SIXTEEN

“Come on, move it, get that hunka junk outta here.”

Micky Duka rapped on the passenger window of the black Lexus till it rolled down. An ungodly beautiful black woman stared daggers at him.

Christ, he thought. It’s Charmaine what’s-her-name. Some French name, he couldn’t pronounce it, she was on the cover of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue this year.

In the driver’s seat next to her, an equally good-looking black man—this guy was a model, too, Micky knew that, though he couldn’t place him at all—smiled over at Duka, a very fake smile, and said: “We’re waiting for a friend.”

“Yes,” Charmaine said. “So, if you would please stop banging on my window—”

“Sorry,” Duka said. “But you gotta move.”

The driver kept smiling.

“As I said, we’re waiting on a friend. It’ll only be a minute. She was coming right out.”

“Yeah. You can wait for her over there, okay. Right now, you gotta move. Right now,” Duka repeated, casting a nervous glance past the Lexus to the Bentley waiting behind it. Dante, in the driver’s seat of the Bentley, was starting to frown.

“Do you know who I am?” the woman asked. “Who this is?” She pointed to the driver.

“You’re somebody, yeah. That’s great. But I’m somebody, too. I’m the valet captain. That means I’m in charge of keeping the way clear here. And you are blocking the way, capisce?”

Charmaine, clearly, didn’t capisce.

“What’s your name, little man?”

“Micky Duka.”

“Well, Micky, I’m a personal friend of John Saint’s—” The way she said that, Micky had no doubt that Howard’s kid had banged her, good for him “—and he’s certainly going to hear about this from me.”

“Wonderful. You can tell him in a minute, ’cause I see he’s waiting right there. In the Cobra, behind the Bentley. His dad’s Bentley. Howard Saint’s Bentley, which you are blocking at this very minute.”

The driver turned, saw the waiting cars, and his face changed.

Not ten seconds later, the Bentley was at the curb and Micky was opening the passenger door.

Howard Saint was the first one out. He took in the scene in front of the club, smiled at Micky, and then offered a hand to Mrs. Saint.

“Big crowd tonight, Mr. Saint,” Micky said. “You look beautiful, Mrs. Saint. If I may say so.”

Which she did, in a tight black dress that left nothing to the imagination—Christ, if his mom had looked like that, Micky would have had some serious issues, which he did anyway with Livia Saint, on account of the fact that every time she saw him she made a face like she just ate bad clams or something. Like she was about to get sick.

Micky guessed it had something to do with Bobby, even though Mr. Saint had apparently forgiven him for being there when Bobby died, as he’d given Micky this job here. Though sometimes he wondered if Saint hadn’t made him valet captain just to keep him close, keep an eye on him, make sure that he hadn’t really known anything at all about Otto Krieg being a Fed. Saint had certainly watched him carefully the other night when he’d given Micky that little piece of info, and it had been all Micky could do not to shit a brick right then and there, the way that Quentin Glass kept asking, Are you sure, Micky? Are you sure? Take your time. Guy made his skin crawl, Glass did.

The Saints entered the club, arm in arm. The Bentley pulled away from the curb. John Saint pulled in.

“Hey, Micky Duka, Micky Duka, Micky Duka.” Saint tossed him his keys. “How’s it going, my friend?”

John slapped him on the back.

“Good, John. It’s going good. You stayin’ awhile?”

Saint nodded. “Yeah. I am. Gotta little celebration happenin’ tonight, me and the folks.”

Like always, Micky felt weird every time he talked to the guy. The whole twin thing, it was like talkin’ to Bobby all over again, except that John Saint was a raving asshole. He and Glass had been gone for two days now, and Micky hadn’t missed either one of them in the slightest.

“Check out the news, by the way,” John said, slapping a newspaper into his chest.

“News?”

Micky flipped the paper open. Tomorrow morning’s Tampa Times . Howard knew somebody, of course—they always got it early.

Duka saw the headline above the fold, and his mouth dropped open. “Holy . . .”

MASSACRE IN PUERTO RICO: U.S. FAMILY GUNNED DOWN IN TERROR ATTACK. He didn’t need to read a word of it to know whose family got massacred, because there were pictures to go along with the article, a half dozen of them. An older man and woman, a couple kids, a good-lookin’ young girl . . .

And Otto Krieg, aka Frank Castle.

