Stolen Secrets Page 2

  With the contents of three boxes of hair color on my head, and the timer on my cell phone set, I began counting off the minutes until I could wash it out. There were three gallons of water and a compact mirror stored inside the crypt. I’d forgotten about my eyebrows, but when I’d gone to the bathroom in our hotel, I’d noticed a few Q-tips on the counter. I had pocketed them before we left the room, along with a new tube of plum lipstick concealed in my socks. A free sample from a gift basket I found at a table in the lobby. The girl behind it was handing them out like water.

  I jumped out of my skin when my phone vibrated on the stone beside me, alerting me to the last five minutes of the processing. It was time to apply the remaining dye to my eyebrows. With the help of my phone, I painted away the last trace of blonde on my body, taking care not to let it drip into my eyes. My complexion before had looked pale and grainy. Now, with the darker hair, my green eyes popped and my skin took on an olive tone. I couldn’t wait to see the finished product. Opening the first jug to rinse the slimy color from my long hair. bending over, pouring the cold water over my head, gasping and mumbling a curse when the temperature shocked me. Using my hand to help the water wash away the dark chemicals which would conceal me from investigative eyes.

  Last year, three young ladies had vanished during Mardi Gras; all blonde, blue-eyed, college-aged young women. Meadow feared I wouldn’t be paying enough attention to my surroundings, becoming the first victim of this year’s missing persons. I was counting on it.

  When the final bottle of water was clouded with the last of the hair dye, I realized I’d forgotten to wash my face. Hearing the rain as it pounded against the cement roof, I stripped off my shirt and stepped into the downpour. Using the small bottle of sample soap I’d swiped from the hotel, I lathered up my face, scrubbing with the palms of my hands as best I could, and then wrapped my now black hair into my discarded t-shirt.

  After drying my soaked hair and body with the thin shirt, I pulled my hair back into a bun, securing it with the mask I had picked up in the drug store along with an LSU t-shirt. If you wanted to blend into a crowd, you had to look like a local. With the parade most likely about to end, and the party just beginning, there would be hundreds of women who looked just like me, with wet hair, messy makeup, and a party mask. Making it all the easier for me to go unnoticed.

  Once I’d tossed all of my trash and old clothes into the vault, I pushed with all my might to close the decorative cover, using every ounce of will and determination I had in order to close the lid.

  Mother Nature was on my side. The moment I stepped foot out of the tomb with my black bag over my shoulder, the rain stopped and the humidity increased. I would never miss this place or regret what I was about to do. I was taking my life back, doing what I wanted for the first time in a long while.

  As expected, the streets were still filled with excited partygoers and drenched bodies, warm from the copious amounts of alcohol running through their systems. Bright faces raced past me as if I were standing still. Laughter and cries of joy filled the gloominess of the damp streets, assisting those around me to ignore their wet clothing and resemblance to drowned rats. My destination was four blocks over, all parade route roads; I was counting on the crowds being thick, helping to keep me hidden. The streets were limited to foot traffic, which worried me slightly as taking a taxi would have made this a quicker process.

  While crossing the first intersection I forgot I had to step down and the brick sidewalk soon disappeared from under my chucks. I stumbled as I found the pavement, nearly taking out the two people walking in front of me. Quickly righting myself, I continued on at the same pace as the surrounding crowd. Traveling with this size crowd was slow moving, people wanted to enjoy themselves and catch a few beads from the balconies above. Where I could have gotten pissed off and moved around them, I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. A jubilant girl in the center of the street jumped up and down, her youthful tits bouncing right along with her, as a shower of beads fell around her. She was giggling with her arms above her head, having the time of her life. Since the girl had no issues being half naked and wet in the center of a public street, I would use her courage, and distraction, to move around the multitude of males who were taking in the appreciated sight.

  Just as the sign for the hotel I needed came into my vision, a bump to my left sent me stumbling into the street. “I’m telling you, Motherfucker, she was right beside me the whole fucking time!” Meadow’s voice nearly made me piss my pants. In her typical fashion, she offered no apology for bumping into me, continuing to scream into the phone. “Fuck no, I ain’t called the cops. Do you really want them involved in our shit?”

  The crowd had doubled in number as two more girls removed their shirts, well on their way to the removal of the remainder of their clothing. Meadow planted her palm against the ear not covered by her phone, screaming she was looking everywhere for me. With the crowd at a standstill, I was stuck standing beside her as she turned in circles, jumping up and down looking for me.

  As the roar of the men increased, signaling the girls were most likely naked now, one of the awnings covering the doorway above us ripped from the weight of the rain, sending a blanket of water to the sidewalk below, drenching anyone standing in its path. Meadow included.

  “Motherfucking hell!” she screamed and slammed her cell phone to the ground, the rainwater ending her call and the life of her phone.

  While people were shaking the rain from their already wet bodies, I slipped to the right, colliding with a pissed off Meadow. When our eyes met I knew my attempt to leave was over. But just as fast as she looked at me, she pushed her shoulder into mine, stomping away with the words, “ugly-faced bitch” muttered under her breath. With no time to rejoice for her uncontrolled anger, a trait I used to fear, I had to get to the end of the street. My new life was waiting for me.

