Retribution Read online

  I shook off the memory when the doorbell rang, and Adam opened it to admit a man in a long coat. The doctor, I guessed. My heart thundered in my chest as the two entered the kitchen, but I told myself I was being ridiculous over a stupid childhood memory I’d probably warped into something worse over the years anyway.

  “This is the patient, Ms. Vega,” Adam said, setting his phone on the counter. Then, to me, “This is my personal physician, Dr. Acosta.”

  “Nice to meet you,” the doctor said.

  “Likewise.”

  He got right to business, setting his bag down to examine the wound, while Adam watched.

  “It’s not so bad, but it does need a few stitches. Good you called, Adam.” He spoke with slightly accented English. “Is there someplace Ms. Vega can lie down while we do this? I understand you’re nervous?”

  I felt silly now, standing between these two big men. Felt like a little girl.

  “I just don’t really like doctors,” I said, shrugging a shoulder. “Oh, no offense.”

  He chuckled. “None taken, and you’re not the only one.”

  “Here, come into my bedroom,” Adam said.

  “No, it’s okay, I can stand.” But they ignored me and led me down another hallway to the last room. Adam’s bedroom was a sanctuary all its own, large and spacious, bright with natural light, the furniture all man, all him.

  “No, really, I don’t want to get blood on anything,” I tried again, stopping when he pulled the pristine white covers of the bed back.

  “Lie down, Ms. Vega,” Adam said, giving me a look reminding me of our earlier conversation in the kitchen. “I insist.” He winked.

  I glanced at the doctor who stood waiting, and I knew I had no choice but to do what Adam said.

  “Fine.” I reached to take off my boots, not wanting to dirty his bed, but, with only one hand, I was useless. Adam smiled, squatting down to unzip and slide each boot off carefully, noting the crimson drops staining them but not saying anything as I lay back on the pillow, the scent of him on it subtle but distinct all the same.

  “There.” The doctor took off his jacket and set his bag down. “I’ll just wash my hands and if I could have a chair?”

  Adam nodded and brought over a chair but remained standing himself as he studied me.

  “You really are nervous, aren’t you?”

  I kept my gaze on a spot over his shoulder, hating to be in this position. I should have been comfortably lying in a hot bath drinking the bottle that caused all this trouble. Hell, if he’d simply bandaged me up like I’d asked, I could be doing just that and not lying here feeling like an idiot.

  “No,” I said, unable to keep the stubborn edge out of my voice.

  He raised one thick eyebrow, bright white teeth shining through his smile. “No, obviously you’re fully relaxed,” he said, patting my good hand, which I’d fisted.

  I exhaled, forcing myself to relax. Adam took another pillow and slid it behind my back, lifting me gently to do so.

  “Thank you.”

  The doctor returned, and they both examined my hand, again, speaking in Spanish.

  “Can we do this in English please? Since it’s me I’m guessing you’re talking about?”

  “I’m going to clean the area first. This will most likely sting a little.”

  I sucked in a breath because, before he’d even finished his sentence, he applied the antiseptic. But he was wrong. It didn’t sting a little. It stung like hell.

  Dr. Acosta prepared the needle. “I’ll numb the area. You won’t feel a thing, Ms. Vega.”

  I turned my face away only to meet my own reflection, wide, moist eyes staring back at me from the mirror on Adam’s dresser. “I think you can call me Elle now.” My voice sounded much lighter than I felt.

  “Thank you. So what do you do, Elle?” he asked, making small talk to distract me as the needle penetrated a space beside the gash.

  I squeezed my eyes shut until he pulled it out. “I’m a photographer,” I said, refusing to look at him as he prepared to sew me up.

  “What do you photograph?” he asked.

  I glanced at Adam, who stood back, quietly watching me.

  “People.”

  “What kind of people?” he asked.

  Adam waited for a reply.

