Savage Queen

by Eva Ashwood

  But even as I speak, I realize I don’t have enough details. All I have at this point is my word. And three women, but those women are currently in the custody of the Novaks, which doesn’t exactly look good. Hale did the right thing by saving them, the honorable thing, but it’ll only make him and his organization look more guilty in this federal agent’s eyes.

  As if he’s read my thoughts, Brady grunts softly when I finish speaking. “That’s an interesting story, Grace. But the FBI won’t believe you unless you have proof. I can’t just take your word for it.”

  “I’ll get you proof,” I tell him. “I swear.”

  Somehow.

  “All right. If you’re able to deliver proof—solid, actionable proof—that this Rook organization is the one running the trafficking ring and that the Novaks have no involvement, you have my word that this investigation of them will be dropped.”

  “Thank you. I’ll call you again soon,” I promise.

  Guilt consumes me the second I hang up, coursing through me like poison in my veins.

  “Fuck.” I mutter the word in a whisper, shoving the phone back into the middle of a roll of toilet paper before hiding it under the sink again.

  I hate this.

  It feels like I’m betraying the men, like I’m taking the tenuous trust that’s built up between us and crushing it beneath my heel.

  But I’m doing this to keep them safe—I have to keep reminding myself of that. Even though I’m not being completely honest about the FBI’s involvement, even though I haven’t told them, this is the best way to protect them.

  It’s the only way to get the FBI off their backs, and maybe even bring down Camilla.

  I just have to find proof, like Brady said.

  Easier said than fucking done, but I’ll do it somehow. I have to.

  As I creep back into my bedroom and crawl back under the covers and into Hale’s warm embrace, I repeat the words over and over in my head like a mantra.

  Find proof.

  Keep the Novaks safe.

  Get the FBI off our backs and shift their focus to Camilla.

  My turn to kill two birds with one stone, bitch.

  19

  Grace

  Over the next couple of days, things are relatively calm.

  On the outside anyway.

  But I know it won’t last. The FBI still suspects the Novaks of human trafficking, and Camilla still plans to destroy us.

  And these three stolen women are trapped in the middle of it all, just like I was once.

  I wanted to cry when I saw the rescued women for the first time. Their thin bodies barely filled up the clothes the guys had given them, and purple and yellowish bruises marred their cheeks and arms. I don’t even want to know the horrors they’ve been through these past couple of weeks, months—however long it’s been since they’ve known freedom.

  I’ve spent a lot of time at the safehouse since the women’s arrival. Hale had a doctor come and examine them, and although they’re all beat up and malnourished, they should be okay eventually. Physically, anyway. Mentally? Emotionally?

  Jesus, I have no idea.

  I can’t even imagine what they’ve all been through. I think the only one of us who can is Ciro, and although he doesn’t talk about it, I see how his eyes go hard and his jaw tightens sometimes when he looks at the girls. I know he sees himself in their shell-shocked pain.

  I hate that so much evil can exist in the world.

  Sometimes it feels hypocritical to think that when I’m falling deeper and deeper into the criminal underworld. When I’m falling in love with four men who belong to a mafia syndicate, one of whom leads it.

  But the men who’ve earned my love and respect have honor. They might run on the wrong side of the law, but they protect women and children—not just their own, but all women and children. That’s why even though Leland was a traitor, his family is still safe and alive.

  It makes me feel better to think that these women are at least in a place where they can begin to recover. Begin to heal. I bring them food, both the healthy stuff and the comforting junk food that always cheers me up when I’m feeling shitty. Sometimes we’ll watch a movie or something, although I’m not sure they really care what’s on the screen. Sometimes we just sit. Sometimes I talk to them, but they don’t usually talk back.

  It’s a tricky fucking balance. They might know things about the Rooks that could help us in our war against my mother, but I’m afraid if I push too hard, they’ll shut down entirely. We can’t exactly interrogate them like Ciro did with Leland. This requires a gentler touch.

  And patience.

  Something I’m unfortunately on short supply of these days. Between my mother and the FBI, there are too many threats from too many different sides, and I keep looking desperately for a way out of this mess.

  But approaching them with panic and tension won’t help these girls trust us, so I try to leave all of that behind every time I come to the safe house.

  Today, a girl named Lucy and I are in the kitchen. I showed her how to make cake in a mug a little while ago, and she actually smiled as I pulled it out of the microwave—the first genuine smile I’ve seen on her face since I met her.

  “So, what do you think?” I ask as she takes the last bite of her little cake and then sets down her spoon. Her eyes still have a sort of hollow look to them, but she doesn’t look quite as gaunt as she did when they first arrived.

  “It’s good.” She tilts her mug a little as if making sure she really got every bit, then glances up at me. “Neat trick.”

  “Yeah. Well, I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth, so I learned to do this when I wanted a late-night snack but didn’t want to take too long to make it.”

  She nods absently, still staring into her mug. This is how a lot of our conversations go. They move in fits and starts as she seems to sink back into her thoughts and memories for a while before coming back out of it.

