Parker was also correct in stating that none of these men were going to turn on one another. The Rossi crime family seemed impenetrable, as did the Silver Demons. Much like the mob foot soldiers, most of the Demons had been busted for one thing or another. In fact, one of the Demons’ own, a biker named Gunny, was currently doing a 15-year stretch at Ossining. The Bureau had offered him everything under the sun, including his freedom, if he’d sing. Hands and feet in chains, the bastard had leaned across the table and told Willis to “go fuck his mother.”
Willis released a heavy sigh. The Bureau had hit at a dead end. Having already exhausted all their usual avenues of investigation, they were left with surveillance.
Facing the clubhouse, Willis looked over the small group of people gathered on the front stoop. Despite the cold temperatures, Douglas “Tiny” Williams was dressed in only a T-shirt and jeans. Seated in a lawn chair, he was catcalling any woman who had the misfortune to walk by. Nearby, Sylvia Fox was talking animatedly with another young woman—Preacher’s live-in girlfriend.
Willis elbowed Parker. “Did we ever find out who Preacher’s girl really is?”
“Name’s Deborah Reynolds,” Parker said and snorted. “Goes by Debbie. Nineteen years old, from Akron, Ohio. Only Akron hasn’t ever heard of her, and she’s not in the system. Her papers are fake—bought and paid for by Preacher, I’m guessing. Not that it matters. We’ve been down this road before. They don’t tell their women a damn thing. So unless we’re going to charge her with forging documents, she’s irrelevant.”
They watched as Debbie gave Sylvia’s infant son a quick kiss on the cheek, then as the two women briefly embraced. Then Tiny jumped up out of his seat and offered Debbie his arm. Arms linked, they started down the sidewalk.
Beside him, Parker was squinting. “Jesus, Don, she’s got a bun in the oven.”
Willis tilted his head to get a better look. Sure enough, there was a telltale bulge beneath her coat.
Quickly straightening, Willis started the car.
“We’re gonna tail some broad?”
Pulling the car onto the street, Willis shrugged. “Why the fake papers? What’s she hiding? I want to find out who the hell she really is.”
“And then what?”
“She’s pregnant, Jim. I’m willing to bet this one means something to him.” He shrugged again. “Who knows… maybe we can use her.”
Chapter 27
“More cookies, please?”
Tiny fingers beckoned Debbie from just below the edge of the countertop. Leaning over, she found a pair of dark eyes framed in long, thick lashes blinking up at her from beneath a messy mop of brown hair.
“Frankie,” she cooed, grinning at the toddler. She crooked her finger. “Come here, you.”
Little legs, thick with baby fat, wobbled around the kitchen counter. Scooping Frankie into her arms, Debbie set him down on the countertop. After a quick glance toward the hall, ensuring no one would catch her, she slipped her hand inside a large metal tin and handed Frankie another cookie, which he promptly put in his mouth.
“Good?” she asked, ruffling his hair. Frankie smiled around a mouthful of cookie. Eyes wide, he nodded vigorously.
“Aw, Debbie!” Storming into the kitchen, Sylvia sent Debbie a scathing look. “Those are for the church potluck tomorrow!”
Balancing her son Trey on her hip, Sylvia began checking through the numerous tins full of goodies she’d spent the entire weekend preparing. “God bless Ginny and this giant kitchen. Or thanks to you two, I wouldn’t have any cookies left!”
The clubhouse kitchen was spacious, with ample counter space, wall-to-wall cupboards, and every appliance under the sun. It was also oddly mismatching, with country wooden cupboards, green tiled walls, and a red linoleum floor. Ginny’s unique, colorful tastes had even extended to her kitchen.
“I could never do all this in my kitchen at home,” Sylvia continued. “You hear that, Joey? Can’t even cook a decent lasagna in that glorified closet you call a kitchen!”
Both Debbie and Frankie cringed as Sylvia’s voice turned shrill. Trey only opened his tiny mouth in a wide, toothless yawn.
“I swear that man is hidin’ from me,” she muttered. “Only time I ever see him anymore is when he’s crawling into bed at night wantin’ somethin’. He gets his rocks off and all I get is pregnant.”
