suddenly realized that Howard had been right about one thing.
This neighborhood was a hell of a lot different than it had been twenty-three years ago. A hell of a lot more dangerous.
She’d do well to be out of here as quickly as possible.
But she didn’t need to panic. Panic showed that you were afraid, and they would pounce on you like shark on chum if they knew you were scared. All she had to do was walk quickly and calmly to a phone.
She took a step, and her heel snapped.
“Goddamn it!” she said.
“Hey, pretty lady! What’s the matter?”
She turned. Those two men were coming toward her.
She ignored them and hobbled down the sidewalk, moving a little quicker now. Ah. She knew where she was now. The train overpass was just ahead, and there was a pay phone there—at least there used to be. She would pick up that phone and call . . . who? Her brother, in St. Petersburg? Marjorie Hillings? No, Jennifer. She would call Jennifer, her divorced friend Jennifer, who would certainly understand her predicament. Would sympathize. Would know all the best lawyers.
She hobbled on. Sure enough, there it was. Same old pay phone, in the same old spot. Livia smiled for the first time in what felt like hours.
And then she heard the footsteps behind her, even closer.
She turned. The two men were running toward her.
She kicked off the shoe with the broken heel and began to run, too. Ten feet on, she kicked off the other shoe as well, gasping for breath and running full out toward the pay phone.
Ten feet away from it, she stopped running and sighed in frustration.
There was no handset. Just a severed cord.
Okay. Okay. This was Ybor City. She’d grown up here; she’d been putting thugs like these two in their place since she was twelve years old.
She took a deep breath and turned around to face them.
A car rounded the corner, rap music blaring so loud she couldn’t hear herself think. The two guys chasing her saw it and stopped.
Adios, motherfuckers, Livia thought as the vehicle pulled up in between her and her pursuers.
It was a lime green Cadillac. A very familiar-looking lime green Cadillac. The doors opened.
Mike and Joe Toro climbed out.
A chill went down her spine. She looked to her pursuers.
Help, she was going to say, and then stopped, because her pursuers were smiling, too. Smiling and, she saw now, wearing matching jackets, jackets with little bull emblems on them. The bull. El Toro.
Mike smiled, too, and took a step toward her.
Livia drew herself up with what dignity she could muster, and glared.
“I am Howard Saint’s wife.”
“The Howard Saint out to us for fifty million?” Mike shook his head. “That Howard Saint?”
“He just called us.” Joe stepped up next to his brother. “Said he was delivering an interest payment on the money he owes us.”
The two men looked at each other, smiled, and then looked straight at her.
Livia’s blood ran cold.
“No,” she said, backing away.
“Yes. He said you were ours. We can do with you what we want.”
Mike took another step forward. So did Joe. Then he began circling around to her left. Livia’s stomach turned. She couldn’t let them flank her, couldn’t let them get hold of her, these animals. She knew what they would do.
She took another step back and then stopped.
The railing was at her back.
“What, is she going somewhere, Joe?” Mike asked.
“Doesn’t seem that way, Mike—does it?”
Livia’s mind raced. She thought about jumping—it was only twenty feet or so down. When she was a kid, growing up here, Bobby Morales had done it one time, no problem. Leapt right down to the tracks when a cop was chasing him, got away scot-free.
Only problem was, she wasn’t a kid anymore.
“So, Livia,” Mike said. “About the other day—”
“You pigs,” she said, her voice cracking. “You make me sick. You’ll never rape me.”
“Oh? Disgusting, is that what we are?”
“You hear that, Joe? We’re disgusting.” Mike came toward her, shaking his head. He was so close now that she could smell the cigar smoke on him, the cheap cologne, the onions . . . she wanted to kick him in the balls, but she knew if she did that, he’d hurt her even worse.
Joe stepped up closer, too. She braced herself for the worst.
“You’re too disgusting to rape.” Joe looked at his brother. “Am I right?”
“Absolutely.” Mike looked at her, and he smiled. “Whoever said anything about rape?”
“Just her,” Joe said. “Mrs. Howard Saint.”
“Right. Our interest on the fifty million. But you know what, Joe?”
“What, Mike?”
“I’m not interested.” Mike Toro grabbed her right arm.
Livia looked at him, suddenly confused.
“And neither am I.” His brother grabbed her left arm.
And then suddenly, all at once, she was flying through the air.
They threw me off the bridge, she thought, her eyes wide. They—
Howard Saint saw his wife land, and bounce, and then lie still, and he thought: Good.
He lit a cigar and looked across the tracks to the overpass. The Toros were leaning over the railing, looking down at Livia, too. Saint was a little disappointed, to be honest. He’d told Mike and Joe to do whatever they wanted with Livia, and he had been expecting something a little more . . . sensational. Ah, well. The job was done, which was all that counted. And speaking of jobs . . .
Castle. The hatred burned within him hotter than ever; maybe it was because tonight had turned his world upside down, had stripped him of the things he loved most, leaving behind only his thirst for vengeance; at the moment, killing the man, seeing him dead, was all he could think of.
He was about to tell Worowski to head for the club when down below, on the train tracks, he saw Livia lift her head and begin to crawl.
“Look at that.” Saint shook his head in admiration. She was as strong as she was beautiful: it was a shame.
In the distance, a train whistle blew. Livia’s head snapped up, and she began looking around frantically.
“What is that, the Metro?” Lincoln asked.
“Yes,” Saint said.
“I heard they were talking about extending the line, Mr. Saint. Maybe bringing it south to Channelside?”
“It’ll probably happen.” Saint nodded. There was a lot of money to be made in those kind of government contracts.
On the tracks, Livia was crawling—well, not really crawling, more like dragging herself along—as fast as she could.
Not fast enough, though. Saint could hear the train now, and a second later, its headlights fell on his wife.
It roared out from under the overpass—Saint couldn’t be sure, but Livia might have screamed then—and then disappeared in the distance.
When he looked down again, Livia was gone.
“Carl?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Saint?”