  “Kids, mostly,” I said, clearing my throat. It was true. I did work one day a week at a portrait studio, photographing the children of well-to-do parents. I considered it pointless work and hated it, but I couldn’t not have a job. My friends didn’t know where or how I lived. I always met them out or at someone else’s house. They’d think me a fake if they learned the truth of my relatively easy life. And I wasn’t a fake.

  A coward, maybe?

  I pushed that thought aside, hoping he wouldn’t ask me more details because what I considered my real work, I kept private. I never talked about it, and no one knew I went out at night and met with some of the women I’d gotten to know, the prostitutes I’d begun photographing. I talked to them, took photos when they let me, then later, from the safety of my car, photos of the men who picked them up. But that was small stuff. I had a plan, and I knew it was naive to think I could save these women, but maybe I could help in some way. If I could show the world it was the upstanding citizens of society who kept them in their line of work — the husbands, university professors, politicians, leaders — well, maybe I could make a difference.

  “I think we’re ready to start,” Dr. Acosta said.

  “Look at me, Elle,” Adam said, moving to the other side of the bed so I had to turn away from the doctor.

  I did, realizing he’d called me by my first name for the first time. The doctor took my hand, and, after a moment, I felt a slight tugging but no pain.

  “What do you do, Adam?” Saying his name felt strange. It gave me goose bumps.

  “I invest in futures,” he said, and I had a feeling he might want to talk about his work as much as I wanted to talk about mine. I searched his eyes, more curious now than before, but a pull at my palm almost made me turn.

  “Do you enjoy photographing children,” he asked, grabbing my attention back.

  “It’s not what I want to do, or not the way I want to do it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want to take photos for the mantel. It’s not real.” As I said it, I wondered why I’d given that away.

  Adam studied me and nodded.

  Dr. Acosta spoke. “Finished.”

  I turned to see the row of neat little stitches lining my palm. “That wasn’t so bad, actually,” I said, sitting up and swinging my legs off the bed.

  “It’s always worse in your mind,” he said, taking out a notepad and writing something down. “You’ll want to get some of this to clean it. The stitches will need to come out in a bit.”

  “Thank you.”

  He packed up his things and prepared to leave. “I’ll see you out, Doctor,” Adam said.

  I stood. “Wait, how do I pay you?”

  “Sit, Elle,” Adam said.

  “I don’t want you to have to pay.”

  “Good-bye, Elle,” the doctor said. “If you need anything, my number is there.”

  They both ignored me and walked out, but I saw he’d scribbled the name of what I’d need to buy on office stationary. I’d contact him tomorrow to sort out payment. Finding my one hand useless, I tucked the pillows back into place, covered the bed with the blanket as best as I could, and pulled my boots back on, before heading back out to find Adam closing the front door.

  “I told you to sit.”

  “Has anyone ever told you you’re bossy?”

  He smiled. “Like I said earlier, people sometimes can’t help themselves and require my bossiness, as you call it.”

  He may be hot, but he was on the edge of condescending. “Well, thank you for your help. I will call the doctor’s office tomorrow to arrange payment.” I remembered the bloodstains. “If you have something I can clean up the blo
od with, I’ll wipe it up on my way out.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” He watched me, blocking my way to the door yet not offering anything, as if waiting to see what I’d do.

  “Well, okay then. Can I have my keys?” He’d tucked them into his pocket after locking my door earlier.

  “I’ll escort you down.” He went ahead of me to call the elevator.

  “You know, I’m fine. I’ve taken up enough of your time.” I felt irritated, like I wanted to smack him. He was bossy and arrogant, and I didn’t appreciate him deciding everything for me. I almost expected a fight, but then the elevator came and he smiled.

  “You’re sure? I don’t mind,” he said, sounding genuine, making me feel like the jerk.

  I nodded. He reached into his pocket and held the keys out to me. I looked at them sitting in the palm of his big hand, felt his eyes on me. Part of me wanted to ask what was going on here, because there was something, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

  I took the key. “Maybe I can buy you a drink or something to say thanks? I mean, after I clean up and I’m not bloody?”

