Consumed by the Mafia (De Salvo Family #5)

4. Encounter

four

Encounter

Abigail’s Sunday morning jog ended with her smothering her nerves in fresh baked pastry. Did it completely negate the point of the exercise? Absolutely. Did it make her feel just a tiny bit better when the sugary sweetness, fruity filling, and picture-perfect chocolate glaze coated her tongue? God, yes. For maybe five minutes, she was just a woman sitting at a table in a busy bakery, minding her own business and feeling so damn good about it.

Then she registered the figures her eyes had been tracking beyond the window.

Rodrigo Silva, the same chief of police who’d made an awkward presence of himself at the bar the other night, and a man she couldn’t identify. They had stepped aside, up against the corner of the building, and looked for all the world to be having a hushed conversation right there in broad daylight.

He’s the police chief. He can do that.

The thought wasn’t inaccurate. She just couldn’t shake the feeling that it might also be what he, or both men, were counting on. Abigail popped the last of her indulgent donut purchase into her mouth.

The cold mask that had settled over Ryōma’s face when Silva had interrupted their conversation flashed through her mind. Objectively, if a man she suspected to be a long-serving member of a criminal organization was in not the greatest standing with the chief, she ought to have the opposite opinion. Except she’d heard Silva’s words, too.

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with your boss.”

Unless Abigail was terribly misinformed, that had to mean Silva knew. At least enough to know who to approach, and what not to say in front of strangers. He knew, and he wasn’t taking action. All of which raised too many suspicions to ignore.

That possibility would delight Newark’s head agent, Julian Albert. He hadn’t been a fan of Rodrigo Silva’s for as long as she’d known him. But she couldn’t just bring this theory to him, she needed proof. Story of my life.

Abigail gathered up her small accumulated mess, resecured her cross-body purse, and made a quiet exit. The little papers and napkin went into the recycling before she stepped out the door, then she pulled her purse around and slipped out her phone. She angled herself in the direction of the continuing conversation, keeping her attention aimed at the device in her hand.

Of course, it had been a gamble from the start.

The unfamiliar man—taller, more muscular, and sharply dressed with burgundy hair—clapped a hand on Silva’s shoulder as she neared. His voice carried too easily, telling her he’d raised it. “Thank you for easing my mind, as always.”

Abigail swiped her thumb across the screen, her mind racing. There was an accent to his voice, like a lilt. It was subtle but nonetheless distinct. Definitely out of place.

“Of course, of course,” Silva replied. “I’m always happy to help.” The men shuffled in her peripheral vision and a sinking feeling came over her, but Abigail maintained her oblivious act. Right up until Silva spoke again, almost close enough to touch. “Haven’t we met?”

She jerked as if startled and whipped her head around, blinking at the older, barely taller male. She’d known who he was from the moment he’d walked up to their table that night, of course, but he wasn’t supposed to know her. So she furrowed her brow and pulled her phone close to her chest. “No,” she said. “I think you spoke to someone I was sitting with the other night. That really doesn’t count as meeting. I’m sorry, did you need something?”

Behind him, his companion turned a curious gaze their way. Straight on she could see he was at least a handful of years younger than Silva, though probably still over forty. His face was weathered from time in the sun but not altogether unattractive. Not especially her type, but she could see the appeal.

Chief Silva hummed thoughtfully before his brown eyes lit with recognition. An instant later his jaw seemed to harden, the friendly facade disappearing. “You’re Ryōma’s whore.”

Abigail reared back. “Maybe I should have been more specific,” she said. “We weren’t introduced. I caught on to who you are, too, Chief Silva. And I don’t think you should be demeaning your citizens simply because of who they share drinks with.”

Silva’s nostrils flared. He made no effort to disguise his displeasure at her words.

His companion stepped up, rumbling with low laughter. “This one’s got a mouth on her, Rodrigo.” He bumped Silva’s arm without removing his own from his pocket or taking his hazel eyes off her. “She may also be right. For all you know she was using that foreigner.”

