The Queen of Miami Page 15

  Yeah, he wanted to live, you didn't want him to, Willa thought bitterly.

  “And what happens when we have a difference of opinion?” She shouldn't have asked, because it made them look afraid.

  “We go our separate ways, of course.”

  “Of course.” She knew he was full of crap, and so was his grin. He wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet in them all, wipe out her whole family, and probably use their guns to do it. “We'll do a trial run. Get rid of this load, we'll get you some more. If everything goes swimmingly, we'll make it a more permanent arrangement.” She hated backing down, but what other choice did they have? He had them up against a wall; they couldn't keep the container any longer without it being discovered. It was only a matter of time. Already he was playing dirty, backing them into a corner from which there was no escape. So far, he hadn't disappointed her in his chicanery.

  “Sounds good to me. See, isn't life nicer when we all agree?”

  Life would be a whole lot nicer if I punched you in the face! she mused.

  “You should smile more so people can see that pretty face,” he continued, then turned to his one-eyed henchman beside him, whose job it was to sit there and look intimidating. “Isn't she a pretty girl, Grigor? Lots of fire in her belly. You could enjoy life so much more if you became one of my wives. Number five has always been my lucky number.”

  She made a face as if she was going to throw up in her mouth, the mere thought of having anything to do with this man causing nausea. “No thanks. I don't hate myself enough for that.”

  Bedrosian laughed. “It was a joke. I don't have four wives. It is bad enough that I have one. A scientist in my country discovered that having a wife reduces a man's life expectancy by ten years.”

  “Then maybe you should get a couple more,” Willa said. She highly doubted any study had presented those findings.

  Bedrosian laughed again. “Do you have a husband?”

  “No, and I never will,” she answered sharply, and didn't elaborate. What business was it of his why she never would have a husband? The less he knew about her the better, as far as she was concerned.

  “America, huh.” He hit his guy on the arm, chuckling lightly. “Where I'm from a girl like you would be married with four, maybe five children, taking care of the home, not concerning yourself with frivolous business.”

  Willa rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I've heard it all before: women should be seen and not heard, in the kitchen making dinner, or in the bedroom making babies, not worrying their pretty little heads about things that they can't understand. Well here's the thing, we're in America, not in some oppressive, religion-crazy country that treats women as chattel and nothing more than domestic servants. I'm running the show here. You don't like it, find someone else to get your guns from.”

  Bedrosian wasn't smiling anymore. He threw another olive into his mouth and didn't speak until he had gobbled it down. Everyone was watching him intently, waiting to see how he would respond.

  “I like women; I'm a man, why wouldn't I? I enjoy them. But I enjoy them the way I enjoy fine art – I appreciate its beauty, but I wouldn't take it to my business meetings.” He gave her a callous look, then turned to Trent. “You should have left her at home. Now she has offended me. I'll make your deal, but I'm only working with you.”

  “That isn't an option,” Willa said, trying not to sound too aggrieved by this misogynistic prick.

  “Willa, you don't have to run the whole damn show. If he wants to work with me, fine, we'll do it his way,” Trent said firmly. “Or do you have a better plan?”

  She glowered at Trent, then at Bedrosian, taking a good, long look at his smug face and realizing that he was everything she thought he would be. And he was winning. The odds had been stacked against them even before they'd walked into his restaurant. Even allowing him to set the meeting place had been a bad idea. The old Willa – the one who was thinking clearly, who didn't have any distractions – would have seen the ploy a mile off, and set the meeting place herself.

  “No deal. I'd rather reach out to the Italians than work with this guy,” she said finally. Trent started to protest but she had already gotten up and stormed out of the restaurant, hearing as she went a chuckling Bedrosian say, “This is why I can't work with them. They never leave their emotions at home.” Guy and Little Johnny followed hurriedly behind her.

  TWELVE

  Staring at colored swatches all day wasn't how Layke wanted to spend her Sunday afternoon. Especially not when she would have to do the same thing all over again in two years, when her mother once more decided to redecorate the house.

  “What do you think about lavender for the hallways? Yellow sends the wrong message.”

  Layke followed at her mother's heel as she flowed through the rooms, never able to keep still for more than five seconds. “What message?” She fought back the urge to roll her eyes, even though her mother couldn't see her. It was the color yellow – how wrong a message could it send?

  “I don't know, it says that we're the type of people who go to council meetings, buy things from thrift shops, and drive eco-friendly cars.”

  “All of which you do,” Layke pointed out.

  “Yes, but I don't want to broadcast it to the entire world.” She stopped in the hallway and stared at her pale yellow walls, which coupled with the sunlight pouring in from the hallway window made the place look huge and warm and inviting. “I don't like it. So, the lavender? Thoughts?”

  “I think whatever you choose will be fine,” Layke said tiredly, then added to herself, “until next year when the lavender will send the wrong message that you're a crazy person!”

  “What was that, love?”

  “Nothing. Lavender's good.”

