Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2)(26)

“This was very obviously trouble, woman.”

Woman. He flings that word at me like it’s a term of endearment. “Can’t help myself, I guess.”

He reaches out, pushing the hair from my face, brushing the back of his hand along my tender cheek. He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t even really look amused anymore. No, he looks concerned. “You look like hell.”

“I feel it.”

His hand drifts down to my neck, his fingertips stroking a spot there. “Tell me what happened.”

“Can you, uh... I don’t know... uncuff me first? Remove the shackles, too, maybe?”

Lorenzo pulls his hand away, motioning for someone to help me. One of the officers in plainclothes pulls out a set of keys and removes my restraints. I flex my wrists, rubbing them, relieved to be free. The detective casts me a cautious look as he moves to lean against his car.

He’s still breathing kind of funny.

“Is he okay?” I ask, worried he might be having a heart attack or something.

“You okay, Jameson?” Lorenzo calls out.

“Fine,” the detective mutters.

“He’s fine,” Lorenzo says. “Now tell me what happened.”

Ugh, I don’t want to, but I know I need to tell him, so I just spill the whole shebang, starting with going to Coney Island and faltering when I recount the confrontation in the alley.

Lorenzo absorbs every word, waiting until I grow quiet before he says, “I’m going to kill him.”

Matter of fact. Just like that.

I’m going to kill him.

The detective groans. “Really, Gambini? I wish I hadn’t heard that.”

“Why? You gonna arrest me for it?”

“No, but now I’ve gotta pretend you never said it.”

Lorenzo laughs, turning to the officers, thanking them for their assistance, telling them to get on out of there. He twirls his pointer finger around in the detective’s face when the guy pushes away from the side of the car to climb in it. “Send me a bill for the nose, Jameson.”

“You know I will,” the detective says. Oops.

The Crown Vic drives off, followed by the SUV, leaving me here with just Lorenzo and his guys, who seem to be watching me warily for some reason. Even Seven is more tense than usual, off to the side, sort of behind Lorenzo. Standoffish.

I’m not sure what to make of it.

“Seven, I need you to find Detective Fuckface,” Lorenzo says. “I want his address. I want his mother’s address.”

“Yes, boss,” Seven says.

“The rest of you... I want you on Aristov. I want to know where he goes, what he does, and who he talks to. I know where he lives, and I know where he works, but I want to know everything else the man does. You got me?”

They murmur in agreement.

“Good, get out of here,” Lorenzo says. “Report back when you’ve got something.”

The guys disperse without another word, piling into the cars and leaving us here all alone, up on the roof of the parking garage with no car.

Lorenzo reaches into his back pocket once they’re gone, pulling something out and holding it up.

The DVD I tossed under the dumpster, Aristov written on it in faded black marker.

“You found it?”

“I did,” he says. “Took me a minute to riddle out what you were babbling about, but I put the pieces together and there it was.”

“I wonder what’s on it,” I say, reaching for the DVD, but Lorenzo pulls it back from my grasp before I can get my hands on it.

“Something you don’t want to see.”

My stomach sinks. “You’ve looked?”

He nods once.

“What is it?” I ask. “Tell me.”

Lorenzo says nothing for a moment, just staring at me, before carefully holding the DVD out so I can take it this time.

“Watch it, if you feel the need,” he says, his voice quiet. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you, Scarlet.”





Chapter Six





I’ve always preferred getting lost in silence, but people, I’ve found, like to hear their own voices. Blah blah blah, just spewing bullshit; doesn’t matter what it is, since nobody hears it.

You see, people don’t really listen anymore, no... they just sit around waiting for everyone else to shut up, waiting until it’s finally their turn to talk. Back and forth, an endless cycle that gets us nowhere, because nobody really gives a shit about what’s being said.

Silence, though... silence speaks in ways that words just can’t.

We’ve been in my library for well over an hour now, just me and Scarlet, the room cast in light from the glow of the lamp. No sound, unless you count the soft whirling fan from the laptop in Scarlet’s lap, one she borrowed from Melody.

White noise.

The silence speaks volumes.

I warned her. I told her she didn’t want to see, but against my advice, she popped the disc into the drive and looked at the little home movie.

A fucking horror flick, really.

A young Scarlet—maybe sixteen or so—being tormented by the Russians, the men taking turns brutalizing her. A baby cries in the background, screaming bloody murder, but Scarlet doesn’t make a sound.