by Lana Sky
“You were never meant for me, you realize that?”
My fingers are in her hair. It’s so damn soft, anchored in a skull so delicate it wouldn’t take much effort to crush it. “You belong to some pretty, pampered prince.”
Someone like Vin. A man who will cherish her. Worship her.
Who won’t get drunk off her scent, greedy for more. Unhooking my fingers from her scalp, I find that pulse in her throat instead. It flutters madly as I stroke my thumb against it. Then lower.
Her daring stare is an antidote to common fucking sense. Impulse overwhelms restraint, and I flatten my palm against that slight collarbone, feeling her breath catch. Her eyes darken, revealing nothing, but her body betrays her. She gulps as my calloused flesh grazes her silken skin. Shudders when my fingers slip beneath that gauzy neckline. The globe of her breast is in my grasp before I know it, firm enough to fill my palm and soft enough to squeeze.
She lurches onto her toes when I do, her eyelids fluttering, lips so damn wet.
She’s a bitter little vice, sharper than heroin, more virulent than alcohol, deceptively sweet. I’m drunk on the scent of roses. My nostrils flare to steal every drop, dragging her deep into my lungs.
I wonder if she tastes like the flower. Fragrant. Ripe. My mouth waters. With single-minded focus, I remove my hand from beneath the bodice of her dress and go to her thigh instead, creeping under the gauzy hemline. She doesn’t move, not even as I brush over the flat of her belly and the delicate curls directly beneath.
“Damn…”
I should stop, but her heat is a searing temptation, guiding my way, growing hotter the closer I come.
Until finally, I touch fire. Wet and burning… So goddamn wet.
Her ragged intake of air resonates with the cadence of a scream. All at once, reality comes crashing back.
I rip away from her, running my hand against my side to scrape her off. As if it would be that easy. My cock is threatening to tear through my fly, my lungs swollen with her scent.
To counter the lust, I have to recall Fabio’s advice. Use her.
“Safiya is allowed to hate me,” I tell her thickly, stumbling over my words.
I’m surprised she’s still here, panting loudly, swaying on her feet.
“If that’s what you want, then hate me. But Willow? She can use me… As a partner,” I clarify, stepping back. The less of her smell I inhale, the clearer my head feels. “Do you want to find out who tried to have your mother killed? Then work with me.”
Her eyes widen as she smooths the front of her dress, tugging the hemline down. My eyes follow, chasing the paleness of her thigh before I get ahold of myself. Enough.
“No threats,” I clarify, attempting to draw upon Fabio’s sense of calm. “No strongarming. Nothing but your own free will. We work together.”
My words aren’t calculated, rehearsed bullshit like Fab’s. I’m sloppy in comparison, but she understands me anyway.
“Fabio’s too analytical to find the asshole in time,” I add. “Mischa? He’s too reckless. But you and I?”
I swallow hard, picturing how she watched me murder that bitch Paulie Vanetti.
“We know how a sick, calculated motherfucker might think. You aren’t the kind of person to sit around, waiting for your future to be decided by anyone else. Either work with me or leave. I won’t stop you.”
I beat her to the door, heading for the stairs. Down the hall into the kitchen. Out.
The fresh air is a punch to the system, but I relish in it. Every chilling, shocking burst of the cutting wind, is a welcome call back to reality.
A world in which the past can’t be overcome by a one-sided conversation. Where a woman who smells like fucking roses can be linked to a monster through no fault of her own.
A world where forgiveness isn’t even on the goddamn table.
17
Evgeni
Hours after my last attempt to contact a Stepanov agent, a message from an unknown number flashes across my cell phone screen. This is Mario. What the hell did you do? You must have been blacklisted, Ev. I don’t know why. I can’t even reach you through my designated cell. This is a burner. Can’t reply. Will contact when I can.
Despite his warning, I try replying anyway, only to receive silence in return.