  “Oh, honey, what did I tell you about wearing shirts like that?” She shook her head with disapproval, glowering at Layke's polka dot shirt, which was at least two sizes too big for her, and on anyone else wouldn't have looked flattering in the least, but Layke managed to pull it off. “When you wear things like that it makes people think you don't care about your appearance. And what will potential suitors spend their time doing? Looking at that awful shirt when they should be staring at your lovely face.”

  “It wouldn't be a visit without some disapproval,” Layke sighed. “What was it last time, Mom, my shoes?” This was what came with being the daughter of a fashion designer; swatches and critical analysis of every outfit she ever wore. If I ever need to feel bad about myself, I know where to come, she thought bitterly.

  “Don't pout, dear, it's so unbecoming.”

  She wasn't even listening. She flitted off into another room, babbling about something entirely unrelated, forcing Layke to hurry after her.

  “Have you thought more about who will take your account? Are you still shopping around?” They stopped in the living room. Her mother snatched the swatch book from her and flicked through it, paying little attention to her, more interested in appraising the walls.

  “I haven't decided yet. Hmm, but yellow just might work in here. What do you think?”

  “Fine, sure, yellow in the living room. You know it would really mean a lot to Dustin, to both of us, if you chose his agency–”

  “On second thoughts, the Millers have a yellow living room. I wouldn't want them thinking I was copying them.” She tossed her big auburn hair out of her face. “I've never understood why people say that, it would really mean a lot. It's always struck me as an odd turn of phrase. How much is a lot? Quite vague really.”

  “You know what I mean–”

  “But then again, if I went with a lighter shade... I've given Dustin my only child, and now he wants my account too? Some men are just never satisfied.”

  It never took long for Layke to regret visiting. What followed next was five minutes of her mother trying to sell the latest new, single guy she'd met to her daughter, trying to coax her into going on a blind date, while switching back and forth to conversation about her stupid new paint job.

/>   “How is Dustin? He doesn't come with you to see us anymore.”

  “Do you blame him? You try and set me up on dates while he's in the next room! He can hear you, you know.”

  Her mother scoffed. “A little competition never hurt anybody.”

  “I don't know how he is right now. He's sort of not talking to me,” Layke confessed. It wasn't customary for her to share intimate details about her relationship with her mother; not because she didn't want to, but because her mother rarely listened, and when she did she seldom had anything useful to say.

  Her mother regarded her carefully. She didn't speak for a beat, and finally said, “There's someone else.”

  It wasn't a question but a statement of fact. That the observation came from this woman, someone who had been distant and disconnected for as long as Layke could remember, startled her more than the observation itself. Was this what a mother's instinct looked like in play? Layke couldn't think of any other explanation for it.

  “No, there isn't. What makes you think that?” Layke said quickly, far too defensively.

  Her mother turned away, back to her wall. “Do you know why parents can always tell when their children are lying, upset, or generally hiding something from them? Because every face they pull, knowingly or subconsciously, they pulled the same ones themselves once. Or watched it being pulled by their spouse... I'm going with yellow for this room. It's decided, with or without the Millers' approval.”

  Even with her mother's usual subversion tactics, Layke understood then what had happened. Her mother had seen right through her just as she had seen right through her father's lies, when he'd worn the same look, kept the same secrets. She must have seen it dozens and dozens of times over the years and knew what it looked like when she saw it in her child.

  There was someone else. She was no different from her father, and her mother sensed it. Physically and emotionally she'd been unfaithful, and continued to be unfaithful simply by breathing, with the knowledge that her fiance's touch could never mean what Willa's touch meant to her. Would anyone's touch ever come close?

  “There's no one else,” she insisted, more for her own benefit than for her mother's, who had moved on to a new room and a new color. It frightened Layke beyond belief that whatever she was feeling for Willa, whatever desire had consumed her body, was so clear that her mother could read it on her. She was quiet for the remainder of her visit, pensive and troubled, until her father came home reeking of another woman's perfume, and she promptly excused herself from her parents' farce of a marriage, hoping never to become anything like them.

  Willa knew there was no use telling Trent to sit down. Even if he'd wanted to have a seat, if standing was excruciating for him, he wouldn't have simply because she was the one requesting it. He was that sort of stubborn bastard that defied her every chance he got. It didn't help matters that he was furious now – more furious than he'd been in a long time, and all of that rage was aimed at Willa.

  The smell of cheap fast food fried in reused grease wafted into the backroom of the burger joint, setting off a chain reaction of growling stomachs and watering mouths among the crew. For some – most – they hadn't eaten in hours, the scent adding insult to injury.

  “This won't take long,” Willa started, from her usual place at the head of the table. Her men watched her with intense stares. “You've all probably heard by now that I turned the Armenians down. And I'm sure you all have your opinions on that.” Here she aimed her glare at Trent, which he returned twofold.

  “Maybe you should listen to some of our opinions,” he spat, his arms folded across his chest, leaning against the wall and looking like the trouble-maker and rabble-rouser that he was, backed off in a shadowy part of the room where little light reached.

  “I'm not having this conversation with you again. With any of you. The decision has been made. We don't trade with the Armenians.”