Sylvia glanced sideways at Debbie. “Not that I need to tell you about that.”
Reflexively, Debbie’s hand went to her stomach. Whereas Sylvia was only two months pregnant and couldn’t stop talking about it, Debbie was nearly six months along and still having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that she was pregnant at all.
She didn’t want a baby. She was only seventeen and didn’t know the first thing about being a mother. She couldn’t even think about the birth or what would come after without feeling anxious and breaking out in a cold sweat. What if she was as horrible a mother as her own had been?
Debbie shuddered through her next few breaths. This pregnancy wasn’t fair to either of them—her or the baby growing inside her.
Worse, she was alone in her feelings. Preacher seemed… almost happy about it.
Maybe because it served as a distraction from the ugly things that often plagued his thoughts. Most nights Debbie would find him wide awake and pacing the hallway in their tiny apartment. Debbie would go to him, and Preacher would pull her into his arms. Eventually, his hands almost always ended up on her belly, and his entire expression would shift—the shadows would flee his face and his eyes would brighten.
They never spoke of what bothered them—Preacher didn’t talk of what kept him up at night and, not wanting to burden him further, Debbie kept her pregnancy fears to herself. They’d talk only about meaningless things—television sitcoms, whatever idiotic thing Tiny had done recently, and Debbie’s frequent outings with the girls.
For the first time in nearly two years, her hair was styled, cut into feathered layers, and enhanced by her natural waves. And her nails were done, painted a soft pink that matched the color of the flower studs in her ears. Her outfit today was simple yet fashionable—a white, long-sleeved peasant top paired with a beige corduroy skirt. Dark tights and knee-high boots completed the ensemble.
Flicking a cookie crumb off her skirt, she couldn’t help but smile. A year ago she never would have thought she’d be wearing clothing like this again. A year ago she’d never have imagined this was where she’d be—in New York City, in love with a man, and blessed with all the creature comforts she’d thought she’d lost forever.
And so Debbie took solace in how different things were now compared to a year ago. How incredibly lucky she was and, aside from her pregnancy, how good things were with Preacher.
“There you are!” Maria Deluva rushed inside the kitchen and gathered Frankie into her arms. “I was looking everywhere,” she lovingly admonished her son and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
Maria was a small woman, slim and petite with olive skin and long jet-black hair, and one of the only people associated with the club that Debbie had yet to spend any real time with. Unlike the other wives and girlfriends, Maria was soft-spoken and reserved, and rarely made an appearance at the clubhouse. She was only here today because it was the first Saturday of the month, the one day each month that Preacher required everyone to gather for family day.
Even if Preacher himself wasn’t currently here.
Three weeks earlier, Preacher had left for business reasons. The last Debbie had heard from him was almost a week ago, promising her he would be home two days ago. She wasn’t worried yet; he often arrived later than he said he would. She simply missed him.
“More cookies, please.” From Maria’s arms, Frankie beckoned Debbie.
“How many have you had already?” Maria asked.
“Just two,” Debbie lied.
“One more?” Frankie asked, holding up four fingers. “Please, Mama?”
“Oh, alright,” Maria laughed. “Jus
t one—”
“No more.”
Everyone froze as Frank’s booted feet pounded a heavy, authoritative cadence across the linoleum. He stopped beside Maria and placed a possessive arm over her shoulders. Maria seemed to stiffen further beneath him. Even little Frankie appeared eerily still. It was as if Frank’s presence had sucked the life straight from them both.
Frank wasn’t an overly large man, his stature was fairly similar to Preacher’s. But standing beside his wife and son, instead of giving the impression of a doting husband and father, he had the look of a king dominating his subjects.
Frank was an enigma Debbie hadn’t quite figured out yet. Although he dressed the part of a biker, he hardly looked like his fellow Silver Demons. His short hair was always neatly trimmed and perfectly styled, and his face was always clean-shaven. And unlike the other men, whose hands and clothing seemed forever stained with grease, Frank’s were always uncommonly free of grime.
