“The fuck do you care?”
“I don’t. Just don’t want to get pulled with a busted-up kid in my car.”
“I’m twenty-two, you cunt,” Moretti muttered, heavy eyes closing.
Benito snorted. “Okay, mate.”
The miles disappeared, taking them closer to London than Benito ever wanted to be. He left the main road near Watford and cruised through the backstreets until he came to a meet point he knew Asa’s crew would find as soon as they knew where to look.
He got out of the car and opened the back door, rousing Moretti. “Get out.”
“Where are we?”
“I’ll tell you when you get the fuck out of my car.”
Moretti came upright and slid shakily from the SUV.
Benito guided him to the roadside and sat him down, passing him his ruined phone. “It’s dead. Give me a number and I’ll let someone know you’re here.”
“Who are you?”
Benito was flummoxed he hadn’t already been made. He shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. Just give me a number, unless you want to stay here forever.”
It wouldn’t be forever. If Moretti couldn’t walk, at some point, he’d be found, but it was cold, and despite his bravado, the youngster was in shock, shaking and pale. There was every chance he’d fucking freeze, and he knew it.
Moretti parroted a phone number. Benito typed it into his burner phone and sent a message with their vague location. Moretti watched him, eyes beginning to droop again. “I feel sick, man.”
“You might have a concussion.”
“Lucky me.”
“You’ll be fine. Just get your boys to keep an eye on you when they pick you up.”
“Man, you’re a regular Florence Nightingale, huh?”
“If you say so.” Benito zipped Moretti’s jacket higher, then backed up, keeping his gaze on him until he reached his car. The fake plates seemed to mock him. Benito ducked behind the wheel and drove away, still watching Moretti as he slumped forward and buried his face in his knees. He’ll be fine.
But what if he wasn’t? What if he died at the side of the road and all Benito’s fucked-up conscience had done was stop him getting medical help that could’ve kept him alive?
There were no right answers, save going back in time and living a different life. A better one, where driving a taxi all night was enough.
With a heavy heart, Benito placed a call on the burner phone, set a meet, and turned east to empty his life of the product dusted all over his car. He drove for two hours until he reached Felixstowe and his contact was waiting. “This is the last load,” he said flatly. “Supply ran dry.”
His contact nodded and handed over the envelope of cash.
Benito trudged back to his car and buried it under the backseat. He was so fucking tired, but he had a thousand things to do before he could sleep. Drive home. Bury the money. Clean the car. But as he drove away, fatigue hit him hard. His eyes felt like sandpaper, and a headache throbbed in his skull.
He opened the window. A sea breeze blasted the side of his face and ruffled his hair. It smelt good, of clean air and life. He hit the cliff-side road, listened to the waves pound the rocks, and imagined what it would feel like to drive through the barriers and tumble down to join them. Would it hurt?
For long moments, Benito wasn’t sure he cared. Then he pictured Gianna and her face when she learned he’d died in a pit of wrecked metal and saltwater for no good reason other than he couldn’t make right the mess he’d made.
He pictured Mickey too. He wants you. You have a sleepover date tomorrow. A crazed laugh burst from Benito’s tight lungs. A fucking sleepover? How old are you?
Like it mattered.
In the dark, he drove on through the night until he came to a safe place to clean out his car with the handheld vacuum cleaner he kept in the boot. In the darkness, he imagined the cocaine seeping into his skin, fizzing in his bloodstream, and crackling into his weighted heart. It made him think of Mickey, and urgency spread through him like wildfire. I need to get home. Because the sooner he was home and asleep in his bed, the sooner it would be time to wake up and be with Mickey.
Benito cleaned his car in record time, then hit the road again to bury the cash in the woods. The extra made up for the withdrawal he’d made to pay off his informant for good. It was over . . . right?
The burner phone in his pocket felt like a rock. Halfway back to the SUV for what felt like the thousandth time that night, he pulled it out and glared at it, gripping it hard, willing it to self-combust in his hand so he didn’t have to make the decision to destroy it.
Or choose wrong and keep it, so the wheel kept turning and he never got off.
Stamp on it. But for reasons he couldn’t explain, he could only stare, until it buzzed in his hand and scared the ever-loving shit out of him.
An unknown number lit up the screen—one Benito hadn’t seen before. He froze, heart in his throat, caught in headlights that somehow left him still trapped in the dark. Every instinct he had knew nothing good was at the end of that call, but ignoring it felt like a summit he couldn’t reach.
Something buried deep inside compelled him to answer. “Yeah?”
The line crackled. Then a sigh. “Martell?”
“What?”
“It’s Asa.”
“What do you want?”
“To talk.”
“What about?”
“You know what.”
“Do I?”
Another sigh. It was Asa’s callsign—to be gently frustrated with someone he wanted to kill with his bare hands. Benito had seen it so many times he didn’t need to close his eyes to picture Asa. In the shadows of the forest, he was right there with him.
“Look,” Asa said. “Whatever you think I’m going to say, you’re wrong.”
Benito turned his gaze to the sky. The stars were beginning to fade. It seemed morbidly poetic. “You have no idea what I think.”
“I can guess. And I could be wrong. Whatever. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“No?”
“No. I don’t care about business. This is personal.”
“What is?”
“What you did tonight. For Nino.”
Nino. Benito’s frozen joints began to thaw. Asa didn’t use first names. For as long as Benito had known him, he’d addressed every fucker from the top to the bottom by their surname. Martell. Pope. Moretti. The only exception had been Luis Pope, and that had been because once upon a time, they’d—
Fuck. Benito sank to a crouch, his free hand flying to his head as a belated lightbulb illuminated his tired brain. Seriously? No. He had to be wrong. Asa’s torch for Luis Pope had been plain to see for years to anyone who’d cared enough to look, and it had been a weak spot Benito had exploited time and time again to keep Asa down.
And Asa knew it. There was no logical reason for him to expose himself again, unless . . .
This is it. He doesn’t care about business. Only his soft fucking heart.
Benito fell forward to his knees, sinking into the damp earth. Hope and cynicism warred hot and fast in his gut. He couldn’t bear it. “What do you want from me?”
“Can we meet?”
“Why?”
“Because I want my money back. What happens after that is up to you.”