Ghost Soldiers (35 page)

He turned her face up to his. “You'll never be like him.”

“I've lost everything else, Karl. My father—my entire family.” She touched her throat again. “My humanity. My dreams. I can't lose you.”

“I'll never leave you.”

“You left me to go after that motherfucking sorcerer in some godforsaken country.”

He said nothing, only watched her.

“I know,” she said, already angry with herself for using it against him. “It's not the same. My mind knows that, but my heart…”

“The heart listens to another song.”

She snorted. “I can't decide if that line was cheesy or romantic.”

“Both.” He smiled.

She took his hand, turned it over and stared at the wounds. They'd scarred over, but they were horrible all the same. “She has a part of you I can't have. A part I can never share.”

“She's linked to me. What's done is done. You have my heart. You always will.”

She tried on a smile that felt awkward and a little false and touched where his unbeating heart lay silent in his chest. “That's not literal I hope.”

“When you came in here I thought it might be.”

She laughed. “God, I missed you, Karl. Promise me we'll never be apart again.”

Instead he drew her to him and kissed her deeply. She returned the kiss, pouring all her love and need into it, trying to make him
know
in the physical how much she needed him.

She drew back a little so she could look in his eyes. Only one more thing remained to say. A delicate, crystalline thing to say, built of fragile words with the power to obliterate everything like a bomb.

“Do you love her?”

“No.”

A simple no. No wild protestations. No demands of
how could she ever ask that of him
. Just a final precise word. And she believed it. The weight on her chest lifted. She leaned forward, set her forehead gently against his and looked into his eyes.

“I love you, Karl Vance.”

She saw the pleasure in his eyes. She saw it so rarely that it seemed to flow through her veins like the heat of warm blood.

“I love you, Maria Ricardi.”

He drew his hand down her cheek, down her neck, down to her breasts. He kissed her deeply, throwing himself into it with the same intensity as he did everything else. He lifted her up suddenly, standing, raising her weight as if she were nothing. Her eyes widened and she let out a surprised laugh as he carried her toward the bed.

“Careful, aren't you supposed to be injured?”

“Never stopped me before.”

He kissed her throat. She arched backward, baring her neck to him as he drew his lips along her skin. She closed her eyes and fought to lose herself in his touch.

Chapter Thirty-Six: New Boss, Same as the Old Boss

Early the next night, Maria met with John Passerini in the Financial District at an Irish pub called Mr. Dooley's Boston Tavern. She went alone only because she suspected Karl might just kill him, despite his promise to let her handle it. Karl had ridden along anyway, her personal vampire bodyguard again, but she'd begged him to wait for her in the car while she wrapped up this lingering business.

She found John sitting alone in a booth near the far wall, by a poster showing men lifting pints and proudly proclaiming:
There's no other place like an Irish pub
. She maneuvered through the crowd, careful to let no one bump her or brush her, but she felt the stares as she walked, lifting the fine hair on the back of her neck. Men mostly, some women. Her fangs tingled.

John stood when she reached his table and smoothed his black Brioni suit jacket and electric blue tie. He presented his cheek to her, and she kissed it, marveling at how stone-cold ballsy the man could be. Presenting his neck to a vampire, public place or not, was damn risky. She could smell his blood, rich, tempting. The tingle in her fangs turned into a steady ache. He didn't flinch at her cold lips either. The bastard had handled his knowledge far better than she had with Karl and Delgado.

He waited until she sat down before resuming his seat. “Maria. Good to see you.”

“John. I bring my respects.” She smiled when she said it.

He smirked and waved a hand. “Enough of that shit. We have too much history.”

Yeah. History. “You finish carving up all my rackets?”

“It's all taken care of.” He didn't even have the good graces to look uncomfortable, watching her with that poker face.

She found it hard to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “What about our problems with New York?”

“Everybody's happy now.”

“That fucking warms my heart, John. It really does.” She glanced around the tavern. “What's with this place? You getting in with the Irish? Your mother would be pissed.”