  Getting to the airport was the easiest of all. Where I could have caught a cab to the local airport, I didn’t want to take a chance of being seen. All the hotels in the area provided a shuttle between the airport and their building. I found three hotels which offered a shuttle to Gulfport, for a minimal fee, of course. Paying the attendant, who was more interested in the drunken girls who’d forgotten to put their tops back on, I climbed into the back of the van, slid my mask off, and put my baseball hat on.

  Purchasing my ticket was easy enough, deciding where to go was the issue. I didn’t have a passport, nor did I want to call attention to myself by using that level of identification. While I was at the grocery store for Tom one afternoon, I’d overheard a conversation between what I assumed was a married couple, planning their vacation. The husband wanted to head off to Vegas, see the big lights of Sin City. The wife, who won by the way, wanted to see a Broadway show. The idea had hit me like a giant, welcomed wrecking ball. New York was a large city; large enough if a person wanted to get lost, it could happen.

  I bought a Visa gift card and had a few hundred dollars loaded on it, using a little of the cash I’d taken from Corey, the cashier was too busy checking her cell phone to notice me, leaving no story to tell the authorities when I was reported missing. Using the computer at the public library, and the card, I purchased a one way ticket to JFK International airport.

  Gulfport-Biloxi International was a much smaller airport compared to Louis Armstrong New Orleans International airport; this is what made me nervous. If a smart enough detective were assigned to my missing person case, he could look this far out for my name. An episode of a crime drama Tom watched gave me the inspiration I needed to get around this obstacle.

  Waiting my turn in line, I watched a family with three small children played chase around the other passengers waiting their turn. When the kiosk opened and I approached the check-in desk, the computer asked me for my confirmation number. Entering the long as hell number, I waited while it searched for my information. Less than a minute later, my reservation was confirmed and a robotic voice instructed me to place
my luggage on the scale then hand my picture ID to the attendant. I prayed the attendants would be in a hurry to go on break or end their shift, leaving no impression in their minds when they saw my picture on the evening news.

  “Erica Taylor,” said a portly man, dressed in the same polyester uniform every other attendant wore. His hot pink glasses were perched at the end of his pointy nose, a neon green lanyard securing them around his neck. “No luggage this evening?”

  Just as I opened my mouth to deny, he turned to the man standing beside him, commenting on how long it had been since he had been anywhere outside of this state.

  Erica Taylor was my mother. She’d died when I was fifteen, from an accident involving a driver who fell asleep at the wheel. With her dark hair—like I had now—and beautiful green eyes, she caught the attention of every man she passed. She and my father never married as I was the product of a drunken one night stand. He’d stepped up to the plate though, paid his child support regularly, even taking me in after her funeral. Her wallet was one of the few things I was allowed to have when I moved to Louisiana. Although her ID was years expired, the jealous man behind the counter paid no attention, handing me my ticket and wishing me a great flight.

  No one else asked to see my ID, nor was there searching of my bags by an x-ray machine. Stopping to use the ladies room, I caught my reflection in the mirror and fell in love with what I saw. Bright green eyes, full of hope and promise, and dark hair, much like my mother’s, accentuated the clean olive tone of my skin. But the best part, the one I swore to celebrate and recreate every day, was the way my lips glistened from the lipstick I’d applied.

  Twenty minutes after I boarded the plane, I looked out the window and watched as the prison I had called home faded into a sea of clouds. When I’d woken this morning, I was Arianna Covington, a twenty-four year old woman with no hope of a future. Now, I could be anyone I wanted to be, do anything I wanted. New York would be the beginning of the new me.

  “MARISSA, GET YOUR FUCKING ASS up!”

  I fucking hated repeating myself. Bitches don’t listen unless you’ve got fucking money in your hand or your dick in their cunt. Marissa had been my go to girl when I needed a quick fuck, or arm candy when I had to make an appearance. She knew what was expected of her and she knew if I found someone else at said function, she was to find her own way home… or on occasion, join us. However, like most bitches I knew, she was always after what I could do for her.

  I had a meeting this morning. My father wanted me to get married and Mom wanted grandchildren. I wanted them to shut the fuck up and leave me alone. That wasn’t an option, though, and I knew it. I had to marry a respectable girl and produce sons. Our family had to have a blood born Santos to continue to lead this family.

  Alex Gallo, leader of another family here in New York, had been trying for years to get my father to join our families. While the benefits would be weighted in Gallo’s favor, my father enjoyed toying with him, allowing him to think he would consider. Alex had done some snooping around and found out my dad had been looking for candidates to marry me off to. This meeting today was to not only serve as a reminder of my family’s wishes, but to give Alex a shot at presenting his daughter.

  While I strapped my gun into the holster at the base of my back, Marissa snuck her arms around me. “Can I at least use your shower this time?”

  She knew the rules; you don’t shit in my toilet or kiss me on the mouth, and you don’t store stuff in my bathroom. “Fuck no, you can’t use my fucking shower,” I snapped at her as I pushed her away, already bored as fuck at the direction this conversation was headed.