  “So we're back to square one, with no one to shift the goods to?” Willa didn't like the accusatory tone in Asher's voice, but she couldn't really blame him for it. She was beginning to think her men were losing faith in her ability to lead them. Did they all consider her too emotional also, just as Bedrosian suggested? She'd tried to keep her emotions at bay, as she had done for so many years, but that was no longer possible. She wasn't the same person she had been a couple of months ago.

  She took in a deep, lung-rattling breath and prepared herself for the onslaught that was about to ensue following her latest decision.

  “Not necessarily. I've reached out to Ambrisi. He might be interested in re-establishing ties as long as we find a way to compensate him for the financial loss he sustained in the last exchange. I'm meeting with him in a few days to discuss it.”

  The uproar started right on cue and didn't disappoint. Even some of the less vocal guys had something to say:

  “I don't understand any of this.”

  “What's the point working with people who robbed us?”

  “This will end badly. They can't be trusted.”

  And then Trent stepped out of the shadows, and the next thing she knew a chair was being flung across the room. It smashed against the wall and one of the wooden legs snapped off.

  “You're out of your fucking mind!” he bellowed. Even his thick, dark beard looked furious. “They try to rob us, they kill one of our guys, and now you want to go crawling back to the Italians like a little bitch!”

  “You want to know why I'm even entertaining the possibility?” she screamed back, though she wasn't capable of the same level of rage Trent displayed. Going back to the Italians was the last resort, and it gave her no pleasure. What was it her father used to say? “Never go anywhere with your tail between your legs. You don't want anyone to think you don't have one.” But she feared the Armenians more, feared that if they ever went into business with them, she wouldn't have a tail or anything left to return with.

  “Because your friends, the Armenians, it seems all a little too convenient that you brought them to us, you sorted out the deal, and now, lo and behold, they only want to deal with you.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her, huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf. “You got something you wanna say to me, sis? Huh? Something you're implying?”

  “I'm saying something doesn't smell right about any of this. It almost seems orchestrated.”

  “Why don't you just say what you're thinking?” He pointed an accusatory finger at her. “Tell everyone how you're accusing your own blood of sabotage. Go ahead, see how that goes down. Because it isn't just me whose name you'd be sullying.”

  She still hadn't formed any concrete theories about what had happened and how; pointing fingers and accusing some of her guys of corruption, as Trent had said, wasn't a smart move. It just felt awful to be in the dark without truly knowing what went down that day in the warehouse. All she did know was that none of it added up; and Trent, despite his protestations and bluster, didn't appear to have clean hands. Still, she couldn't be sure. It was safer to err on the side of caution and keep her suspicions to herself for the time being.

  “This isn't about sullying anyone's name, it's about trust, and the Armenians are giving me no reason to trust them. The Italians are the lesser of two evils.”

  “Bullshit, this is about you feeling left out. We're all gonna go down because of your ego. Admit it: you'd rather work with people who already screwed us over twice instead of let me take the lead on this deal.”

  “We still don't know if it was the Italians behind the hit on the Cubans...” Her argument sounded as weak as it felt. She was losing face, losing credibility, evident from the wary, uncertain glances the rest of her crew were now shooting her. Trent was winning and she didn't know how to turn the tables.

  “Listen to yourself,” he yelled. “Who else would it be? They want to take us down, and instead of hitting back you what, want to reimburse them for trying to screw us over? You've lost your mind.”

  “Enough!” She slammed a palm down on
the hard, wooden surface of the table, fighting back the urge to wince in pain. “It's done. I'm meeting with Ambrisi, and I'll see where we all stand.”

  Trent opened his mouth to speak, but then held back, the fight seemingly retreating from him altogether. A silent Trent was a thousand times more deadly than a screaming, protesting one, Willa knew that. But she didn't want to spend the rest of her night going round in circles fighting her case with him, so she let it rest.

  Despondency hung in the air as the men shuffled out of the room. Willa read the misery on some of the faces and it unsettled her.

  “I hope this is the right way to go,” Guy said when they were alone. His concern was obvious when he looked at her, with that pitying look only an older, wiser brother could give. It infuriated her. “Ambrisi's pissed. I can't imagine why he would have even agreed to this sit down.”

  “Because we've made him a lot of money over the years.”

  “We also killed seven of his guys. That's the sort of thing that leaves a scar.”

  “He's a smart enough guy, he won't take it personally. As Dad always said, revenge is costly. It's better to get back into our good graces than start a war he can't win.”

  “Where are you off to now? You heading home?”

  “Actually, I have a date.” She smiled whimsically, coyly.

  Guy raised an eyebrow. “A date? With the lovely Honey Moon?”

  She cocked her head to one side. “What's with the sudden interest in my love life, bro?”

  He chuckled heartily. “I like to know what my little sister is up to once in a while. Is that a crime?”

  “What was the name of the girl you were with last week?”

  “All right, all right, point taken. None of my business.” He held his hands up in surrender, laughing. “Well enjoy your night with your mystery woman. If she's making you grin like that she must be something special.”

  Willa didn't reply. They went their separate ways once they left the building, and the silly smile remained on her face. Special was an accurate description, she thought.