Damn. Mischa isn’t this petty. Something is wrong, and the suspicion gnaws at my psyche. What the hell am I even doing?
I should be on my way to Stepanov manor. Even if Briar’s story is partly a lie, the mentioning of Saleris and Antonio Salvatore triggers several alarm bells. It stinks to hell and back.
A smart man would be hitting the ground running, gathering whatever intel it takes to get to the bottom of this mess.
Instead, I’m entering an overpriced hotel room after dark, my nostrils wrinkling with a distinctive scent. Damn her. I think she showered again.
“You’re back,” she declares, lying unabashedly naked on the bed. The city itself is her backdrop, the neon lights reflecting off her pale skin in garish shades of red and green. She makes no move to cover her breasts, or the sliver of golden curls between her legs. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume she was posing on purpose.
The reality is she’s exhausted, in too much pain to move.
“You certainly took long enough,” she gripes with a sigh. “Let’s see it, then.”
I snatch my sole purchase from the shopping bag and raise it in a fist. “Here.”
It’s a dress, one bought with my own damn money.
She eyes it, wrinkling her nose. “It will have to do. Though I’m assuming your fashion sense isn’t what attracts the swarms of women, you must keep.”
Ignoring the taunt, I approach the window as if the view alone might snap some sense back into me. The harbor in the distance glows silver in the moonlight, the waves glimmering. Its proximity to the bay is the defining jewel of Hell’s Gambit, the one marker that makes it relevant on the world’s stage.
To hear Briar Winthorp tell it, a new outfit is all she needs to take on a man powerful enough to claim ownership of everything in sight.
“What the hell is your plan?”
I hear the swish of fabric and assume she’s changing into the new dress.
“My plan? To render you unconscious, escape with your I.D. and van and grovel my way into Johnathan’s good graces.”
I turn to find her standing beside a floor-length mirror near the entryway, smoothing her hands along her hips. The dress fits her for what it’s worth, clinging to her curves, enhancing the shape of her breasts. She’s so caught up in inspecting her appearance that I think the impact of her threat is lost on us both.
“You are transparent; I will give you that,” I snarl once her words finally register. Am I surprised if this has been a ruse from the start? No. “And predictable. How do you plan to attack me?”
She cocks her head, frowning. Then she laughs. “I don’t mean for real. Honestly, you are so paranoid. It’s the story I plan to tell to explain my miraculous reappearance, of course. You are gullible, soldier, but with your strength, even I can admit that it would be hard to overpower you without a fight. I need evidence to make my escape believable.”
She places her hands on her hips, arching her back to display her cleavage.
“My injuries will help tremendously, though—” she fingers the cut on her forehead, hidden beneath her damp curls. “I can say that you attacked me.”
A part of me bristles at her tone. She’s so damn nonchalant, as if this is all nothing more than a game. “And then Eli will wind up dead, and I’ll be the fool who trusted the word of a penniless whore rather than his gut instinct.”
“I am no whore, soldier.” Her eyes cut to slits. I insulted her this time. “As paranoid as you are, if you should know anything about me, it’s this—I only care about myself. Sabotaging Johnathan’s plans are to my benefit, no more, no less.”
“What about your son?”
She raises an eyebrow. “And what abo
ut your Willow? She’s in the hands of a madman while you go gallivanting around the city with me. It seems we both have skewed priorities.”
Damn. I can’t argue that point.
“What is your real plan?”
“What I’ve said.” She steps from the mirror and extends her hand. “You give me your keys and your I.D. I get onto the boat; find the information we need. I’ll tell you where the explosion will be. And voila. You rescue me on your shining white horse, and all is well.”
“And you just leave potentially hundreds of people to die?”
She blinks. “If you want to waste time being a hero, by all means. I won’t stop you.”
I can’t tell if her indifference is for show. Should I be surprised if it isn’t?
Though, her apparent lack of empathy is the least of our problems.
“Let me see if I have this straight—your plan is to go prancing back, ask him nicely what his strategy is, and then escape unharmed? That’s childish.”