The offensive language raked through her and Abigail felt herself bristle. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

He offered her a calculated smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I didn’t give you my name.”

Abigail matched his smile as her thumb surreptitiously landed on the shutter button. She had only barely managed to open the camera app as she’d moved the screen out of Silva’s angle of sight. It was a shame she hadn’t been able to swipe over to video mode, but a picture was certainly better than nothing. “I apologize if I gave you the impression I was interested in your bigotry.” She looked between them, letting her fake smile fade. “Either of you.” Her thumb dropped to the home button, tapping before lifting to her text app. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to meet someone.” She flashed her phone for emphasis, only long enough to let the list of conversations cross their eyes, then lowered her hand and angled to step around them.

The unnamed man shot out a hand and latched onto her arm, uncaring that he was reaching past Silva in the process. He held firm, just tight enough to ensure she would have to make a scene to have a chance to break free. “Why don’t you let me see that phone first, girl.”

Abigail stepped carefully so that her restrained arm was obviously extended, keeping her phone in her other hand, and narrowed her eyes in their direction. “You think you can put hands on me because you’re buddy-buddy with the chief of police?”

Silva took a pointed step back, giving his friend room. “We’re only having a casual chat, aren’t we?”

She had half a mind to arrest them both. She wasn’t supposed to compromise her identity unless absolutely necessary, but she was allowed to do what she had to in order to protect herself. Within the confines of the law, of course. Abigail ground her teeth. She wouldn’t throw ten months of hard work away for these assholes. “Unhand me, or so help me, I’ll scream until your buddy has no choice but to forfeit his career or do his goddamn job.”

The man whose name she didn’t know smiled cruelly. “The phone.” He held out his other hand expectantly.

“You have no business with me or my belongings. ”

“I have business with that foreigner you were cavorting with,” he said. “And I need to be sure you didn’t do anything dumb.”

“Dumb like putting hands on a woman in public?” Abigail raised the phone, closing her contacts and going back to her camera app. “How’s this?” She held it out, letting them both see the screen this time, and clicked again. Capturing a picture of the man with his hand on her arm. “You touch me, I photograph you. Seems fair.”

“Are you stupid?” Silva snapped.

“That was unwise, girl,” the other man said in a growl. His grip tightened.

Abigail lowered her phone to a comfortable level and glared back at them. “You know, I’m pretty sure police aren’t the only law in Newark. Wanna bet Google has that number?” Not that she needed it. But the FBI’s presence wasn’t exactly a secret, so she compromised nothing by acknowledging her awareness of them.

Silva scoffed. “She’s posturing. I can pick her up whenever I have to.”

“No,” his companion said. He yanked her closer in a sharp movement, making a sweeping grab for her phone.

Abigail let her face show surprise, but as soon as she was close enough she brought her knee up to his groin. If Silva upped the ante after his companion went down and drew his weapon, she’d just have to break cover.

The burgundy-haired man hissed through clenched teeth at the sudden, obviously unexpected pain, his grip going slack as his body naturally contorted .

“Bren—”

The man threw a hand toward Silva, his arm shaking faintly but the signal no less clear. Silva had started to say something he wasn’t supposed to.

Abigail would have loved to stay and listen, but she wasn’t under the delusion that the situation would become amicable when Bren caught his breath. So she twisted in place and sprinted for the nearest clear crosswalk, putting a street between them as quickly as she could. She also firmly believed that if Silva figured out the name she was going by, he would follow through on his threat of sending someone after her.

What she hadn’t anticipated was realizing she was being followed even several blocks and two sharp corners later. But she definitely was. Whoever the man behind her was, he’d fallen in shortly after she’d escaped Silva and his friend, and he hadn’t broken off. Her gut said that wasn’t a coincidence.

The street she needed to get home was in sight, but she wasn’t leading someone who meant her harm back to her apartment. So she veered the opposite way at the crosswalk and slipped her phone from her purse once more. The reflection in her screen assured her that her new shadow hadn’t fallen behind at the last moment.

