The sputtering hiss of the coffee machine matched the sounds coming out of Frieda’s mouth. “What?”
Resting her head on the back of the couch, Cassie rolled her head toward her aunt. “Which part?”
“Both,” she said, marching toward the living room with coffee in hand. “With a lot more details.” She settled right next to Cassie, drew her knees in close to her chest and cradled her mug in both hands as though ready for a juicy story. “Start with the long-haul part and work your way up from there.”
It figured she’d start with the relationship stuff. Frieda was nothing if not a romantic.
Cassie started with the events from last night, sprinkled in with discussions she’d had with Kir in the weeks before it, but carefully avoiding the physical aspects—a fact Frieda indicated her displeasure of with more than a few scowls. She wrapped it up with Kir’s insistence that he was not only willing and able to support her while she found her groove in a new business, but that he wouldn’t let up until she did.
She shrugged and motioned to the album in her lap. “So, here I am, trying to figure out what options I’ve got and which way I want to go from there. Kir thinks I ought to consider the candid work like Lizzy offered, but I’m not really convinced that’s my thing.”
Frieda leaned in and looked at the images on the exposed pages. “Well, have you really tried? I mean, if all you’ve got to go on are the stills you intentionally photographed, then maybe you’re making a decision without enough data.”
“I’ve got some candids.” Cassie turned the page. Then another. “They’re scattered in between everything else, but Kir likes them.”
She turned another page and the unmounted image she’d taken of Kir that day at Bacchanal slid into her lap. She held it up and grinned. He’d surprised her that morning when he’d reviewed all of her work. Had shown amazing support, even from the beginning.
“That’s a candid one,” Frieda said, “and it’s fabulous.”
“Well, it’s of Kir,” Cassie fired back with a roll of her eyes. “The guys on GQ covers look boring compared to him.”
“Mmm. True.” Frieda sipped her coffee, but kept her gaze on the picture. “You gotta admit though, it shows promise. What were you thinking about when you took it?”
How relaxed he seemed in the moment. How he owned the space around him and naturally drew attention wherever he went. Not just with women, but with everyone. The same way beasts in the forest took note of a wolf prowling through their habitat.
Her attention shifted to a woman near the edge of the image. The hat she wore was one of those long-brimmed Southern types reserved for ladies who loved afternoon tea no matter how hot it was, and her skirt and jacket were almost vintage Jackie O.
Kind of an odd outfit for Bacchanal, now that she thought about it. Not out of place really, but a little much for the time of day she’d taken the picture.
Wait a minute.
She drew the image closer and studied the woman’s profile.
“What?” Frieda said, leaning closer.
“I know that profile. I’ve seen it somewhere.”
Frieda narrowed her gaze. “You know, now that you say that, I think so, too. She’s got a little upturned nose. One of those that’s cute so you never really forget it.”
The nose.
It was the same as the woman she’d glimpsed that night at André’s. And she could have sworn the girl she’d seen at the coffee shop had a similar profile, but she’d had different-colored hair.
Cassie handed the picture to Frieda. “But you recognize her, too?”
“Yeah. I can’t quite say why, though. Not with only a profile to go on.”
A profile.
Black and white.
Cassie surged upright, slid the album on the coffee table and grabbed her empty coffee cup. “The interview we watched together. The one with the Pro Domme, or whatever you call them.”
“The kinky lady?” Frieda kept her seat, but twisted to follow Cassie’s progress. “What about her?”
“That’s where we saw her.” Cassie plunked her mug in the sink and darted up the stairs.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Frieda stood and planted her hands on her hips. “Where in the world are you going?”
Cassie kept going, taking the stairs two at a time. “To get dressed.”
“Why?”
Because Kir needed a name and, if her gut was right, she had the means to get him one. She leaned over the balcony and met her aunt’s stare. “I’ve got to talk to Lizbet.”
Chapter Nineteen
Three months into having his own office and Kir still wasn’t used to such a luxury. Built into the back of one of the newly built André’s locations, it gave him a secured and private place to run his crew and mirrored the setup given to Roman at the second André’s expansion.
And it wasn’t a hole in the wall either. Not a warehouse full of dust and outdated furnishings like avtoritets he’d worked under in Russia, or a bland sea of gray and white baseline furnishings like so many cheap office buildings he’d visited in America. It was all class. An extension of the gleaming black furniture that graced the restaurant in front with glass, steel and crimson accents.
The gift was an honor. A demonstration of trust on Sergei’s part that had caught both Kir and Roman off guard, and a level of prestige Kir still hadn’t gotten used to. Even more disconcerting was seeing his boss casually seated opposite his desk rather than the other way around.
Sergei flipped to the first page of the 300 plus guest list Kir had hacked from the Midsummer Masquerade’s online site. “New Orleanians do love their galas and masquerades.”
Seated beside Sergei, Roman grunted his agreement. “Wealthy New Orleanians. The lowest ticket price was five thousand per couple.”