The paper slipped from his hands and fell to the ground.

Right at that second, Micky felt as if he’d just eaten some bad clams himself.

Howard Saint raised his glass.

“To Bobby.”

“To Bobby.” Livia, sitting across from him, echoed the toast, as Quentin and John did a split second later.

“To a score settled,” his wife said then, a light burning in her eyes.

Saint clinked glasses with her. Livia looked extraordinary tonight. Micky Duka had practically drooled all over himself helping her out of the car—his wife had, of course, noticed.

“Do you really need that filthy little man anymore?” she’d said as they entered the club. “Can’t you—” She waved a hand. “—make him vanish?”

Saint had only smiled at that—he’d thought about making Duka vanish himself, thought about it more than once over the last couple days, but the man was harmless, after all, not worth killing. Right at this moment, in fact, Saint had had enough of killing.

Puerto Rico had more than sated his thirst for blood.

It was time to turn to other things, things he’d let slide during this last week. Business, for one. Pleasure, for another.

He started to pour himself another glass of champagne and frowned. Empty. He held the bottle up in the air.

Quentin turned in his seat and snapped his fingers. One of the bartenders nodded, and not more than ten seconds later, he was at their table with a fresh magnum. The young man filled glasses all around, bowed, and left.

“John.” Saint leaned forward. “I’m going to want you to spend some time tomorrow with Rebecca. There are some public relations opportunities coming up over the next few weeks, and we need to . . . work on your image.”

He braced himself for the inevitable explosion—there was nothing John Saint hated more than working on his “image”—but to his surprise, his son only smiled.

“Yeah. Sure, Pop. Whatever you say.”

“Good.” Saint nodded. “I’ll have her call and set up a time.”

“Sure, Pop,” John said again.

That was when Saint noticed his son really wasn’t paying attention to him at all; John’s attention was instead focused somewhere else entirely.

Saint turned and saw where.

A striking young blonde woman—Saint thought he recognized her from the last car commercial—was out on the dance floor behind them, beckoning John toward her with every part of her equally striking body.

“John,” Saint began, turning back to the table. “You know that is a very important time—”

“I got it, Pop. Don’t worry. Have her call me, yeah?” He nodded to Livia. “Excuse me, Mom.”

Saint watched his son go, and sighed.

“Don’t be hard on him.” Livia reached across the table and put her hand on his. “Boys will be boys.”

Saint nodded. She was right, of course. He couldn’t expect John to concentrate on business twenty-four hours a day, especially now, although he would have liked—

His train of thought rolled to a stop as Robert Chadwick entered the club, Big Richie Constantine a step behind him.

“Howard,” Quentin said. “Isn’t that—”

“It sure as hell is,” Saint said, rising to his feet and waving to the two men. Constantine took a spot at the bar and waved for Saint to join them.

Saint hesitated a second. This was his club. People came to his table to do business. But this was Big Richie Constantine, a man whose organization ran Miami Beach, a man who was a conduit to a considerable amount of wealth. Wealth that could sew up the primary for Saint even before he announced.

What the hell, he decided. Constantine had come a few hundred miles north. For Saint to walk a few dozen feet to meet him . . .

No big deal.

“Quentin,” he said to Glass. “Would you dance with Livia? I’ll be right back. Darling—you’ll excuse me?”

Leaving his wife in Glass’s good care, he made his way to the bar.

“Robert. And Richie. This is a surprise.”

They all shook hands. Saint motioned the bartender over, ordered drinks all around.

“Nice place you got here, Howard,” Constantine said. “Little bit of Miami right here in the boonies. I like it.”

The boonies. Saint forced himself to smile.

“We try, Richie.”

“You do more than try, Howard,” Constantine said. “You succeed. Can’t say that about a lot of people in this world. Make something out of nothing.”

That was gracious, Saint thought. He was about to say as much when there was a commotion behind him.

He turned and saw the Toros—Mike and Joe—arguing with Cutter, who was on the door tonight. Jesus. Talk about lousy timing . . .

“Excuse me, Richie. Robert.” He nodded toward the disturbance and smiled apologetically. “Be right back.”

He made his way through the crowd to the club entrance, where he found only Joe Toro waiting for him.

“Hey.” Joe smiled. “Howard. Good to see you.”

“Joe Toro. What a surprise. Can I get you a drink?”