The sprinting had winded her, particularly after the indulgent breakfast. She didn’t want a confrontation. Nor did she want to break cover. So she did the next best, next most logical thing. She scrolled down to her new boyfriend’s contact and embraced the unplanned opportunity.

Ryōma answered on the second ring. “Is this you missing me?”

Her lips twitched despite the situation. He’s ridiculous. She already felt like such a bitch for what she had to do. “Remember when your mere presence protected me from creeps?”

There was a beat of hesitation, as if her question caught him off-guard. Which was fair. “I do.”

“Does that extend beyond the bar?” The downside of making a call was that it was harder to tell the distance between her and her tail, so Abigail did what she could to keep on non-deserted streets. She moved herself up close to the wall to minimize her vulnerabilities and switched her phone to that ear in the interest of maintaining some range of sight.

When Ryōma spoke again, his voice had hardened in way she wasn’t used to. A way that sent a thrill she had no right to shooting straight through her. “Are you in trouble?”

It was adrenaline that had her heart racing this time. Not the new tone of his voice or the implications in his question. “I think so,” she said honestly. “I had a strange encounter, and now I’m being followed. So I can’t go home.”

She heard the sound of his engine in the beat before he spoke again. “Where are you?”

Her gaze swept outward and she read off the nearest street signs.

“I’m not far from there,” Ryōma said. “Cross the street at the next intersection. There should be a used bookstore at the corner, get inside if you can.”

A bookstore? Abigail glanced over her shoulder, noting that her follower had picked up speed. “I’ll do what I can,” she said, quickly looking forward again. The call disconnected but she kept her phone gripped firmly in hand and swept her gaze out, searching. The intersection was just up ahead, one more block. She could only hope the brick building set back from the street on the other side was the bookstore.

She poured a little more speed into her legs as the intersection neared, waiting as long as she could to adjust course for the angle she wanted. When she did, she was almost positive she heard the man behind her mutter a curse. He didn’t seem to like her change of course, but even that wasn’t enough to keep him from pursuing her.

The building she’d spotted was definitely a bookstore. The main entrance faced the side street, which meant veering wide at the corner. She had no idea why Ryōma had told her to go into a small, low-traffic store, but she was running out of time just trying to out-walk whoever was chasing her. She had hold of the handle to the heavy wooden door, and she could see movement through the patterned glass, when her head was jerked back by her hair.

Abigail let out a genuinely startled cry, stumbling backward until the door was out of reach again.

“We’re not goin’ in there, bitch,” said a grumpy male voice she didn’t recognize.

Abigail attempted to twist free, or close enough to land a blow on her assailant, but he moved with her enough to make her efforts useless. She sucked in a breath, stilled for a beat, and shot back a foot to stomp down on his. It was less effective, but admittedly somewhat satisfying when he grunted. She was finally able to reach behind her and wrench the hand from her hair, spinning fully around and nearly taking a swiping hand to her face as a result .

“Damn whore!”

“You’re really arrogant,” Abigail said, barely registering something slamming in the background, “if you think just because Chief Silva’s on your side that means you’re untouchable.”

The man’s lip curled and he took a large step forward, into her personal space. His hands clenched into fists. “You don’t know—”

Ryōma shoved himself between them, an arm went up, and the other man’s hands went lax as Ryōma started walking forward, putting distance between them and Abigail. When he spoke, Ryōma’s voice retained the hard edge he’d held over the phone. In person, it sounded much more dangerous. “You got some balls on you, chasing down my woman in broad fucking daylight.” He pinned the man to the bookstore’s wall, and only then could Abigail see that he had the man by the throat. “I’m gonna let up the pressure, and you’re gonna tell me who you work for and what the fuck you’re after. I won’t ask a second time. Nod if you understand.”

Abigail felt breathless, her heart racing again. Holy shit. She knew what she was witnessing was not, in itself, proof of a larger organization. But it sure as hell read like one. It felt like she was on the precipice of the biggest lead she’d had since this damn mission had started the previous fall.

She watched her assailant’s chin dip in a slow nod.