“Ready to go?” Though Frank was addressing Maria, his calculating gaze was on Debbie. She often found him staring at her—his brown eyes so dark they appeared black. And each and every time it made her uncomfortable. Yet, Preacher considered Frank a good friend, so Debbie was inclined to keep her feelings to herself.
Maria nodded mutely, and as Frank led his family from the kitchen Maria glanced over her shoulder and flashed Debbie a small, wooden smile.
“Say goodbye to Debbie,” Maria encouraged Frankie.
Chocolate-covered fingers wiggled. “Bye-bye Debbie.”
She blew the little boy a kiss. “Bye-bye Frankie.”
Debbie remained inside the kitchen until she heard the front door open and close, signaling the Deluva’s departure. Moving into the hallway, she stopped suddenly when she found Joe dangling over the side of the stairwell railing.
“Debbie!” he whisper-shouted. “Where’s Sylvie?” His one eye darted nervously around the hallway.
Debbie only shrugged in response. She’d made a point to never get involved in Joe and Sylvia’s sham of a marriage. Grimacing, Joe spun away and darted up the stairs. Rolling her eyes, she continued on, pausing briefly to glance into the stairwell Joe had been hanging from.
The Silver Demons’ brownstone was an impressive five stories high, not including the rooftop patio and flower garden. The second-floor apartment was where Gerald, Ginny, and Max had lived, while the third and fourth floors contained rooms for the club members.
Max lived with Joe and Sylvia now, and Preacher had closed off the second-floor. As for Ginny’s flowers on the roof, Louisa and Debbie took turns tending to them as best they could.
Debbie entered the living room—a large space lined with couches and chairs in a variety of sizes and colors. Mismatched rugs covered the in-between areas. Large, colorful pop art prints from the 1950s and 1960s hung on nearly every wall. Near the back stairwell a bar area had been set up, and on the other side of the room sat a wall-to-wall entertainment center.
Today Louisa and Anne were huddled together at the bar, while Whiskey Jim was stretched out over one of the sofas, snoring loudly. Some Girls by the Rolling Stones was buzzing softly through the speakers while a Silver Demon named Bullet browsed the records.
“What’s your pleasure today, Debbie darling?” Bullet called out. “We got Queen, we got the Doobie Brothers… we got some Aerosmith…”
“Blondie,” she replied with a smile. “Always Blondie.”
He flashed her a gleaming white grin that accentuated his dark brown skin. “’Course,” he drawled, “What was I thinkin’? I got your Blondie comin’ right up, little mama.”
Debbie headed for the bar and took a much-needed seat on one of the stools. Although her pregnant stomach was still measuring relatively small and had yet to become a bother, she was tired and sore almost all the time.
“Aw, honey,” Anne cooed. “You look exhausted. How’re ya feelin’?”
She shrugged. “I’m okay, I guess. Just wish Preacher was back.”
Sighing, Louisa frowned down at the drink in her hand. “They were supposed to be back days ago.”
“Preacher’ll be back soon, don’t you worry, honey.” Anne wrapped an arm around Louisa’s waist and gave her a squeeze. “Yours too, baby doll.
“I envy you both, though, you know?” Smiling mischievously, Anne tucked her long blonde hair behind her ears and leaned over the bar. “Jim’s gettin’ on in years, so he doesn’t go riding as much. But when he did…” Anne’s smile turned positively wicked. “Oh honey, the welcome home sex was some of the best I’ve ever had.”
Debbie and Louisa glanced to where Jim was still snoring on the sofa and started giggling. “Gross,” Louisa mouthed to Debbie and Debbie nodded vigorously in agreement.
“I saw that!” Anne snapped. “And all I gotta say is don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”
“Speaking of gross…” Louisa’s eyes darted suspiciously around the room, and she lowered her voice. “Did Frank leave?”
Debbie nodded. “A few minutes ago.”
Brows up, Louisa looked at Anne. “Did you get a load of Maria wearing that big ol’ neck scarf, lookin’ like Mary Tyler Moore?”
“Mmhmm, sure did.”