He laughed. “The time isn't right for business with the micks. Besides, the Irish have always been crazy, and I don't need that kind of headache right now.” He leaned back and sipped at his beer. It looked like Guinness. His mother
really
would've been pissed to see that. “I'm here because word came down the line those goddamn Feds bugged our Brink's Social Club.”

She thought about agents Toller and Jacobsen and shook her head with disgust she didn't really feel. John had wanted the job so badly. Now he could deal with all the shit of being top dog, king of the mountain, with every crosshair on his back. Sometimes she wondered why the hell she'd ever wanted it in the first place…but she knew the reasons.

“You want something to eat? Drink?” His smile was amused, almost cruel. “Corned beef? Bangers and mash? Pint of Guinness?”

“I'm surprised a Sicilian could swallow that.” She glanced out at the crowd. Her vampire senses twitched like cat whiskers—someone watching… Feds, or something else? She recognized no faces and could sense no strange creatures, but that meant little.

“A Sicilian does what has to be done. I thought you understood that.”

She could've let the insult burn, but she laughed instead. “I think I understand it more than most, thank you. So I'm here to tell you what Karl said to your offer.”

He waited for her to go on, his face unreadable.

“I laid it all out for him, everything you'd done, everything you wanted.” She smiled.

“And?”

“Karl asked me if I wanted him to clip you. Oh the pitter-patter of my little heart to have my man offer to whack a guy who did me wrong. Free of charge too.” Her smile widened, showing some fang. The conversation with Karl after they'd made love last night had been one of those strange moments of dichotomy and blurred contrast in her life. When a man you loved offered to kill someone who'd betrayed you and nearly had you murdered…well, maybe it was just her, but she'd found his sincerity even points heart-lifting and unnerving.

John frowned. “I see.”

“But I told him it was all water under the bridge now. Besides, you have the RICO charges to deal with, and we all know that'll be a bitch. So I'm here to let you know Karl's in. We'll be your specialists. But it'll cost you.”

“No discount for old time's sake?”

“Old times is why it's gonna cost you.”

His face remained inscrutable. “I understand.” He lifted his glass. “Here's to our future business prospects. I'll have somebody contact you in a few weeks. When the first job comes up.”

“All right.” She hesitated. “You hear anything about someone new in town? A Romanian?”

“Why? This guy cross you?”

“You could say that.”

He stared at her. “Yeah, I've been hearing things about a Romanian looking to play. Got word somebody approached us a couple days back, looking for weapons. AKs, explosives, that kind of shit. Some foreigner. Eastern European type.”

“You hook him up?”

“No. He wasn't a known quantity, and he sure as hell wasn't connected. With all that shit down in the harbor—terrorists blowing up ships—things are too damn hot. Last I heard he'd wandered off to talk to the Colombians.” He shrugged.

“Thanks.” She stood to go. “Guess I'll be waiting to hear from you.”

He stayed seated, watching her. “Take care of yourself, Maria.” The words had more weight than the dismissal she expected.

“Don't worry about me,” she said. “I'm a professional.”

She left him behind hiding out in his Irish tavern booth. The night air tasted sweet and clean, the steady breeze having pushed the stink of smog away. She walked along the sidewalk down Broad Street, feeling very small in the looming presence of skyscrapers and the Custom House clock tower as she made her way back to where Karl waited for her in the parking garage, wishing she'd brought him along anyway. Probably best he hadn't come, since she wasn't a hundred percent certain he wouldn't kill John anyway. Ninety-five percent certain at best. She'd seen his face when she'd told him John had sicced ghost soldiers on her. She didn't think she'd seen that look in his eyes since Alejandro Delgado.

She hadn't gone far before she singled out the sound of two sets of footsteps, two sets of heartbeats trailing along behind her. They smelled familiar, definitely human, sweat, gun oil and all. She turned to face them.

“Agents Toller and Jacobsen. Gentlemen, to what do I owe the pleasure? You realize how this looks?” Five minutes after a meeting with the boss of Boston and she was talking to FBI agents? A good way for somebody connected to end up with a couple of .22 bullets in the back of the skull. “Besides, I have nothing to say to you.”