“Smart choice.” Ryōma’s arm slackened almost imperceptibly. “Talk. ”

The man coughed, making no effort to reach for the hand still at his throat or for any kind of weapon. Then, finally, he spat on the concrete and said, “Fuck you, Jap.”

Ryōma sighed as if he were disappointed and the door to the bookstore swung open, a set of bells chiming briefly in odd punctuation to the moment.

Abigail glanced over, her eyes blowing wide at the sight of three men stepping out with guns drawn. One of the men was notably older, and walked with a custom cane. She thought he might have been the one she’d glimpsed through the glass.

The three looked toward Ryōma, then over to Abigail, before exchanging looks amongst themselves. One shifted to face her and her chest tightened. She wouldn’t have time to draw her badge or her weapon if he squeezed his trigger.

“Point that gun at her and I’ll fuckin’ drop you,” Ryōma said sharply. He hauled the other man off the wall and started toward the three newcomers. “Take this son of a bitch in back and wait for a pick-up. Make sure to search him.”

The guns went down and her assailant found his fight again, suddenly surging against Ryōma’s grip in a bid for freedom. “Le’ go! I ain’t goin’ nowhere with you, bastard!” His eyes met hers as he reared back, wild with rage and desperation. “This is your fault, bitch!”

Abigail narrowed her eyes. Remember the goal. She needed to let this scene play out. It would work in her favor later. That didn’t mean she had to keep quiet entirely. “What, manhandling’s only fun when you’re the one doing it?”

Ryōma released his hold on the man, twisting and bringing a knee into the man’s chest before the guy could take more than a single step in her direction. Then he hauled the other man back and bodily tossed him onto the ground, in the direction of the three in front of the store. He settled his foot on her assailant’s collar, just below the neck, and leaned forward. “That’s the last time you insult her, or I’ll have you wishing you had the strength to beg for death. Do I make myself clear?”

Abigail could only stare, genuinely surprised, as he proceeded to wave the other three forward and moved off of her defeated attacker. She watched them haul him up, someone produced zip-ties for his wrists, and the man was dragged into the bookstore with concerningly minimal effort.

Ryōma extracted his phone from his pocket and put it to his ear, still scowling. “Sorry to bug you. Got a package for pick-up at the bookstore. Giuseppe’s got the details.”

Holy shit. The bookstore was part of the front. It wasn’t even a mile from her apartment! She couldn’t believe she’d been living so damn close to a functioning business with deep connections to the group she was looking for.

“I don’t actually know,” Ryōma said, still on the phone. He shifted his weight impatiently. “Of course. There’s just something I have to take care of first.” He was quiet another beat. “I will.” Then he pulled the phone away and dropped it back into his pocket, the screen already dark.

Abigail drew a breath, well aware they were alone again—as alone as two people could get on a city sidewalk—and she needed to get her thoughts together in order to say something. As soon as he turned fully toward her, she offered, “Thank you … I think. I didn’t mean to cause trouble. ”

He frowned and cupped her face. It struck her, hard, that the anger had completely vanished from his eyes. He was searching for something, but she saw no irritation of any kind. And his voice was different again when he spoke, too. More like she remembered. “Are you hurt?”

Her heart lurched, as if she had any business reacting to that question. In that tone. She tried to distract herself and opted to tease him. “Were you worried?”

“Tch.” Ryōma caught her free hand and pulled her with him toward the curb, and his car. He opened the door and tilted his head. “Get in. We’ll talk somewhere else.”

Abigail obliged him, though she would have preferred to stick around and see who showed up next. She didn’t imagine she had a way to justify that at this stage. When Ryōma was behind the wheel again, she said, “I’m just a little sore. It’s no big deal.”

He glanced over at her as the engine purred to life. “Elaborate on that.”

She gestured vaguely toward her head. “There’s good hair-pulling and bad hair-pulling. He didn’t have the good touch.” Her scalp didn’t actively hurt, but she was sure if she patted it or leaned against the headrest too soon, it wouldn’t be comfortable.

