Chapter 5: Pier 13.
1101 Words
A knock jolts me awake. Sunlight streams through unfamiliar curtains as I fumble for my phone – 7:13 AM. Another knock, more insistent.
"Room service."
I didn't order any. My pulse quickens as I recognize the voice – Elena Rodriguez. My mind flashes back to last night at The Crimson Room, after Dominic stepped away to handle business...
"Mind if I join you?"
I looked up to find a woman sliding into Dominic's vacated seat. Dark hair, sharp cheekbones, blood-red lips curved in a predatory smile. Everything about her screamed danger.
"I don't think that's a good idea," I said, glancing toward where Dominic had disappeared.
"Relax." She signaled for a martini. "I'm Elena. Dom's cousin – though really, we're more like siblings after everything." She studied me over the rim of her glass. "So you're Martins' wife. Gotta say, you're not what I expected."
"Ex-wife," I corrected automatically. "And what exactly did you expect?"
"Someone weaker." She pulled out her phone, scrolling through something. "Tell me, did you know about the house?"
"What house?"
She turned the screen toward me – property records showing a luxury condo purchased three months ago. In my name.
"He's been busy," Elena said softly. "Moving assets, making arrangements. All very carefully hidden, of course. Your husband learned a few tricks during his time in Moonstown."
The bourbon turned sour in my stomach. "Why show me this?"
"Because contrary to what Dom thinks, revenge isn't just about violence." Her smile sharpened. "Sometimes it's about having the right information at the right moment." She stood, dropping a card on the table.
"When you're ready to know more, call me. Just don't tell Dom about our chat – he gets so territorial about his new toys.”
Now, two weeks later, I open my hotel room door to find her wearing that same predatory smile.
"Breaking and entering before breakfast?" I tie my robe tighter. "That's bold, even for a Rodriguez."
She breezes past me while a waiter sets up breakfast – coffee, pastries, fruit. A small envelope sits beside the china cup.
"Leave us," Elena commands. The waiter vanishes.
I eye the envelope. "More surprises?"
"You could say that." She settles into an armchair. "Remember those bank transfers I showed you? They weren't just about hiding money from you."
Inside are photos – surveillance shots of Martins entering various buildings, meeting with serious-looking men in expensive suits. Dates and locations stamped in the corners.
"What am I looking at?"
"Your husband's extracurricular activities." Elena sips my coffee. "Those men? Federal agents. Seems Martins has been quite chatty lately."
My blood runs cold. "He's talking to the FBI?"
"For the past three months." She pulls out her phone, showing me texts between Martins and someone named Agent Carter. "Offering information about Dominic in exchange for immunity. Typical Martins – always playing both sides."
"Why show me this?"
Elena's smile is razor-sharp. "Because in about an hour, Dominic's going to discover these photos himself. And when he does..." She lets the sentence hang.
"He'll kill him." The words taste like copper.
"Eventually." She studies me over the rim of her cup. "Unless..."
"Unless what?"
"Unless someone convinces Martins to recant. To tell the FBI he made it all up." Her eyes glitter. "Someone he might still listen to."
Understanding dawns. "You want me to stop him."
"I want you to save his worthless life so Dominic can destroy it properly." She stands, straightening her jacket. "The choice is yours. But decide quickly."
"Why do you care?" I grab her arm as she turns to leave. "What's your stake in this?"
Something dark flashes across her face. "Let's just say Martins owes me too. And I want to watch him pay in full."
She's halfway to the door when I call out, "Wait. How am I supposed to convince him?"
"You're a beautiful woman he's still in love with." She throws me a wicked smile. "I'm sure you'll think of something."
The door clicks shut behind her. I stare at the photos, at Martins' familiar profile. Even in grainy surveillance shots, he looks haunted. Afraid.
Good.
My phone rings – Victoria's number. I almost decline until I see her text: "Please. It's about Martins. He's acting strange, talking about leaving the country. I'm scared."
Perfect timing.
I dial the number I memorized last night. Dominic answers on the first ring.
"Little fox. Sleep well?"
"Elena just paid me a visit." I keep my voice steady. "We need to talk."
"Ah." A pause. "I suspect I know what about. Meet me at the docks in an hour. Pier 13."
"The docks? Why not The Crimson Room?"
His laugh sends shivers down my spine. "Because, my dear, what we're about to discuss isn't meant for civilized venues."
I dress carefully – black cigarette pants, emerald silk blouse that brings out my eyes. Armor for what's coming. In my purse, the photos feel like live ammunition.
Moonstown's docks are a maze of shipping containers and weathered warehouses. Pier 13 looks abandoned, sea birds wheeling overhead like harbingers. Dominic waits by a rusted shipping container, his black suit incongruous against the industrial decay.
"You've been keeping secrets," he says as I approach.
"So have you." I hand him the photos. "When were you going to tell me about the FBI?"
He flips through them, expression darkening. "Interesting timing, this revelation."
"Elena seems to think I can fix it."
"Can you?" His eyes pin me in place. "Are you willing to seduce my brother away from his ill-advised cooperation with federal agents?"
"I'm willing to do whatever it takes." I step closer. "But I want something in return."
"Name it."
"The truth." I hold his gaze. "About what really happened 10 years ago. About why Martins runs every time he hears your name."
Dominic's smile is all teeth. "Oh, little fox. That's a dangerous story."
"I'm done with safe stories."
He studies me for a long moment, then gestures to a sleek black car idling nearby. "Come. Some tales are better told over drinks."
"It's not even noon."
"In Moonstown," he opens the car door, "time is relative. And truth is expensive."
I slide into butter-soft leather, catching his reflection in the tinted windows. For a moment, he looks almost uncertain.
"Last chance to walk away," he says softly.
I think of Martins with Victoria, of federal agents and immunity deals, of all the lies wrapped in golden-boy charm.
"Drive."
The car purrs to life. Behind us, waves crash against the pier like a warning. Or an omen.
Some deals are worth burning for.
- Writer