  “One of them…” She looks up at me and cocks her head, her eyes narrowing a little. “One of the men said you guys aren’t the police. The one with the tattoos. So who are you?”

  “Oh. Um…”

  I chew on my lower lip. This is the first time she’s asked me a direct question. Usually I’m the one prodding her gently to talk, and the fact that she’s initiating conversation seems like a good sign. I don’t want to shut her down, but I’m not quite sure how to answer. I don’t want to lie to her, but it’s probably better if she knows as little about us as possible.

  “Don’t worry about who we are,” I say, trying to keep my tone reassuring. “We want to help you, that’s the main thing. You’re safe here, and you’ll be able to get back on your feet soon.”

  I glance at her surreptitiously again as I gather our mugs and take them to the sink, turning on the tap to fill them with warm water. Her face is impassive. Almost… bitter? For a second, I think maybe I said the wrong thing and mentally cringe.

  “Sometimes,” she says, her voice small. “Sometimes I think I don’t want to be back on my feet.”

  I shut off the water, plunging the kitchen into complete silence. I don’t ask her to explain herself. If she wants to talk, she’ll talk. I’m not going to push her.

  “All of this is so nice,” she says, gesturing around the kitchen. “So much nicer than anything I had before all of this happened. And sometimes I wish that no matter how many shitty and fucked up things had to happen to get me here, I wish I could stay here where it all feels so far away.”

  The words seem to pour out of her. That’s more than I’ve heard her speak in one go by a long shot, and I hold still, staying totally quiet—the same way I might if a wild deer approached me. I don’t want to startle her, or just like the deer, she might bolt.

  She leans up against the counter, letting out a breath. She traces a line on the countertop with one finger, looking at that rather than me.

  “Before they took me…” Her voice dies out for a second, then she clears her throat and s

tarts again. Her voice grows stronger as she continues. “Before they took me, I was already living on the streets. I became a stripper to pay the bills, to at least have somewhere warm to be during the night. At least in the morning, when the sun was shining, I felt safer. Stronger. I felt like I could fall asleep without being raped or kidnapped or robbed.”

  I clench my jaw to keep from making a noise. I want to scream in anger at a world that let her down so badly, that allowed her to slip through the cracks until Camilla and her crew thought they could steal her away and no one would even notice. No one would search for her or miss her or report her kidnapping to the police.

  “Before everything happened, I never thought my life could get much worse.” Lucy laughs humorlessly. “But it did. I was working one night and a guy came in… fuckin’ asshole, the worst kind. I knew it as soon as I saw him too, and I tried to steer clear. But he wouldn’t let me. Kept requesting lap dances, then wanted a dance in the private room. My boss never let us say no to anyone. It was a fire-able offense.”

  My stomach clenches, and I cross my arms over my chest. I want to hug her, but I have a feeling that, just like Ciro for the longest time, that’s the last thing she needs.

  She shakes her head, brushing her dark brown hair away from her face. “Of course, as soon as we made it into the back room, his dick was out. It’s technically against policy for us to do anything but dance, but management always turned a blind eye as long as the guys paid well.” She licks her lips, a muscle in her jaw tightening. “I figured if I gave him what he wanted, that’d be the end of it. I gave him a blowjob and tried to get up, but he said he wasn’t done. His dick had gone soft, but he said it didn’t matter. He’d find something else to fuck me with.”

  Tears gather in her eyes, and she shakes her head, like she’s trying to banish the memories.

  “I fought back,” she finally says quietly. “When he tried to hurt me, I fought back. So he reported me to management, accused me of trying to extort him for money. Got me fired. I slept on the street for a week before some other men came and picked me up one night. They hauled me into a van, threw me in the back…”

  “Fuck, Lucy. I’m sorry.”

  The words spill out of me before I can stop them. I don’t want to scare her or break into the reverie she’s in, but I have to let her know. I have to let her know that someone cares. That the entire world isn’t that heartless.

  She shrugs as if it doesn’t really matter. “They took me to this place on the south side of town—the shitty thing is, I knew where I was. I recognized the place. I used to buy from a dealer who used that corner, back in high school. But it didn’t matter if I knew where I was. There was no chance of running, not after they threw me in with the others. That’s where I met Emmaline and Dee.”

  My heart pounds fast and heavy in my chest.

  She knew where she was?

  Was it just a temporary holding area, or is it where the Rooks are keeping all of their human merchandise? If it’s the latter, then that could be the information I need to get Agent Brady and the rest of his team off our asses. If I could hand him the base of operations for Camilla’s entire trafficking ring, and that would be a bigger win for him than going after the Novaks.

  “How long were you there?” I ask gently, trying hard to keep my tone soft.

  “A few weeks. They kept bringing more girls in for a while. It got crowded.” She grimaces. “Then they started taking girls out. Not many. Emmaline, Dee, and I were the second group to get picked. Something about them finally getting buyers lined up, I dunno.” She makes a noise in her throat. “The rest of the girls are still back there.”

  “How many others were there?”

  “Too many,” she murmurs, and I sense her drawing back into herself. She doesn’t want to talk about what she’s seen. I don’t want to make her relive any of it.