  As soon as I asked, I felt stupid, and the heat rushing up my neck told me he would see my embarrassment. He smiled, taking a moment too long to do so.

  “Maybe another time.”

  Inside, my heart thundered, but I forced a smile. It wasn’t every day I offered to buy a guy a drink, but I also couldn’t remember the last time I got turned down.

  “Okay. Well, thank you, then. I’d better get downstairs. Ice cream is probably melting on the counter.” Shut up, Elle. Shut up. Stop talking. Just go. Save the teeny tiny piece of dignity you have left.

  “Good night, then,” Adam said.

  I stepped onto the elevator, and he pushed the button for the fifteenth floor. “Good night.”

  Why did I feel like I wanted to cry when the doors closed and finally released me from his intense gaze? Why did I feel like I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me? He was a cocky, arrogant, bossy jerk. I did not need a man like him in my life. In fact, what I needed right now was a good sweat. It was later than usual, but I’d go for a run. Exercise always helped clear my head and, tonight, I needed to clear my head.

  THAT WASN’T HOW I’D intended our first proper meeting to go.

  I poured myself a glass of whiskey and drank it down then poured another.

  She’d been hurt, and I’d helped her. I had hesitated about calling Dr. Acosta. It would have been easier to take her to the hospital, but she’d been scared.

  I hadn’t wanted her to be scared.

  Seeing Elle Vega in need stirred something in me I hadn’t expected her to stir. Or to ever come close to stirring. It unsettled me.

  What she’d said about the photography, about not wanting to take pictures for mantels, struck me. I guess I hadn’t expected that answer. It added substance to a woman I saw simply as the means to an end. I knew what she did late at night — I knew she went to the seedier parts of town photographing prostitutes. I knew she’d built some sort of relationship with some of them. I hadn’t known why until she said what she had about the photographs on mantels. Then I figured it out.

  And I didn’t like it.

  I’d been waiting, keeping tabs for a long time. My plan had solidified as Elle grew up, over years and years, slowly forming after Alessandra’s death. At first, as a kid, it had all been fight fight fight. And I had fought — with everyone. My parents were of no use. I couldn’t tell them my plan to go after the man who had stolen Alessandra. I’d done my homework, figured out it had been Manuel Vega behind her kidnapping, but I’d been too young and too stupid to do things right. Actually, the best thing to have happened to me had been the threat of prison and the subsequent military service I’d had to sign up for. I fought it first, raged against it, against the people who had let what had happened happen. But, at seventeen, a minor, my parents had decided for me. They’d insisted I take the offer and it had saved me. It had tempered me. Or Clay had.

  Clay Boxer was a commanding officer, a Navy SEAL who’d climbed the ranks and led troops, who had killed so many men he’d lost count. In his late thirties when I first met him, he knew all about Manuel Vega. All about his organization. The drugs, the guns, the flesh. My sister had fallen prey to the Dominican kingpin, but I’d be the one to avenge her death, and I’d learned over my years with Clay revenge truly was a dish best served cold. To kill him was one thing, but to truly destroy him something else entirely. And I wanted to destroy Manuel Vega. The perfect way to do it? Destroy the thing he loved best, the one thing worth more than life to him: his daughter.

  Break Elle Vega and destroy the man. Obliterate everything he stood for. Wipe the very stain of him out as if he’d never existed at all. And the key to it all? His sweet, sweet little girl.

  Elle would suffer like Alessandra had suffered. I would do to her what they had done to my sister. I would hurt her like they had hurt Alessandra. I would wipe out all hope inside Elle Vega. I would break her and deliver to Daddy a weak, shattered shell of herself. I would kill her slowly in front of his eyes. I would bring him to his knees, and I would have my vengeance.

  The glass I held exploded in my hand, waking me from the darkness of memory, of a life lived to destroy another. Shattered crystal covered the hardwood floor. A drop of whiskey mixed with blood splashed onto the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city. Shards of glass bit into my palm. I squeezed harder, drops cascading down over my wrist and falling onto the priceless Persian rug.