She chuckles. “No. It’s reckless, dear soldier. And I have found that recklessness can succeed where the best-laid plans fail. Now cough it up, please. Your keys and the I.D.”
“And I’m supposed to put my faith in you?” For whatever reason, I’m already fishing one of her requested items from my pocket—the keys. Curiosity could be the sole reason. Is she bold enough to try taking them?
“Yes,” she says simply. “Trust me, you don’t have a better option.”
But I can think of several—all of them requiring resources that would take time and energy to amass. If she’s lying, it’s no risk to better prepare.
But if she’s not…
“Keep your phone on you,” she snaps, very much like an heiress commanding a servant. “I won’t have long. An hour at most. Then I’ll need to run.”
“From a boat?”
“That’s your responsibility,” she says. “Because there’s more I haven’t told you yet. You want to know? I suggest you keep me alive.”
She saunters into the bathroom.
“I should have had you get me some makeup,” she scolds. “A natural look will have to do.”
Minutes later, she reemerges, her hair dried, flowing in waves down her shoulders, her heels in place.
She saunters past me and pauses, glancing back. “Oh damn. I think I left my panties in there. Be a doll and fetch them for me?”
I’m too lost in thought to argue. I’ve barely crossed the threshold when I hear the door to the suite open and slam shut.
“Fuck!”
I must get there not even a second later, but when I open the door, the hall is empty.
She’s already gone.
I don’t have the energy to care. I’ve probably played into her trap, but I deserve to be burned. Forget the bitch. Willow should be my main focus. She’s engaged to Donatello Vanici...
But not for long if I have any say.
I grab my phone and cycle through my contacts. No one associated with the mafiya answers. The last number I try is Mischa.
It rings, but he doesn’t answer.
For the first time, I’m more alarmed than irritated. What the hell is going on?
You must have been blacklisted, Ev, Mario claimed. Though, how can I be sure he sent that message in the first place? The technological side of the manor’s security was never my purview. Is it really so advanced as to block a single caller?
It smells fishy to me. A good way to test that theory would be to get ahold of my own burner and try calling from it—but that would take time. Considering most of the stores are closed by now, anyway, it’s time I don’t have.
Left with no choice, I’ll need to expand my horizons if I want any outside information. Briar Winthorp herself hinted at the perfect method for doing so. How did she put it? Friends in low places...
There aren’t many whose numbers I still know by heart. Figuratively, I’ll have to scrape the bottom of the barrel as far as contacts go. I almost hope the first man I settle on doesn’t answer. Unfortunately, the son of a bitch picks up on the first ring.
“If it isn’t little Evgeni! It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you.”
“Hello Louie,” I reply.
The fact that he’s shouting—and the clinking glass and murmuring voices audible in the background—suggests he’s drinking, most likely at a bar. I’m not surprised.
“Are you too drunk for information?”
“That depends.” His tone shifts, suddenly level. “How much are you offering, and what do you want to know?”
I’m not inclined to get into the full story, opting for a quick summary instead. “Stepanov. Vanici. Saleri. Harmon. You keep your ear to the streets. Tell me if any of those names have been heard floating around the usual gossip.”
He laughs. “Is this a trick question? What the hell is a Harmon, anyway?”
“This was a mistake.” I start to hang up.
“Wait! Wait! That last name I can’t help you with, but as for Stepanov… Let’s just say that people have been talking.”
“What kind of talk?”
“Before we get into specifics, let me ask you a question. Why are you calling me, anyway? Aren’t you up Mischa’s ass these days? Besides, you know my price for information. Lately, you’ve seemed too high and mighty to—”
“I’ll pay it,” I say absently. Later I’ll worry about the deal I’m making—one with the literal devil. If Mischa and his family really are in danger, I don’t have many options left. “Now talk.”
“New guy on the block,” he says, jumping to the point. “Not much is known about him, but he’s been waving money around like crazy, using various proxies to try and get dirt.”
