrete floor. For some reason, that simple act of disrespect sends me into a rage.
“I. Have. Had. ENOUGH,” I yell into his face as Ipunctuate each word with a punch to the bridge of his nose. “Of. You. Fucking. Russians!” By the time I get to the last word, his nose is a bloody, misshapen mass, sitting off-center on his right cheek.
“What was he hauling?” I turn to Paul and demand. The rage isn’t just business anymore. Every weapon they sneak into my city feels like a threat aimed straight at Constance.
In response to my question, one of his crew walks over to a nearby crate and lifts the lid, then reaches inside. He pulls out a fully assembled AK-47, the stock folded neatly against the body, confirming what I already knew. Someone high up is preparing for something big, and we’re behind the curve.
“This is the smallest caliber we’ve found in the load so far,” Paul remarks. “He also had a crate of hand grenades. Those could come in handy.”
“Really? For what, a Fourth of July party? Dammit, Paul, we’ve worked with the Irish on and off for years, and even they aren’t bringing explosives into the city. What the fuck are these crazy bastards planning on doing with all this shit?”
“That’s a good question for our new friend, eh? Here, let me get the blowtorch.”
The bastard holds out longer than most, his jaw clenched, his eyes dead.
We have to move him deeper into the warehouse as the dock comes to life later in the morning, eventually locking ourselves away in a long-forgotten office while we work over our reluctant informant.
Constance
I’m so exhausted from the last two late nights that I sleep until almost noon. I wake up to the buzzing of my cell phone on the nightstand. I blearily pick it up and rack my still-partially-sleeping brain trying to recognize the number on the caller ID. It looks vaguely familiar, so I accept the call and mumble, “Hello?”
“Ms. Monroe. This is Alex Crispin, calling about the insurance claim on your restaurant.”
“Oh, Mr. Crispin, of course,” I reply as consciousness slams back into me. “I’ve been hoping to hear from you.”
“I wanted to let you know that I received a call from the fire inspector this morning. He’s hoping that he can meet the two of us down at the restaurant. He’d like to go over the layout with you, to help him piece together where and how it all started.”
Something about how smoothly he says all this like it’s scripted sends a tiny ripple through my nerves, but that’s probably just the exhaustion talking.
“Will meeting with him help move the claim forward and get the insurance payout?” I ask.
“As soon as the inspector has completed his investigation, I can submit all the information to the claims department,” Alex replies. “How about meeting us there at two p.m.?”
I glance over at the bedside clock. I should be able to get ready and get over there in two hours. “That should be fine. I’ll see you then. Thank you, Alex,” I tell him as I throw my legs over the side of the bed and end the call.
I go back to the guest bedroom where all my new clothes and the few belongings I salvaged from the fire have been kept. I still haven’t really unpacked. The last few weeks have been such a blur that I’m just grabbing what I need as I go. I gather up a change of clothes and shower before heading downstairs to try and find Maximo.
I don’t see him, but Enzo is in the foyer talking to someoneon his cell phone. As I walk down the stairs, he ends the call and turns to me. “Maximo had to go out this morning, but he asked that I have the chef prepare you whatever you want for a late breakfast or lunch. What can I have him make for you?”
“Oh, nothing for now, thank you.” I wave him off. “I actually have to leave as well. The insurance adjuster called. He asked me to meet him and the fire inspector at Monroe’s. Apparently, the inspector wanted to go over the layout of the restaurant while he finalizes his report on the fire.”
“I’ll let Maximo know. Will you be back for dinner this evening? Some of the family, including his mother, are going to stop by to eat with us tonight.”
Meeting Maximo’s mom already? Things are getting serious between us.
“That sounds nice,” I tell him. “Is it, you know, safe to have his family meet here with everything going on with the Russians?”
“Out here in Scarsdale? Of course. The violence of the city never finds its way out here to the suburbs. I should warn you, though, my sister Cindy will be coming.”