  At the sink, I washed my hands, digging sharp slivers out of my skin, forcing myself to continue, not even allowing a wince at the pain. Wrapping the wound in a bandage, I grabbed my iPod and pulled the hoodie over my head then rode the elevator down to the lobby and out the front door. Nine Inch Nails blared in my ears, the beat and lyrics of “Closer” urging me forward. I took off into the slow drizzle of rain, not caring I’d be soaked through within minutes, needing the cold, the dark of night, needing the feel of muscles burning as I ran hard, emptying my mind, giving myself over to the rage-filled music fueling me, refusing to let the humanity of the woman who would become my victim enter my consciousness. Rejecting any notion of her, of any Vega, being human at all. They were killers. They made their money on the suffering of others. The girl was no innocent. She lived on the money, which made her an accomplice. I wondered if she knew what her father did. If she had any idea of what the man who had created her was, the monster whose genes she shared.

  How are you different? How are you any less a monster for what you plan to do to her?

  I ran harder, shutting out that voice. I did not know and I would not care. If I did, it would be a betrayal of my sister. Of my dead sister — her life stolen without a thought while the murderers lived the high life.

  Elle Vega would suffer. She would pay. It was what I’d known all my life. It gave me strength to take breath, to go on. Nothing would change what would happen. Even if I learned she was Mother fucking Teresa, it would make no difference to me.

  I pounded pavement, running the route I’d come to memorize since before moving into her building, but, tonight, I had no need to keep at an easy pace and give her space. Tonight it was just me and I ran hard, weaving between couples with umbrellas, people delivering meals, homeless men and women tucked into the doorways of closed-up shops, their hands out for anything anyone would give. I ran until the crowds became smaller and smaller, until I hit the seedier parts of the city, the ones most people tried to avoid.

  The one I felt the most at home in.

  A train rumbled overhead as I made my way toward the fire where four people in tattered black coats and hats had gathered, warming their hands. They watched my approach, and I took my earbuds out, tucking them into my pocket. One, a kid, reached for the knife I knew he kept in his pocket. I listened as he hit the button and the switchblade flew open. Tension grew as I approached, my steps determined. He moved away from the group and toward me, and when
he did, I pulled the hood off my head.

  “Fuck, man,” he said, closing the blade with a nervous laugh. “Take the fucking hood off sooner, man. I almost killed you.” Jeb held out his hand and I took it, smiling.

  “You may have tried, but you wouldn’t have succeeded.” I gave him a short hug with a pat on the back.

  “Adam,” another one said, each of them greeted me, smiling. One held out a half-drunk bottle of beer.

  “No, thanks, man,” I said. I held up my bandaged hand. “Had enough already.”

  Jeb, the newest addition to the group, was young, the others older, from their mid-thirties to forties. I’d been out here with them some time ago. I’d slept alongside them. Been hungry, like them. The threat of prison had made all the difference for me. It gave me the opportunity they’d never been given.

  “How are you all doing? Eat anything today?”

  “Some days are better than others, Adam,” Mel, the only woman in the group, said. Although with her hair shorn so short and her voice raspy from a lifetime of smoking, she looked and sounded more like a man. Not necessarily a bad thing when the street was home.

  “You taking care of Jeb here?” I held off making the decision to get Jeb off the streets for him, giving him a little longer to come to his senses and figure it out for himself.

  “You know it,” she said.

  When I met Jeb, he’d been backed into a corner by some bad people. I’d brought him out here where I knew he’d be safe until he figured out the streets weren’t any easier than home much of the time.

  “Glad to hear it.” I reached into my pocket and took out all the cash I had. “Here, Mel. Eat. Feed these boys.”

  She took it without hesitation, while the others watched. Over the years, they’d become a sort of family. It made me glad for them.

  “You’re out pretty far from the city on foot, ain’t you?” she asked. I usually came by bike.

  “I needed the fresh air.”

  “It’s fucking raining, man,” Jeb said.