The Score (17 page)

Viviana allowed the camber of her crimson smirk peek out beneath the hood before she turned her back to the pole. “So I’ve been told.”

Chapter Fourteen

Prison was hell. Plain and simple, no need to be dramatic, it just was.

If the inmates weren’t attempting to pull some stunt on the guards, the guards were causing shit for the inmates. Sleeping with eyes wide open was a rule, if you could sleep, because the noise at night turned up to a whole new level of things no one wanted to hear. The food was absolute crap, cold and bland on a good day, and sludge every other fucking day. Smoking inside the prison wasn’t permitted and occasionally a guard would turn cheek if a few smokes turned up outside in the yard, because smoking wasn’t supposed to be allowed there, either.

The African-Americans tended to stick together, much like the Asians did, and the Skinheads were a whole other group Anton avoided like the plague. It was like the Russian roulette version of high school, only a hell of a lot more dangerous. These cliques of people weren’t there for the popularity, and they didn’t have their tattoos because they thought it was cool. Many of the inmates were of gang origin, or they quickly learned that’s what they needed to be to survive once they were inside the penitentiary.

They bartered toothbrushes made into shanks and photographs lined with heroin or speed instead of cigarettes and term papers. The only thing the inmates could count on was a daily schedule of three vomit-worthy meals, yard time, and lights out. There was no who was screwing who to gossip about, simply which man was wearing his pants down below his ass, signaling his willingness to be someone’s bitch for protection, drugs, or both.

Yeah, that whole thing of teenage boys wearing jeans down around the ankles? Somebody needed to give a lesson to them out in society on what that shit really meant. It wasn’t a style choice, it was a blatant proposition behind these walls.

Anton fucking hated it all.

The only thing the Bratva boss found even remotely manageable about Rikers prison was that it wasn’t Sing Sing. Neither correctional institute had much going for them, but Sing Sing was a particular hell even Anton wouldn’t survive. At least in Rikers he had a source of protection that came in the form of men who had worked alongside his father, or his step-grandfather. Russian men who had taken a hit for the Bratva organization in one way or another and were now locked up for life.

Behind the walls of Rikers, Anton had respect that was as solid as it would ever get. Men still called him the boss and meant it. He didn’t have to worry about his cell mate stealing his shit or trying to pull any nasty nonsense on him at night that would get the fucker killed, because the thirty-eight-year-old armed robbery convict was a friend of a friend outside the prison.

Small world and all that jazz.

Anton still hated it.

With a sigh, he settled back into the metal chair as a buzz rang out in the room. Ivan was escorted into the private conference room reserved for inmates and their lawyers. It was only ever used when trials were upcoming and the inmate needed a safe, private place to discuss things. The room was bare but for the metal table, two chairs that were as heavy as the table, and one wall lined with a two-way mirror.

Privacy, sure. Anton was willing to bet there was a camera behind that glass, plus a couple of guards. Who knew, really? Fucking prison. More than anything, he needed to get the hell out and go home to be with his wife and son.

“Boss,” Ivan said, tossing his bag to the table at the same time he reached down to pat Anton on the back of the neck. “How was this week?”

Anton beat off the urge to scowl. “It’s prison, Ivan. How in the hell do you think it is?”

“Awful.”

“Exactly. Did you ask Vine to have that Armani suit cleaned for me?”

Ivan nodded as he pulled out the metal chair, letting the legs scrape along the cement floor. “Yeah, you’ll get it Friday morning at the courthouse. That’s the best I can do, sorry.”

Again, Anton heaved a sigh, crossing his arms over his chest and feeling overwhelmed. “I hate this fucking place, man.”

“I know, but it’s not forever.”

Yeah, right. “I’m facing murder in the first, conspiracy to commit murder, and a dozen other trumped up charges that are just bullshit, and you want to tell me it’s not forever? Give me a break. I’m not fucking stupid. I know what I’m facing here.”

Ivan didn’t say anything, but like all their meetings over the last month, Anton felt like he was missing something. The lawyer was always frank and honest, he didn’t sugar coat a thing. So, when Anton mentioned something like his possible sentence, or the upcoming trail, Ivan’s conviction about getting him off on the charges never failed.

Was there something going on behind the scenes he didn’t know about?

Anton sure fucking hoped so, but he knew he had to be careful about asking. If there was something in the works whatever it was, the chance of someone, mainly the law, finding out outweighed the need to know the details.

“Hey, what’s going on with you?” Ivan asked, bringing Anton from his thoughts.

“A fight yesterday in the cafeteria,” Anton lied. “They came a little close for comfort, the guards got in on it, you know. Same shit, different hell.”

“You talk to Vine any?”

Anton shrugged. “Yesterday morning. Kurt held my place in line for the phone until I finished eating. It didn’t last long, though.”

Viviana hated talking to Anton while he was in prison. The goddamn recorder got on the line every minute to remind the call of how much time was left. Whenever he called, the first thing she heard was that a Rikers inmate with the number four-three-six-two-eight was phoning, and did she want to accept the call.

It was one reminder after the other.

“I miss her like crazy,” Anton admitted quietly. “And Demyan.”

“She’ll be there Friday. Early to avoid the press, so you’ll get a moment to chat.”

But not his son. Demyan was far too young to be included in something like his father’s court proceedings. Viviana didn’t have to say it out loud, either, because Anton knew. She didn’t want to expose their son to that. There would be many things that would be said about him, and a lot were likely true, but that didn’t mean Demyan needed to hear them.

“I haven’t seen her in a month,” Anton said, glancing at the two-way glass reflecting his strained expression. “It’s fucking downright killing me here.”

“Her, too.”

Anton jerked his head to his lawyer. “What?”

“It’s been hard on Vine, too.”

That shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it was. Viviana hid her anguish and worry over his situation much better than Anton anticipated her to.

“She’s not sleeping well,” Ivan continued. “Demyan is being difficult because you’re not around to keep him in line like you do. Erik took him to the park the other day to give her five minutes to breathe.”

“Is he still asking for me?”

“All the time. You’re his father and he misses you. He’s only three, Anton, but he knows something’s not right.”

Ouch.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Anton said, “Tell me this is going to be okay, Ivan.”

The situation was precarious. The unnamed witness on the prosecution’s witness list who reportedly had verbal confirmation from Anton himself that he had killed Sonny Carducci and had a hand in the deaths of the New Jersey Bratva said more than anything else ever could. Where were they? Likely under police protection until their testimony was needed. Who were they? Anton had a sneaking suspicion, and Ivan’s next words only confirmed it further.

“Natalie still hasn’t shown up anywhere,” Ivan said instead. “Not for work, or even her last paycheck, which apparently came back in the mail because it wasn’t picked up. All the people we’ve sent out for her have come back with nothing. Her place hasn’t been touched in a long while, but her landlord confirmed someone’s been paying her rent for the last six months.”

“Since that night in the club.”

That awful, horrible night that nearly ended Anton and Viviana’s marriage. Anton still had very little memories of what happened between him and Natalie, but what he did remember didn’t fill him with much hope. He could still feel her weight straddling his lap, feel her mouth at his neck, hot breath spilling over his cheek. Something in his drink had muddled him up something fierce, making it almost impossible to think, see, or move.

Natalie drugged him; Anton knew it.

Nothing about those memories turned him on. They didn’t do a damned thing for him sexually. Anton refused to believe he had strayed from Viviana, but it would make a hell of a lot of sense if the prosecution could point to a woman and say she knew what Anton had done because she was his lover. It didn’t matter if Anton couldn’t remember; of course he would say that. At least, that’s what the other side would say.

Natalie would have a different story. The mistress’s tale, even though she wasn’t his.

“I didn’t fuck that girl, Ivan. I know I didn’t.”

“I don’t doubt it, but you might have said something, especially if what she had was mixed special to jumble you up and loosen your tongue.”

“And it might have been bad.” Ivan nodded his agreement. Anton didn’t like what that could mean. “You think she was working for them the whole time?”

“Her uncle is affiliated,” Ivan said. “But that means nothing if they found something to use on her.”

“What are we going to do about it, then?”

“We?” Ivan scoffed, smirking. “Anton, you’re going to do nothing. Jesus, for once, just let us handle it. We’re still searching for her, and besides that, we’ve got it all worked out if we can’t find the bitch.”

“Us?” The flash of guilt that skipped in Ivan’s eyes didn’t escape Anton’s keen notice. “What?”

“Nothing, man. Was there anything else you wanted for Friday?”

The distraction wasn’t going to work. “You’re hiding something I won’t like, obviously. Tell me.”

“If I was, and it was only for your peace of mind that I keep it quiet, couldn’t you let it go?” Ivan asked.

Anton shook his head. “Given I’m going on trial in a couple of days, no. I want to know everything.”

“Maybe it’s not that,” his lawyer suggested.

What else could it be?

“Viviana, then?”

Ivan shot Anton with a pointed look. “Leave it alone.”

“So it is about my wife.”

“Anton, I said—”

Anton’s fist struck down on the table with a heavy bang before he pointed at Ivan. “Fuck off. You go home to your wife every night. You wake her up in the morning. You hug your daughters. Eva’s not angry with you because you might be getting locked up for the rest of your life. Your child isn’t begging for you to come home. Don’t tell me to leave it alone. If it’s about my wife, who barely speaks to me about anything beyond my son and her work day, I would really like to fucking know it.”

Ivan drummed his fingers to the table top. “Please don’t make me tell you. She wants to, just not over the phone, and not while someone is recording it. That’s all.”

“She could come
here
,” Anton snapped angrily.

There was no response for that, and instead, Anton found himself searching his friend’s face for any clues as to what he was hiding. Why wouldn’t Ivan just tell him?

“Is it about my son?”

“No, Anton. Demyan is fine, besides that attitude he’s got. When you get home, make sure to correct that shit before it becomes a habit likes yours has.”

Something awful settled in Anton’s gut. “Is she sick?”

“Starting to be,” Ivan muttered under his breath.

Starting to be? What the fu—

Anton’s thought process cut off like a metal door banging shut. It was as if a light bulb had flicked on inside his head and it goddamn well hurt. Viviana mentioned to him a week or so before his bail was revoked that she was worried about her still missing cycles given it had been months since the miscarriage.

“Oh, God,” Anton breathed. Happiness and anguish swirled like a hurricane through his insides, threatening to send him flying and falling all at the same time. It should have been exciting; he’d wanted another child so badly, after all. On the other hand, the reality of where he was couldn’t be forgotten, plus how worried his wife must be because of what happened the last time. “She’s … pregnant?”

Ivan chewed on his lower lip, avoiding eye contact. “I’m gonna get you out, no matter what. Just trust me. Okay?”

Anton choked back the rising emotions. “Okay.”

Then, Ivan slipped his hand into his suit jacket and pulled out a cell phone. Ivan skidded it across the table, saying nothing. Anton didn’t know how the lawyer managed to get the device through security. They all had to be checked in and left behind when visiting with an inmate.

“Sometimes money still talks,” Ivan said vaguely. “You know what today is, don’t you?”

“Demyan’s birthday.”

But Viviana wouldn’t let Demyan get on the phone.

“Your son would really like to hear his father tell him happy birthday. That’s what he asked for, apparently. Well, he asked for you, but Vine thought this would work all the same.”

With shaking hands, Anton plucked up the device. “Thank you, Ivan.”