“He’s hitting her again. I just know it.”
Anne snorted. “Who are you kidding? He didn’t ever stop.”
“Hitting her?” Debbie repeated dumbly, her gaze darting between the two women. “Frank hits Maria?”
Louisa bobbed her head dramatically up and down. “Oh my God, Debbie, it’s so obvious. This one time last year she wore sunglasses all through dinner. Like we wouldn’t know what she was hiding underneath.”
Anne nudged Louisa. “And remember when I saw the bruises on her arm?” Facing Debbie, Anne said, “I accidentally walked in on her in the bathroom. And I’m talkin’, these weren’t no small bruises. Her whole arm was black and blue.”
Debbie’s hand went to her stomach. Thinking of Maria, how quiet she was, and the way she always shied away from Frank’s touch, made Debbie feel sick. “Does Preacher know?”
Anne shot her a disbelieving look. “Most men are oblivious to things like that. ‘Sides, it ain’t any of our business. It’s their marriage.”
Louisa nodded in agreement, and Debbie gaped at them both.
She couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed it before—the painful secrets Maria was carrying around. Especially when she knew full well the burden of carrying around painful secrets. Debbie might have left the source of her pain on the other side of the country, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t still with her. It would always be with her.
“Someone should tell Preacher,” she insisted.
“Honey, you know those two have been friends since forever, right? You tell Preacher and he says somethin’ to Frank and Frank gets angry, and then who do you think gets the short end of the stick, hmm?” Lips pursed and twisted, Anne regarded Debbie.
Debbie recalled the one and only time she had tried to tell her mother what was happening to her. It hadn’t gone well, and things had only gotten worse for her.
“Frank will take it out on Maria,” Debbie whispered.
Anne nodded gravely. “You see? That’s why we mind our own business. Now hand me the ashtray, will you?”
Sliding off her stool, Debbie reached down the bar and grabbed one of two glass ashtrays residing at the end. She slid one toward Anne, leaving the other where it had remained untouched since her arrival in New York City—with a half smoked clove cigarette still resting inside.
Debbie had hardly known Ginny and Gerald, but after spending half a year with their family and friends, she certainly felt like she’d known them. Ginny most of all.
Debby felt Ginny’s presence almost everywhere in the clubhouse—in the fun styles of the furniture and the colorful décor. Certain rooms even smelled like the clove cigarettes she’d loved.
“Alright, I’m heading home.” Debbie glanced around the room. “Anyone seen Tiny?”
Preacher
insisted that Debbie have a round-the-clock bodyguard whenever he couldn’t be with her. Unfortunately for Debbie, her bodyguard was usually Tiny. Although he always meant well, the man was a public nuisance. He was loud, obnoxious, usually stinking to high heaven, and always drawing attention Debbie would rather not receive.
“Last I saw he was chillin’ out front,” Bullet called out. “Probably scammin’ on chicks.”
Anne choked on her laughter. “Unless he’s offerin’ money up front, that ain’t never gonna happen!”
• • •
Keys jingling in his hand, Preacher bounded up the poorly lit staircase that led to his fourth-floor apartment—a dinky, dingy one-bedroom. All his furniture were hand-me-downs from his parents, and his decorations were sparse—only the bare necessities.
It had been perfect for him—a minimalist who’d never spent much time at home—but with Debbie here now and a baby on the way, he’d been meaning to find a bigger, nicer place.
He just needed to find the time.
He’d been gone three weeks this time. And three weeks without Debbie was three weeks too long. If she wasn’t pregnant, he’d be taking her with him. Although… not on this last trip.
The Road Warriors had more than lived up to their reputation for sex and violence, and sometimes both at once. He’d watched them pass around their own women to fellow club members without reservation. He’d seen brother pitted against brother in bloody boxing matches that almost always ended in an all-out brawl.
He’d also witnessed something far worse.
While meeting with a group of Road Warriors inside a highway bar in West Virginia, a young woman had been forcefully dragged up onto a pool table, stripped naked, and raped. Nearly every Road Warrior in the place had taken a turn with her, sometimes two at a time.