“I’ve noted the attendees Roman and I recognize or can get connections to,” Kir said. “Unless there are names you’d rather approach yourself, we will start working through them and see if any might have ties to Alfonsi.”
“And the others? The ones you don’t know?” Sergei said.
One corner of Roman’s mouth twitched, but he kept his silence.
“I called Knox this morning,” Kir said.
Sergei cocked an eyebrow, obviously as surprised by Kir’s action as Roman had been when he’d shared the news earlier this morning.
“With Kevin gone,” Kir said, “I am the only one with sufficient skills and experience to research those we don’t know. I cannot do both tasks, and time is of the essence.”
This time Sergei smiled, a knowing grin that spoke of satisfaction. “A wise move. They can be trusted.”
“It’s not a matter of trust. It’s a matter of habit.” And pride, if he was honest. “Anton would have never outsourced sensitive matters beyond family.”
“Anton’s family is generations old with vast resources. Ours is no less strong, but young. We build as we go and leverage the trustworthy connections we have as needed.” Sergei shrugged. “And besides, they are family.”
“We still have a resource issue,” Roman cautioned. “We need local technological expertise beyond Kir. He cannot lead behind a computer.”
“Agreed.” Sergei shifted his attention to Kir. “And what of Cassie?”
A quiet peace settled inside him. A lightness he hadn’t expected. Odd, how just the mention of her name could settle him.
Roman smirked. “Now you’ve made him lose his focus again. Twice this morning, he put our work on hold to direct the men installing security in his home.”
“She cannot stay at Sergei’s indefinitely,” Kir said. “Her safety is my responsibility.”
“Not solely yours,” Sergei corrected. “The responsibility falls to us all, and there is no rush.”
But there was a rush. Identifying the why of it had eluded him all day, but he�
�d known the moment he woke that he wanted her in his space. In his bed. Wanted to begin their life together in the truest sense possible without haste. “Everything will be in place by week’s end. Frieda’s home is being updated as well.” He paused a moment and met each man’s gaze one at a time. “She will not continue her career as a reporter. Once we find the person responsible for Kevin’s murder, she will explore a future in photography.”
Sergei settled deeper in his chair. “It seems you had an eventful discussion last night.”
Eventful barely scratched the surface of the night they’d shared. With her acceptance, he’d woken altered. Grounded, yet also driven to demonstrate his worthiness at a level that defied description. “She will be my bride.”
Roman’s eyebrows hopped high, open surprise reflected on his face.
Even Sergei, who’d long ago mastered the art of masking his reactions, seemed caught off guard. He schooled his features almost instantly. “And will there be a wedding to celebrate this decision? Or have the two of you opted for a more contemporary arrangement?”
Oh, there would be a wedding. Now that she’d chosen him, he had every intention of binding her to him in every way possible. “She will have my name, but we have not discussed details. She’s had enough thrown at her. When we’ve found and dealt with Kevin’s killer and she is in my home, then we will make plans.”
Sergei looked to Roman. “Wisdom and patience demonstrated inside one day. It seems our brother has found a new path.”
“Yes,” Roman said, “but another wedding means the rest of us have to be patient as well.”
The quip earned a surprising bark of laughter from Sergei. No doubt because he remembered all too well how quickly the mothers from Dallas had descended on New Orleans at the promise of nuptial planning. For days after their arrival, it had been chaos on Sergei’s estate, but Kir had to admit, he’d enjoyed it. More than that, he found himself looking forward to sharing a similar experience with Cassie.
His phone vibrated inside his suit jacket. Still chuckling with the other two men, he pulled it out, noted Sam’s number on the display and answered. “I thought you were off rotation today.”
An awkward silence stretched for two heartbeats before Sam responded. “Well, I was. I mean, I am. But Miss McClintock called about a half hour ago and said she was going out.”
“Out is good. How is she?”
Another pause. “Very...focused.”
Focused.
An odd word that didn’t seem as troubling as the uncertainty voiced behind it. “Where did she want to go?”
“She said she needed to be taken to the television station, but when Abel and Patrick picked her up, she wasn’t dressed like she normally is when she goes in. Had on a T-shirt and jeans. I wasn’t sure if that was something you needed to know about.”
The station?
It made no sense. Not after the things they’d talked about and the path they’d set.
Unless she’d changed her mind.
He clenched the arm of his chair, the action mild compared to the tension that settled in his stomach. “Did she say anything else?”
“No. Only said that she didn’t think she’d be long and that Abel and Patrick should plan to wait on her.”
The levity that had colored Roman and Sergei’s expressions seconds before was now gone, replaced with the same laser focus Kir felt.
He needed to say something. Give some kind of direction to his men, but his thoughts were too erratic. Spinning like a compass incapable of finding north. “It was wise to call me. Have them stay close to her and text me the minute she’s back in the car.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kir ended the call and slid his phone back into his jacket’s interior pocket.
“Where is she?” Sergei said.
