His contact nodded and handed over the envelope of cash.
Benito trudged back to his car and buried it under the backseat. He was so fucking tired, but he had a thousand things to do before he could sleep. Drive home. Bury the money. Clean the car. But as he drove away, fatigue hit him hard. His eyes felt like sandpaper, and a headache throbbed in his skull.
He opened the window. A sea breeze blasted the side of his face and ruffled his hair. It smelt good, of clean air and life. He hit the cliff-side road, listened to the waves pound the rocks, and imagined what it would feel like to drive through the barriers and tumble down to join them. Would it hurt?
For long moments, Benito wasn’t sure he cared. Then he pictured Gianna and her face when she learned he’d died in a pit of wrecked metal and saltwater for no good reason other than he couldn’t make right the mess he’d made.
He pictured Mickey too.He wants you. You have a sleepover date tomorrow.A crazed laugh burst from Benito’s tight lungs.A fucking sleepover? How old are you?
Like it mattered.
In the dark, he drove on through the night until he came to a safe place to clean out his car with the handheld vacuum cleaner he kept in the boot. In the darkness, he imagined the cocaine seeping into his skin, fizzing in his bloodstream, and crackling into his weighted heart. It made him think of Mickey, and urgency spread through him like wildfire.I need to get home. Because the sooner he was home and asleep in his bed, the sooner it would be time to wake up and be with Mickey.
Benito cleaned his car in record time, then hit the road again to bury the cash in the woods. The extra made up for the withdrawal he’d made to pay off his informant for good. It was over... right?
The burner phone in his pocket felt like a rock. Halfway back to the SUV for what felt like the thousandth time that night, he pulled it out and glared at it, gripping it hard, willing it to self-combust in his hand so he didn’t have to make the decision to destroy it.
Or choose wrong and keep it, so the wheel kept turning and he never got off.
Stamp on it.But for reasons he couldn’t explain, he could only stare, until it buzzed in his hand and scared the ever-loving shit out of him.
An unknown number lit up the screen—one Benito hadn’t seen before. He froze, heart in his throat, caught in headlights that somehow left him still trapped in the dark. Every instinct he hadknewnothing good was at the end of that call, but ignoring it felt like a summit he couldn’t reach.
Something buried deep inside compelled him to answer. “Yeah?”
The line crackled. Then a sigh. “Martell?”
“What?”
“It’s Asa.”
“What do you want?”
“To talk.”
“What about?”
“You know what.”
“Do I?”
Another sigh. It was Asa’s callsign—to be gently frustrated with someone he wanted to kill with his bare hands. Benito had seen it so many times he didn’t need to close his eyes to picture Asa. In the shadows of the forest, he was right there with him.
“Look,” Asa said. “Whatever you think I’m going to say, you’re wrong.”
Benito turned his gaze to the sky. The stars were beginning to fade. It seemed morbidly poetic. “You have no idea what I think.”
“I can guess. And I could be wrong. Whatever. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“No?”
“No. I don’t care about business. This is personal.”
“What is?”
“What you did tonight. For Nino.”
Nino. Benito’s frozen joints began to thaw. Asa didn’t use first names. For as long as Benito had known him, he’d addressed every fucker from the top to the bottom by their surname. Martell. Pope. Moretti. The only exception had beenLuisPope, and that had been because once upon a time, they’d—