Agent Toller glanced up and down the street. “We made certain we're alone, Ms. Ricardi.”

“That's reassuring.”

“Changed your mind yet about working for us?” Agent Jacobsen's tone implied he'd hate her even more if she had. “Maybe redeem yourself a little?”

“Gentlemen, I am beyond redemption. Even churches don't want me, and in this day and age, that's saying a lot.”

“We know you got ousted,” Agent Toller said. “Must've been hard.”

Agent Jacobsen snorted. “Least you're still alive.” He paused. “For now.”

She could stand here all night and debate the finer points and technicalities of being still alive, but she wanted to get back to Karl.

“I don't know anything about any of that,” she said. “Look, I'm a little rushed right now. Was there something specific, or were you just passing on vague condolences? Let me recommend using a Hallmark card next time.”

“Hey, it's your funeral.” Agent Jacobsen gave her a nasty smile.

God, that guy really was a prick.

Agent Toller frowned. “We're here to warn you. We've got good information—
very
good information—that you're a target. Somebody out of Brooklyn has a contract out on you.”

Which meant they had someone on a wiretap or a bug talking about taking her out. She believed it. Even though she'd stepped aside for their chosen boy, she still hadn't left Boston or left the life. No wonder New York wanted her to permanently disappear. The FBI had to notify people if there was a credible threat to their life. They'd picked up Lefty “Two Guns” Ruggiero on his way to a meeting where he was fingered to get whacked and put him in protective custody. They'd tipped off John Gotti as well, so she had no doubt every word they said was true.

“Is this about those library fines again?” She cocked her head and touched a finger to her lips. “Or is it about those unpaid parking tickets? Meter maids play hardball, don't they?”

Agent Jacobsen looked at her with disgust. “See, Toller? Just like I told you.”

“This is real, Ms. Ricardi. You need to consider your safety. Come with us. We'll put you in protective custody.”

She looked at him straight. “Thanks for the offer, but no.”

“You could work with us,” Agent Jacobsen suggested. “Cement the case against Passerini. Your testimony could put away the guy who shoved you aside. You go into the Witness Protection Program. Get to start over. Everybody's happy.”

“That's not how I do things.” If she'd wanted payback, she would've given John the honor of killing him herself. “And I have nothing to say about any of that, either. The only thing I could tell you is my father's old friend wears very nice suits. And you can see that for yourself.” She looked at Jacobsen's suit. “Or maybe you can't tell the difference.”

He gave her a hate look that would've killed a gerbil. She smiled back innocently, hiding the fangs.

“Ms. Ricardi…” Agent Toller said. “Are you sure?”

Agent Jacobsen leaned toward her. “You got made. They'll never forgive you for it. They want to erase you and your name forever.”

“Thanks for your time, gentlemen. I think I'm going to settle down. Buy a yacht and a Chihuahua and live a life of leisure. Somewhere with lots of warm, yellow sun.” She turned to go. Toller's hand settled gently on her arm before she took a step. She looked back at him.

“This is serious, Maria. You know how these things end.”

He even said her name as if he actually cared. Guy was good. Then Agent Jacobsen had to open his mouth and ruin it. “Do something right for once. Help us take down the son of a bitch who stole your father's family from you.”

“My father's gone. I can't try to impress him anymore.” She shook her head and looked down the street. “I think it's time to start living for me.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Jacobsen demanded.

“Means I have someone waiting for me. And maybe that's more than enough. Good night, gentlemen.”

She walked away. They didn't follow. She heard Agent Jacobsen say to Toller in a low voice, “We won't see her alive again.”

But she kept on walking.

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Werewolves of Boston

Tyrell Matthews drove a metallic red Lincoln Navigator, tricked out with shiny chrome spinning rims, and a sound system Maria heard well before she pulled her car to the curb half a block down the street. Tyrell's Navigator thumped away like its own self-contained, metered artillery range, rap lyrics and bass blasting out the speakers. The SUV sat in a mostly vacant parking lot, all its windows down, while Tyrell's shaved head nodded to the rhythm of the words.