  Marissa knew this; she knew I didn’t want to have tampons under my sink and her hairspray all over my floor. Hell, the maid even knew to toss the sheets when Marissa stayed over.

  “Now, get off my fucking dick, goddamn it!” I roared, tugging my suit jacket on.

  “That’s not what you said last night.” She tried to act all sexy, but in the light of day and with the alcohol completely out of my system, she was a hot mess. Her hair was tangled and her mascara was smeared under her eyes.

  Without a word I tossed her rumpled dress; it landed against her chest and ruffled her hair. While she was tugging the blue fabric over her head, it gave me a full view of her overly large breasts. She’d begged me to have them fixed since the right was larger than the left, but I shut that shit down by telling her to find the fucker who’d bought them in the first place to pay for their maintenance. I didn’t give a fuck what they looked like; it was her pussy I was interested in.

  Making her walk in front of me as we headed for the street. I never left anyone, especially someone as vapid as Marissa, alone in my house. She had a perfectly good apartment, paid for by yours truly.

  “Dominick, why don’t you live closer to downtown? London says they have these amazing condos that overlook the park. We could live among the do-gooders.”

  Ignoring her as I hit the button on the key fob for my car. Where I lived was just fine; I liked it. It was a converted warehouse and wasn’t far from where I did the majority of my local business. The building had been gutted and a number of safety features were installed, the kind one of those overpriced condos on Park Avenue couldn’t offer.

  I didn’t tell her goodbye or even kiss her when she tried to get me to do so. I had called the taxi company the second I stepped out of the elevator. Girls like Marissa were on my time and it would be me telling them when it was time to go, not the other way around.

  My family had a number of offices around New York. We owned too many restaurants to count. My grandfather, whom I was named after, lived by the standard to always have an ace in the hole. Where most families kept their business close, we branched out. We had punk ass kids selling on the streets of most major cities in this country, and others in the backwater towns, too. It wasn’t without issues’ one of those kids had recently been trying to cut himself a bigger piece. Stealing from the family earned you a quick trip to your grave.

  While pulling into my parking spot I revved the engine, any guy who said they didn’t love the sound of a fine automobile was a lying cocksucker. Horsepower is an addiction, one every swinging dick is hooked on. Once parked, I made a quick check of the garage. I might be a bad assed motherfucker, but I wasn’t stupid enough to think I was always safe. Looking around again, I noticed one of my guys, Anthony Sarducci. Anthony had been with the family since he showed my old man his loyalty by taking a bullet for him. Now he was a solid earner who handled most of our situations happening outside of New York.

  “Hey, man.” He approached, his phone in hand and jacket a little wrinkled. Anthony had an even bigger sexual appetite than I did. He, like most of the men in our family, kept a few girls around for his pleasure.

  “You got the proof?”

  Anthony handed me his phone and I watched the screen come to life, showing me a number of kids sitting around some run down house. The furniture was full of holes and everyone was wearing black. There was a guy in the center with a joint dangling from his index finger and thumb. He was popping his head to some shitty ass music.

  “Fuck that motherfucker! I do all the bullshit work and he gets to keep all the money? Well, fuck that, and fuck him!”

  Several of the other guys started laughing as they passed more joints around the room.

  “I hear the Santos’s are some bad ass motherfuckers.”

  Listening to the kid who was rolling another joint, no doubt using the shit we supplied him, made me smirk. The punk running his fucking mouth jumped to his feet and slammed the guy into the back of the chair.

  “Who do you think you talking to, huh?” he seethed like he were some kind of fucking bad ass. I’d bet the fucking bank he cried like a fucking bitch when Anthony got his fucking neck.

  “You think I’m scared of some Armani wearing motherfuckers?”

  He pressed the guy harder into the chair before shoving his head hard into the cushion.

  “I�
��d cap his fucking ass so quick.” He tossed an empty bottle at the wall. It bounced off without breaking.

  I couldn’t help myself and laughed out loud before handing Anthony his phone back. When we first heard about this punk, I’d had Anthony do a little investigating. I wasn’t going to waste a good earner if it was all bullshit. Anthony was a slick motherfucker and had one of his old whores get inside that house. It’s amazing what some guys will do for a fucking blow job and a slice of pussy. Another reason I keep mine on the payroll.

  “Pussy bitch actually pissed and shit himself when I showed him this.” Anthony chuckled while he slid his phone into his pocket.

  “You made it clean?” I questioned. Loose ends always made their way back to you if you weren’t careful.

  Nodding, he said, “He had a slight disagreement with the side of a bridge. The embankment won.”

  “The money?”

  Anthony shifted then pulled a wad of cash and a ring from his pocket. “His guys’ couldn’t tell me his secrets fast enough. Left a pretty girlfriend he’d stolen a ring for. I went by his old man’s house and he was all too eager to give me the ring and show me where another stash was. But the girl is gone. Went missing during Mardi Gras, along with two others. Cops are looking for them, but youse know how useful they are.”

  I took the ring in my hand; it wasn’t anything special, something someone with no taste would buy a girl. “Here.” I handed it back. “Keep it. Give it to your mother or something.” I chuckled when he took it.

  “Fuck that… my ma has better taste.”