He forced himself to take a steady breath. Then another. “She went to the station.”
“To what purpose?”
“She didn’t say. Only told the men she wouldn’t be long, and that they should wait for her.”
Roman volleyed a look between Sergei and Kir. “Doesn’t sound like anything serious. Maybe she just forgot something.”
Possible. But walking away from a career overnight wasn’t something many people would do lightly. Someone as driven to succeed as Cassie even less so.
“Whatever you’re thinking,” Sergei said, “do not make assumptions.”
“Nyet,” Roman added. “She would not say one thing and act differently only hours later.”
They were right. She might have allowed the opinions of others to sway her once upon a time, but she’d owned her relationship with him when confronted by her boss. She was opening up to who she was. What she wanted. She was smart. Clever. Never once tried to manipulate him the way his mother had his father.
He nodded more to himself than to the men across from him and straightened in his chair. “You are right. Whatever she’s doing, she’ll have a reason for it.” He stood, picking up his copy of the guest list as he did.
Sergei and Roman stood as well, but it was Sergei who spoke. “And?”
“And Roman and I have work to do.” Kir rounded the desk and buttoned his jacket. Cassie trusted him. Had chosen him for her future despite what she was giving up to do so. She deserved the same trust from him in return. “In the meantime, I will give her space to do whatever it is that needs to be done.”
Chapter Twenty
You’ve reached the voice mail for Lizbet Montlake. At the tone, leave your message and a number where I can return your call.
“Shit.” Cassie punched the end button on her phone before Lizbet’s voice mail could kick in and scowled out the Mercedes’s back window. A week ago, hell would have frozen over before she’d have called her former colleague four times inside a one-hour time period. Now, she’d give a lot just to have her on the phone for five minutes.
Maybe she was busy.
Maybe she was avoiding talking to Cassie to steer clear of any awkwardness or taint by association.
It didn’t matter. In another ten minutes, the only way she’d be able to avoid Cassie would be if she was out of the office on assignment.
She flipped open the thick folder full of contacts she’d snatched on her way out of the house. Six months’ worth of interviews, every one of them conducted in painstaking thoroughness and carefully documented.
Using station resources to promote mafiya activities, my ass.
One-third of the way through the stack, she found the notes from the interview she’d done with Alfonsi’s bodyguard. Cassie punched the mobile number scratched on the top right corner into her phone.
One ring.
Another.
And another.
She tapped an impatient rhythm on the side of the folder in her lap and chewed her lip.
“Yo!” Not exactly the most professional way to answer a phone, but definitely a voice that matched the man she’d interviewed before.
“Mr. Hofster?”
“Yeah, that’s me. Who’s this?” Defensive and a little suspicious, but understandable if he hadn’t recognized her number.
“This is Cassie McClintock. We talked several months ago about Stephen Alfonsi.”
An irritated huff sounded before he answered. “Yeah, I remember. Look, miss, I don’t mean to be an ass. You’re pretty and nice and all, but I told you everything I knew back then. Alfonsi’s gone. Everyone’s forgotten about him. Maybe you should do the same, yeah?”
God, she wished. Alfonsi and talking to people who had no desire to talk and fighting for every single step forward in her career.
The unfiltered thought startled her. Enough so that Hofster started talking again before she could. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I’m just over the whole ordeal, ya know?”
“Yes, absolutely
. I am, too. I just had something come up yesterday and needed to tie off one topic we talked about. Can I ask you a quick question?”
Either she’d caught him at an optimal time, or he was processing a lot of guilt for the way he’d spoken to her, because he sighed and said, “Yeah, sure. What is it?”
“When we talked, you mentioned that there were times Alfonsi didn’t want anyone watching over him. I just wondered—is it possible he was seeing someone? Maybe had a mistress, or something?”
“Lady, Alfonsi had an eye for pretty women, and his son was just like him.”
“But he didn’t have a particular favorite, or one you saw him with more than once?”
Hofster hesitated. Not a sizable silence, but one still marked enough to make her instincts spark. “He was real careful about who he was seen with.”
“Careful enough he wouldn’t want any of you with him if he was seeing someone regularly besides his wife?”
Another pause. “That’d be a possibility, yeah. He was damned sure happier on the mornings when he drove himself in. Not the short-tempered asshole he sometimes was.”
“Was there anyone closer to him he might have shared details with? Another bodyguard, maybe?”
“The only person he shared details with was Junior and, my guess, he’s not gonna be talkin’ any sooner than his daddy is.”
Not the answer she was hoping for, but more than she’d expected. “Okay. If you think of someone, can you give them my number and ask them to call?”
His chuckle was one reserved for lost causes and half-mad people. “Yeah. Sure. Good luck.”
With that, the line went dead.
Cassie pulled up the browser on her phone and typed Pro Domme into the search bar.
...specializing in BDSM sexual services with male or female clients for commercial gain.
Lizbet had asked the interviewee if she’d made a living at it.
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