“On who?”
“Anyone. Mischa. The Saleris. Vanici.”
“Were you contacted?”
“Not directly,” he says evasively. “But I know that anyone who has that kind of dough to throw around wouldn’t be above bribery. The first thing I’d do is buy off someone high in every circle I’m looking to infiltrate—especially the mafiya.”
“Mischa vets his men carefully,” I point out. “I’ve worked with them. They’re loyal.”
And yet, I keep seeing the face of one man in particular—the rookie who, overnight, was promoted to replace me. Jealousy could be why I think of him now. If I were that damn childish, at least. No. There has to be another reason.
“Enough money can buy anyone, Ev,” Louie remarks. “Except, probably you. Though, hey, if you and Mischa are on the outs, it would be an easy way to make some money…”
“Not interested. But I will take a name.”
“Don’t have one. He just utilizes his contacts, but I doubt any of them could give you one either. Not a real name, anyway,” Louie says. Judging from how he’s slurring his words, I doubt he’s sober enough to lie. “I can tell you one other thing, though. Whoever the bastard is, he’s been hiring men. Maybe ten guys. Twenty. All to do labor down on the docks, on the west side. I couldn’t tell you what, though. Not for free, anyway.”
My interest is piqued enough to bite. “Fine. If it’s worth my while, I’ll owe you a favor.”
“A favor, Ev? You must be desperate.” He laughs loudly, followed by a clink of glass as if he set his drink down. “I have your word on that?”
I mull it over. Working with Mischa, I haven’t had to make deals with scum like him. While his information may be good, the price is always steep.
Again, I can’t escape the suspicion that a better option would be to swallow my pride now and return to Stepanov manor before it’s too late.
“I don’t got all night, Ev—”
“Fine. Tell me.”
“I’ll do you one better. I’ll give you an address. Sixth street. That’s where the men have been working mainly. I wasn’t lying when I said I don’t know the details, but I can tell you that it’s manual. Anyone who works there comes back dead on their feet. Like they’re trying to mine to China or something.”
“Digging? Near a harbor?”
“I didn’t say it made any sense, now did I? Anyway, don’t forget, boy. You owe me one.”
I hang up, not that it will matter in the long run. Louie is a drunk, but he’s no pushover. Sooner or later, I’ll have to pay him.
For now, I put that out of my head as I leave the hotel. Unsurprisingly, my van is missing from the garage. Despite the late hour, I’m able to rent a car from the hotel’s selection, and I head straight for the west end.
Sixth street is a lonely road bordering a row of decrepit warehouses that have seen better days. It should be damn near deserted—especially this late at night.
But low and behold, it’s a hive of activity.
At least ten men mill about a yard close to the water’s edge. They’re only visible due to the bright orange safety vests they wear. Each one reflects what little light there is, blinking in the darkness as they march from a darkened warehouse to the water’s edge.
I strain my eyes to make out what they carry. Boxes?
Large, metal crates.
“Hey!” A man I didn’t notice steps to the curb, holding a flashlight that he shines directly through the windshield. “This is private fucking property,” he says. “No trespassing.”
Rolling down the window, I greet him with a nod. “I’m looking for work. Nightshift, too. What kind of labor are you guys into? Shipping?”
His nostrils flare, his expression unwelcoming, to say the least. “We ain’t hiring. Now don’t make me tell you twice to move the fuck on.”
He deliberately reaches for the pocket of his dust-coated slacks. Louie wasn’t exaggerating. The man is covered in dirt and grime. Digging to China would probably be a cleaner endeavor.
I’m tempted to dig for more answers, but I nod instead.
“Have a goodnight.”
I don’t go far, following the water’s edge, across the bridge separating the west end of the city from the eastern center. By the time I near the hotel, it’s almost dawn.
But still no word from her.
Obviously, because she was lying from the start, using me for her own ends. Fuck Briar Winthorp.