Carried over from Calling in a favor
“Miss Kennedy, you are under arrest for the murder of Spencer Kennedy,” said the cop.
“What the hell are you talking about? Isn’t he living in New York?” Gypsy asked.
“He does have a residence there, but this was at an area hotel. You were seen coming into the building an hour before his death,” responded the cop.
“I went to New York last week to drop off some portraits at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. You can contact the director. We even had dinner together,” Gypsy added.
“We are checking, but the desk clerk at the Four Seasons remembers giving you the key to your Father’s room,” laughed the cop.
Nodding, “I remember that, and I also remember dropping the key off in the little check-out box 1 second later. My client called and told me he was ready. Of course, he was more important.”
Her brow arched, looking over once more at the man, “Do you even know who my brother is? I seriously think you might think twice about arresting the sister of the sitting President.”
“Is that a threat, Miss Kennedy?” he asked.
Leaning back in her chair, shaking her head, “Nope, just stating a fact. This conversation is over. I want my Lawyer present for anything else.”
“Get her the fuck out of here. Put her in with the mainstream. They will eat the little bitch up,” said the cop, laughing.
Still dressed in her bikini and no shoes, she stood in front of the bars, looking in at last night’s catch of whores. All of them were amused at what they were seeing.
“Oh look, the Princess has arrived,” one said.
“Daddy didn’t bail you out?” another added.
As she turned to look at the cop, smiling, “You know this act isn’t going to play out well, right? You see, when my family finds out what you’ve done, you can kiss your job goodbye. So, you might want to rethink this before my brother finds out.”
Two hours later, sitting in the corner of the cell, her Lawyer finally arrived. “Get her out of there. Her brother posted bail for her. You, people, know better than to put that girl in with them,” he snapped.
“Kennedy, let’s go. You’ve been bailed out,” growled the cop.
As she turned to the girls sitting alongside her, she smiled, “We’ll have to do this again sometime.”
Grabbed by the arm, pulled to the door, her Lawyer snapped, “You are fucking stupid. Don’t you ever fucking speak to them again without me present. You owe me big for this one, Mary.”
It wasn’t her brother that bailed her out. He was the last person she would call. It was the Lawyer for the Gambino family. The same people that she called in a favor for using a clean-up crew to erase her presence in Spencer’s room. The little black book they wanted was locked away tight in a safety deposit box, and the only key was somewhere that no one would ever find it.
Twenty-four hours later, sitting in the middle of a warehouse, Gypsy knew better. The last time she went to a place like this, she went home covered in the blood of a dead man. She wasn’t prepared to watch someone else die. Not right now, at least. Suddenly death was becoming common for her, and she didn’t like it. As a peace-loving human being, watching the last gasps of air began to affect her soul.
“We cleaned up the mess, now the book?” the man said. He was none other than Dominic Paloma, and he knew his name was listed in the book.
Gypsy sat back in the tattered leather chair, shrugging, “If you did your job right, how come I was arrested for the murder?” Her tone dripped sarcasm with each word she spoke. It wasn’t that she didn’t fear the man, but that she was reaching a level inside of her that she didn’t give a fuck anymore. She made sure that if she died, Grace was well taken care of by someone she trusted.
As his head tilted to the side, a smirk began to rise the creases of his lips, “You think we’re stupid or something? You hand over the fucking book, and we settle the rest of the debt.”
Inside the book that the world wanted, Gypsy kept notes on every client, every meeting, and most of all, every deal she ever witnessed. It was her insurance policy, and there was no value on it. If one book could take down a country, she possessed it. Handing it over was a death sentence, and she knew it. She might be young, but she was far from dumb.
“I think you need the book, and I need something from you. If I go down for this murder, I have already made arrangements for the press to get a copy of everything,” Gypsy snapped, playing a hand she knew she couldn’t win.
Before she could finish, the back of his hand landed her on the floor of the old warehouse. Gathering her bearings, the blood taste in her mouth repulsed her. She brought her eyes up to the man who towered over her. Shaking her head, she leaned back on the palms of her hands, “I guess your mama didn’t teach you not to hit females.”
His laugh filled the place, scattering birds nesting in the rafters, “No, my mama taught me to never trust a fucking whore.” Dominic placed the tip of his shoe on her hand, holding it down with enough pressure to get his point across. Reaching down, his hand-knotting in her blond hair, he yanked her head back to speak to her.
“Now then, you have 24 hours to hand the book over, and we make sure the proper prints are all over the gun. If you don’t,” Dominic shrugged, “You don’t want to know what will happen if you don’t.
Gypsy watched the man leave, licking over the trickle of blood that flowed from the side of her mouth. She knew better than to put all her eggs in one basket. That book was the only reason she was still breathing, and she wasn’t about to let it get in the wrong hands.