Page 76 of Captive Heart: Armani
The address Orloff provided is outside of town at the old industrial park. The buildings here are run-down and dilapidated. Businesses started moving out a few decades ago when a larger, nicer industrial area was developed in Napa. Now, the place is abandoned.
I’m looking for an entrance along the rusty, barbed wire-topped fence when my phone rings. I have every intention of ignoring whoever it is, but the name that pops up on my car’s info screen is Clayton. The man I sent on a mission to dig up the truth about my mother’s death.
I might die today. I can’t ignore this call.
“Is this urgent? I’m on my way to a meeting,” I say, pulling over.
“I’ll make it quick, but you’ll want to hear this,” he says. “You sitting down?”
My pulse picks up, the hair on the back of my neck prickling.
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“So here’s the deal.” After pausing for dramatic effect, he drops the bomb: “Sergio Bruno ordered the hit on your mother.”
The world tilts on its axis. My ears start to ring. My brothers and I have spent our entire lives navigating the cold, gaping darkness where our mother and sister should have been.
And now I know exactly who’s responsible.
“You’re sure it’s Sergio? You have proof?”
“Literally in my hand. I’ve got a copy of a recorded conversation from twenty years ago that’s so incriminating, it’ll turn a jury against Bruno in two minutes flat,” he says. “I’ve also got the testimony of not one, buttwoformer associates who cut ties with Brunobecause of this hit.”
“Damn, Clayton. How’d you get them to talk? I know you didn’t crack any skulls during visiting hours at a prison.”
“I may have let our new friends think I was a cop. A friendly cop. They were keen to talk to me. Said they’ll go on the record if I can guarantee that throwing Bruno under the bus will lessen their own time behind bars. So if you know a good lawyer who can help broker them a deal, that’d be grand. I hate making promises I can’t keep.”
“I know someone. Won’t be a problem.”
“Brilliant. You’re going to like this next part a lot less. Your sister being on the boat that day wasn’t some unforeseen complication that forced Bruno to take her in and hide her to cover his tracks. He planned the entire thingaround the kidnapping. Fucker plotted it for years. He’s a fucking ghoul. He wanted her all along. I got the details about the day, but…it’s rough.”
I can tell by his hesitation that whatever else he knows could destroy me. That once he tells me, there’s no going back. This information will be seared into my mind forever. But I’ve never been one to shy away from the hard truths.
“I want the details,” I say, closing my eyes. “Don’t hold anything back.”
He clears his throat and quietly says, “The day of the hit…Bruno’s soldiers boarded the boat first, took care of your mother, grabbed Liliana, and then planted the bomb to destroy any evidence. Your mother was….she was shot. I’m sorry. I was told it was quick. Painless. Your sister was in her arms. She died looking at the ocean. She had a smile on her face. Fuck, I’m sorry, man. I don’t know if it makes any difference, but I’d want to know if it were my mother.”
The breath goes out of me, my chest hitching. But I also feel a strange lightness in my chest, a weight lifting off my shoulders. I finally have answers about what happened that day. And yes, there is some small measure of comfort in what I know now. Mom didn’t suffer. But my sister did. No wonder she blocked out her childhood memories. That day scarred her.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice choked up.
This changes everything. Absolutely everything.
Sergio Bruno is going to pay.
As for the meeting with Orloff…I need a new plan, and fast. Thankfully I’m a man who thinks quickly on his feet. The pieces are already coming together.
“Listen, I need to get to this meeting now,” I say. “You did good work, man. I owe you. My whole family owes you. I’m going to loop in my lawyer about those inmates, too. I’ll have him call you shortly.”
I hang up with Clayton, make a quick call to my lawyer, and then drive up to an old security gate that couldn’t even keep out a couple kids with cans of spray paint. I can see their amateur graffiti all over the abandoned warehouses. None of this seems real. It doesn’t feel real. Or maybe I’m just shellshocked, still reeling from the information that Clayton just handed me. But I’m on a mission, and nothing is going to stop me.
As I roll through the broken gate, my tires crunch over gravel, broken glass, and random debris scattered over what used to be a parking lot. I leave my car behind a long, low warehouse, brick with broken windows like gaping teeth. A wave of apprehension hits me.
The sensation of being watched is potent as I walk away from my vehicle. Raising my hands in the air to show submission, I head toward the specified warehouse, where a metal door slowly opens. One by one, men appear on the roof and through window casings with various weapons aimed my way. I can feel my probability of survival lessening with each footstep.
“Orloff is expecting me,” I say as a man lumbers toward me from the open doorway.
He’s huge, dead-eyed, with tattoos covering his skull. I’m not one to be intimidated by looks, but this guy literally radiates death. I’d bet anything he’s a Bratva executioner.