  But…

  You need proof.

  The words echo through my head. Brady said I needed proof, and Lucy might just be able to give me that. Or at least point me in the right direction to find what I need. I hate to push her after everything she’s been through, but the clock is ticking.

  Every day, we’re running out of time.

  “Lucy,” I say slowly, “do you think you could tell me where that place is? Do you think you would be able to identify it?”

  Her gaze shoots to me, her eyes sharp and assessing. She seems to realize how much she’s been talking, and her whole body tenses up like she’s about to fight or run. But then she lets out a breath, her shoulders relaxing.

  “Yeah. I just told you I knew the street corner.”

  To my surprise, her voice is stronger again, and I feel a surge of admiration for her. She’s been through a lot of shit, but she’s tough, resilient. She may not trust easily anymore, she may spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder, but she’s smart.

  “The men who saved you and the others are in trouble,” I admit. “We’re all in really big trouble. The people who took you are our enemies, and we need help taking them down. So I need you to listen to me. If you know anything—and I mean anything about the group who took you, I need to know.”

  She stares at me for a long moment, like she’s trying to see through any lies I might’ve just spoken. I wish I could tell her how much I understand her suspicion, her worry that she’s about to put her trust in the wrong people. I know the feeling all too well.

  “Please, Lucy,” I say softly.

  Another loaded minute ticks by, and I’m about to back off, to give her space and try again tomorrow, when she lets out a sigh.

  Then she starts talking.

  Her memories of her actual abduction are a little fuzzy, a mishmash of images and sounds and sensations that are hard to make sense of. But when she begins to describe the place where she was kept, a large warehouse on the south side of Chicago, her words gain confidence and clarity.

  It’s a big space, and it sounds like they were keeping at least fifty girls there. She said she saw some who looked like they were still in their teens, and no one older than early twenties. And when she describes the woman she saw walk through the warehouse once, pointing to various girls and giving orders in a clear, loud voice, my stomach tightens so hard I think I might vomit.

  My mother.

  I push Lucy for as much as I think she can give me, managing to get an exact cross-street where the warehouse is located. She tells me about how many men she could see on guard duty at any given time, and I file every bit of information away.

  “Like I said, the first group and then us, we were the first ones to leave,” she finishes, looking exhausted but determined. I can only imagine how much reliving all of this has taken out of her. “I heard one of the guys say we were like a test run or something. They were about to go into full production soon, whatever that means.”

  It means they were about to ramp up their sales of women to whatever buyers they had lined up. About to push more “merchandise” out into the world. But I don’t tell her that. Lucy doesn’t need to know how very little my mother valued her life.

  “Thank you for telling me all of this,” I say sincerely. “It’s exactly what we needed. And I promise you, Lucy, those people will pay for what they did to you.”

  She nods, but there’s no real conviction in it. I know she doesn’t believe it.

  It doesn’t matter though. I do believe it, and I have a contact at the FBI who can make sure what I just told Lucy wasn’t a lie.

  “I’ll be right back, okay?” I ask.

  She nods again, and I push away from the kitchen counter and cut through the living room toward the front door.

  Stepping out of the house, I nod to the two guards stationed outside as I pull my phone out. I walk a short distance away before I text Agent Brady. I’m not using the burner he gave me in the grocery store, so I know I’m risking the guys finding out about my connection to an FBI agent. But this is too important to wait until I get home.

 ; I memorized the number that was programmed into the phone, and I’m glad as hell right now that I did. My thumbs fly across the screen as I tap out the text, giving him every bit of information I just learned.

  Everything he needs to take down Camilla. To expose her crimes.

  To win the victory he needs to back off the Novak Syndicate.

  As I hit send on the text, I glance at the time on my phone. It’s almost seven, later than I realized. The men should be here to pick me up soon. They never let me drive myself over to the safe house, either sending me with a few mafia foot soldiers or dropping me off themselves.

  I turn back to the guards at the door, about to ask them if they’ve heard from Hale when something catches my eye.

  A bright red dot glows on the man’s chest, moving around just slightly like a butterfly searching for a place to land.

  My stomach seems to drop out of my body.

  “Look ou—”

  I surge forward, my arm outstretched. But I’m too fucking late.

  Two bullets pierce his chest, and another hits the guard on the other side of the door in the throat. They both go down, their bodies hitting the ground before I can even reach them.

  My heart lodges in my throat as tires screech and a van careens up the driveway.

  It skids to a stop as several men in black leap out. I’m already running for the safe house door, but strong arms wrap around me from behind, and a cold, wet cloth smothers my mouth and nose.

  I’m still trying to fight as darkness drags me under.

  20

  Lucas

  For the second time, Grace’s phone rings out before instructing me to leave a message. Fuck. Even though I know she’s probably just busy with one of the girls, an unpleasant knot forms in my stomach.

  An instinct.

  Something isn’t right.

  “She’s not picking up,” I growl after trying a third time, fighting the urge to throw the phone out the window in frustration. “I don’t like it.”

  -->