Ryōma swung onto the road and drove them away from the bookstore, quickly putting the entire area behind them. “Anything else? Where exactly did he touch you?”

She raised a brow at the question. “My hair. He caught me by my hair and tried dragging me that way, until I stomped on his foot. The only other thing he did was chase me on foot for like, I don’t know, maybe fifteen minutes. Long enough to be exhausting and uncomfortable.”

“What the fuck did that piece of shit want with you? Do you have any idea?” He looked like he was white-knuckling the wheel and she felt decidedly guilty about that, too.

Abigail forced herself to look away from him, dropping her gaze to her phone. “I assume he works for either Silva or the asshole Silva was with earlier.”

“Chief of Police Silva? I thought you didn’t know who he was?”

“How bad of a memory do you think I have?”

Ryōma pulled into a mostly empty parking lot, finding an out of the way spot beneath a small tree. “So you ran into Silva earlier, and had some kind of problem? And he was with someone?”

Abigail swiftly unlocked her phone and opened her photo gallery. “This man.” She held out the first of the two pictures she’d snapped. The angle was a bit awkward, and Silva was only partially visible from the way she’d been standing, but the burgundy-haired man was clear enough. He’d be identifiable for anyone who knew him. “Silva spoke to me first, though. He recognized me from the bar. That disdain you have for him seems to be a mutual feeling.”

Ryōma frowned at the picture. “I don’t recognize this one. Did you get a name? Did he have an accent? Did they say anything remarkable?”

She couldn’t stop her lips from lifting in a grin. “I didn’t realize you were so inquisitive. ”

His frown held as his gaze shifted to hers. “I need all the information in order to know what I’m punishing them for.” He was entirely serious.

Her amusement faded, but the only discomfort she felt was with herself when she realized she didn’t feel the discomfort or upset she should have. It wasn’t like she couldn’t guess his meaning. What was wrong with her? Abigail licked her lips and swiped to the second picture. “I only got a name after the situation turned physical,” she said. “He refused to give me one, but he’s the suspicious sort, and he wanted to get hands on my phone before I walked away. I guess he’d noticed I’d had a good angle to take a photo and he didn’t like that idea.” She showed him the image of burgundy-hair with the vice-grip on her arm. In that picture, both men’s faces were clearly visible. “Silva was blatantly ignoring his civic duty. He even threatened to send cops to pick me up, despite that I’d never introduced myself.”

Ryōma snatched the phone from her hand and zoomed the image in, anger darkening his features. He muttered something in Japanese she didn’t know the translation for, but his tone assured her it wasn’t a pleasantry.

With nothing else to say, Abigail continued. “I let him drag me closer after that, and when I was close enough I kneed him really hard in the nuts.” Ryōma looked up from the phone, pride filtering through the anger on his face. “When he went down, and let go of me, Silva addressed him, but I think it was just a partial name. He cut Silva off, so I don’t know what he was going to say exactly.”

“A partial’s better than nothing. Especially with a face. ”

That is true. “Bren,” she repeated. “Silva called him ‘Bren.’ Whether that’s short for a given name, like Brennan, or a surname like Brenner, I … couldn’t say.” She barely finished the thought as something that could only be genuine shock overtook Ryōma’s expression.

For a solid five seconds, Ryōma stared at her in stunned silence, still holding her phone. His gaze dropped down to the screen and he asked, “When he talked, how did he sound?”

The question threw her. “Um, like a jackass, honestly. Although it was clear the two of them were friendly, or have some kind of partnership.” She paused, remembering one other thing. “Actually, he did have a subtle accent. It was … Irish, maybe? Or similar.”

Ryōma’s thumbs moved across her screen as a curse slipped from his lips.

Her eyes flew wide. “What are you—”

“Baby girl,” he said, already handing over the phone, “you have no idea the gift you just gave us.”

She stared at her phone, realizing he’d texted himself the two photos, and it was a moment before the word he’d used processed in her brain. “Us?”

“I’ll tell you later.” He reached out and released her seatbelt, then plucked her phone from her hands and dropped it into a cupholder. “Come here.”