“I’m all set, thanks.” Toro raised a glass he’d been holding by his side. “Heard the news, Howard. Came by to offer our congratulations.”

“I appreciate it. I couldn’t have done it without you—or Mike.” Which was true enough, but this was neither the time nor the place to get into details. “Where is he, by the way? Your brother?”

“He’s dancing. Gonna join him myself in a moment— soon as I finish my drink.” He took another sip, let his eyes wander around the club. “Now this is class. This is real class, Howard.”

“Glad you like it, Joe. Make yourself at home,” Saint said, not meaning a word of it as his eyes scanned the floor for Mike Toro. He wanted these two out of here, now, so he could get back to—

Saint cursed inwardly. There was Mike, out on the dance floor, just like Joe had said.

The other Toro had apparently decided to make himself at home, as well. With Saint’s wife.

It was always good to spend time with Livia, and even though Quentin Glass preferred dancing with men—really, boys, if you got right down to it—he’d actually been enjoying the feel of her in his arms, sleek and hard in some places, soft and sweet-smelling in others, when all of a sudden he’d smelled cigar smoke and felt a hand on his shoulder. He’d turned to see—of all people—Mike Toro.

“Hey, Quentin Glass. How’s it going? Hope you don’t mind,” and before Glass could think of a response, Toro had cut in on him and taken Livia in his own arms.

Her eyes clouded over with fury.

“Quentin? Who is this?”

Toro answered before he could. “Who am I? I’m Mike. Mike Toro. You’re Livia; this is Quentin; that’s my brother, Joe, over there with your husband, Howard, who I do business with. Quite a lot of business, in fact.”

Toro smiled, wobbled on his feet, and Glass suddenly realized the man was drunk as a skunk.

Livia tried to free herself. Toro put one meaty hand right on her ass and drew her in even closer.

“Hey, your old man’s from Havana, just like mine. Livia, loosen up, all right? We might be cousins. We should be nice to each other.”

Glass had had enough.

“Mike,” he said, putting a hand on Toro’s shoulder. “This is Mrs. Saint, and you’re Mr. Saint’s guest. If you would please—”

But Toro wasn’t listening. “It’s a party, Quentin—relax. Tell this beautiful woman to have another drink and I’ll show her how I cha-cha-cha. Bésame mucho, baby. Bésame mucho. Or did you forget your Spanish?”

Toro made what Quentin supposed he thought was a dance move, but to Glass it looked like an obscene motion.

Apparently it looked the same to Livia.

She slapped him across the face, hard.

“I know what it means,” she said, and stalked out of the club, glaring at her husband as she walked past.

Quentin and Howard exchanged glances.

Saint joined them, Joe Toro a step behind.

“Okay. Sorry about that, Mike. Livia’s a little tense, still. The whole thing with Bobby. You understand?”

Mike Toro frowned. “Sure, Howard. I understand.” An expression crossed his face then that made Quentin think that maybe the man wasn’t as drunk as he looked.

Saint must have caught it as well. “Listen. I’m glad to see both of you—you’re welcome here anytime. Drinks on the house, something to eat . . . ?”

Toro looked at Toro, and both shook their heads.

“No. We’re goin’, I think, Howard,” Mike said. “Just came by to congratulate you—on Castle.”

“Joe told me. I appreciate it.”

Good-byes were said all around.

Saint sighed, watching the Toros go.

“We’re gonna have to do some serious fence-mending later, Quentin.”

“I know it, Howard.”

Glass thought he was talking about the Toros, which was true enough, Mike and Joe would have to be attended to for sure, but there was also Livia to consider. His wife did not like it when he brought home the kind of business the Toros represented.

Saint would mend that particular fence on his own, later tonight. He suspected the little velvet box inside his coat— some very nice Harry Winston earrings he’d had couriered in from New York this morning—would make that process go a lot more smoothly. Besides, after twenty years of marriage, he knew his wife, and Livia was not in a fighting mood tonight, not really. No, she was in a mood to celebrate, and so, despite the unpleasantness with the Toros, was he.

Especially now that Chadwick had brought Constantine— that was a big thing; he’d see just how big in a few minutes, although the real cause for his good mood was the same as it had been before. The fact that he’d avenged their son; that Bobby, wherever he was, could rest in peace; that Frank Castle—as old man Trafficante used to be so fond of saying— swam with the fishes.