Page 81 of Vile Bastards
Pride, that’s what.
Of which I’m not sure that I have.
I hand the maid the money, and she takes it in trembling fingers. At this point, it’s our third time together, and she knows the routine.
“Go take a shower,” I add, glancing over to see that, even though she’s wearing gloves, there’s some blood on her arms, her knees. I look down at my own fingers and see that in the process of handing her the money, I’ve gotten blood on my hand, too.
I wipe it on the front of my suit jacket and close my eyes, letting my head fall back as the maid disappears into the attached bathroom.
“Have we heard anything from our mob guy?”
So my father has an in with the mob? For what purpose? Business? If so, is that why Pavel was murdered?
My phone buzzes—the burner phone, not my usual one—and there’s another message from Bohnes.
Tomorrow, three-thirty.
Just that, nothing else.
I put the phone away, sit down on the edge of the bed, and loosen my tie.
The maid comes out shortly after, naked, and climbs under the covers on the opposite side of the bed. At first, her breathing is uneven, staccato, nervous, but then she falls asleep, and I exhale a sigh of relief, dragging my hand over my face.
I stand up and take my jacket off, tossing it onto the back of a chair and then sitting down in the one opposite it. One of my brother’s ‘positive’ traits was that he never took long to fuck, so I don’t have to sit up here overly long and pretend to screw someone other than Scarlett Force.
For as long as I live, I’ll never fuck another woman.
I bite down on my thumbnail and close my eyes, letting my mind drift back to the image of her at the market in the laced-up corset top, the fabric clinging to her curves, the smooth expanse of her cleavage when she bent over to pick up a persimmon.
I recline back in my chair and put my head in my hands.
Surely, there’s an answer to all this that’s staring me straight in the face.
Chet via Archer Realty already held a large portion of the city and was set to make record profits. My father, as controversial as he is in some circles, holds majority public favor. Through his investments in both Archer Realty and the Borisov Group, he, too, has stumbled on a windfall of cash.
What did Pavel Borisov do (or perhaps it’s what he didn’t do) in order to bring the hammer down on him? His ties—as well as the Borisov Group’s ties—to New York City’s most power crime family were a poorly kept secret.
Chet and Jonas knew all about it before they got into bed with him.
So they accused him of speaking to the FBI? Of ratting out the mob? Why now, when it seemed like Pavel was pulling away from his family, would he do something like that? If he truly was working with the feds, he was a colossal idiot. It’s just too fucking obvious. He leaves New York, starts to cool down his business ventures, and then turns into a snitch?
Alexei seems to think his father would never do such a thing. Either he’s wearing rose-colored glasses when it comes to his deceased papa or else he’s onto something.
What would Jonas and Chet (let’s forget about Ernest, he’s a toady) have to gain from working with the mob? They’re making money, gaining political influence. Getting involved with a crime syndicate only brings trouble and obligations they wouldn’t want or need.
With a huff, I shove up from the chair and snatch my jacket, pausing before I leave to head into the bathroom so that I can retrieve the maid’s discarded panties. I wrinkle my nose as I tuck them into my pocket, allowing a generous amount of the pink lace to hang out in a vulgar and blatant display of depravity.
Allowing my head to fall back, I close my eyes and resist the urge to scream.
Kimochi warui. I think the thought, but I don’t let it out. I can’t speak Japanese around these people, and there isn’t a great English equivalent for the phrase. How gross. Disgusting. This feeling sucks. Something like that.
But even one misplaced hai could get me clocked by Jonas. Aspen despised our mother’s language, so much so that he … the frog … I open my eyes and storm out of the room, running smack into Cody (Chet Jr. Cody Archer, hah) who peers into the shadows of the room behind me, spotting the maid’s naked back, and then snorting. Like a pig.
“That was quick,” he chortles which doesn’t bother me. I don’t particularly care if Chet Jr. Cody Archer thinks I’m a premature ejaculator or not. His opinion is worth absolutely nothing. He plucks the panties from my pocket and hoots with laughter. “Glad I caught you though.” He puts the underwear in his own pocket, and I curl my lip at him in such a way that he pauses.
