The Note (Manhattan Nights #5) - Natalie Wrye Page 0,84

“Put the gun down, please.”

“Shut your mouth,” the blond animal snarls. “You can’t sweet-talk your way out of this.”

My eyes widen. “Have you met me, Rick? I don’t know the meaning of sweet-talk. Have you actually heard me talk to our customers? Sandpaper has more finesse.”

He ignores me, pointing with the pistol to a stool. “Sit.”

“Sure.” I perch on top of a leathered seat, my feet locked on the wooden foot rails. I inhale a deep breath. “Is that all?”

“No, that’s not all,” he sneers. “You and I are going to go for a ride in a little while.”

I freeze. “What kind of ride?”

“One to the police station.” He circles the room, situating himself behind the bar again. He keeps the gun aimed at my chest, and my eyebrows draw together in confusion.

“Why?”

“Why?” He repeats, mocking me. “Because once you tell the cops that you stole the watch you sold, then everyone will see the little liar that you are. The little liar that you always were.”

My stomach bottoms out, and nausea rumbles around inside. I glare at Rick. “Who are you?”

He grins, his toothy smile wide and sloppy. “Just a friend.”

I stare. “I don’t need any more friends.”

Rick pushes the gun closer, his hand jutting out. “I never said I was yours.” He starts pacing in the small space behind the bar. “No, my friends are a lot more…lucrative. Friends like Chris Jackson.” He angles nearer. “You remember what it was like to have friends like that? Or rather, your father sure does.”

“What does my father have to do with this?”

“He has everything to do with this.” Rick’s brown eyes burn with barely hidden anger. “Because if he doesn’t withdraw the testimony about Chris for his parole hearing, then his precious little princess…” He scoffs and I know exactly which princess he’s talking about. “Will wind up in prison right beside him.”

He glances at me, his blond hair falling into his face. He uses his free hand to smooth it back, ever the pretend-polished playboy he believes himself to be.

His thin lips spread into a crooked smile. “Don’t you know that Chris’s reach extends all around the world? Not to mention Manhattan.” He sniffs, sounding self-important. As usual. “This isn’t the first time I worked for C.J.”

It was C.J., all of a sudden? Now the over pompous bastard was using unprompted nicknames. It didn’t get more twisted than this.

‘Really?” I keep him talking. “Where did you work for him before?”

“Benny’s Pizza,” he harrumphs. “And don’t give me that look. It was a front for money laundering. And I made over half a million a year there when I was a manager.”

“That explains why the pizza tastes like a foot.”

But Rick can’t help but ignore me. On his high horse now, he boasts about working for the world’s biggest bastard, present company excluded.

But I’m not the lost kid I once was, no longer a broken child.

There was some good that came with my atypical Bronx upbringing. And that was knowing how to handle a hot spot. And it didn’t get any hotter than the one I was currently in.

I shift on the stool. “So, I’m assuming that you’re the person who bought the watch I sold?”

Rick’s eyes lock. “You assume correctly.”

“And I’m assuming you bought it from Al for more than the fifty thousand dollar price-tag?”

“I bought it for almost a hundred actually.” He smiles—smugly. “If you’ve been listening at all, then you know that I certainly can afford it.”

“Then I’m assuming that you know that particular watch is worth over half a million dollars?”

Rick’s smile slides off his face, replaced with a quick frown. He doesn’t know if I’m serious or not, but he stares at me just to be sure. Reaching beside the counter, he slips inside some hidden drawer I hadn’t noticed, retrieving Noah’s watch, the platinum piece of jewelry wrapped around his palm as he stares.

He doesn’t look at me now. “You’re lying.”

“Wish I were.”

“That can’t be true,” he asserts.

“But it is.” I sidle up closer to the bar, sinking back into the same deception mode that I, once upon a time, used to don like a second skin. The smile that plays on my lips is genuine. “And we can sell it again. Walk away with another easy half a million more…if we play our cards, right?”

Rick’s eyes narrow into slits. He finally glances up at me. “What would you know about selling it for more? You’re confessing that you actually sold it for a