by Bethany-Kris
New York elite.
“He was going to kill me,” Sargon offered.
Jett’s gaze narrowed as another man in black slipped out behind him from the private area. “Clearly not, as you’re very much alive.”
“Because he is foolish, and I am not.”
That seemed to prickle the man’s amusement as his lips twitched, though he held back the smile. “Is that so?”
The man under Sargon’s hold struggled, and the blade made more paper thin cuts. “I take it you’re not interested in collecting the debt from Kale Tompkins?”
Jett’s amusement was gone in a blink. “He will never pay, as his previous collector made clear to me.”
“I could have told you that.”
“He was your boss, wasn’t he?”
Was.
Sargon did not miss that choice in words. “So to speak.”
“What does that mean?” Jett asked. “He either was, or he was not. There is no gray area.”
“There is gray everywhere,” Sargon replied, smirking just a bit. “My boss is whoever pays me enough, and keeps my attention focused for the time being.”
“So your loyalty …?”
“Is flimsy.”
And fickle.
Non-existent, practically.
Jett’s gaze darted to the man Sargon was still keeping pinned to the wall. “Really, Gerald, you couldn’t even handle removing this issue for me, so I didn’t have to come out to it? You had one job.”
“He took me by—”
“He tried to make a show of it, and gave me an opening,” Sargon interrupted the man. “Someone else, and it probably would have been fine. I am not someone else, and I pay attention more so than others.”
“Fucking idiot … kill you!”
“You do realize the back of your neck looks like shredded steak right now, don’t you?” Sargon asked the man. “This is an Obsidian blade, but I don’t suspect you understand what that even means. Let me tell you. It means that this blade is so thin and sharp that on a cellular level, it slices through your cells rather than tear through them like steel. The more you move against the edge of this knife, the worse it cuts you.”
Instantly, the man stopped struggling.
Sargon rolled his gaze upwards, and then looked to Jett. “Finally, he fucking gets it. Little late, though.”
“What—”
Tilting his knife up so the tip rested against the bloody spot on the back of the man’s neck, Sargon only needed to put the slightest bit of pressure against the hilt. First, though, he looked to the man’s boss—Jett.
“I hope you’re not very fond of this man,” Sargon said.
Jett sighed. “I was … once.”
“Shame.”
It was a mantra of sorts for Sargon. Shame could be found in every corner of life, regardless of who carried the burden. Shame was not always obvious, either.
Sargon put pressure against the hilt of the knife. It sliced right through the man’s skin and into his spine like a hot blade cutting through butter. He never once took his gaze away from Jett as he pulled the knife back out, and the man fell to the floor.
A morbid thump.
It echoed, even.
The hallway had turned that silent all around them. Sargon much preferred silence to anything else. He found it comforting.
“Shame,” Jett murmured.
“Sorry, but you didn’t exactly seem like you particularly liked the man,” Sargon pointed out.
The man in black behind Jett had eyes so wide, they could be fucking saucers. He looked from the body on the floor, to Sargon, and then to his boss. Anger and disbelief colored up his features as he took a step forward like he was going to come at Sargon.
Welcome to try, asshole.
Jett stopped the man with a single hand held high. “Don’t move.”
“But, boss—”
“You have a mess to clean in the dining area, don’t you?” Jett asked. “Get on that before someone comes back here. Oh,” he added, waving a finger at the bleeding body on the floor, “and this one, too. Make some calls, if you need help.”
The guy glared at Sargon.
Sargon smiled back.
“Where do you come from?” Jett asked once the man was gone.
Sargon leaned a shoulder against the wall. “Born in America.”
“Mmm.”
“My family came over from Iran.”
“Ah, I see.” Jett’s white brows lifted high. “You do not sound like—”
“Raised out west.”
“Ah.”
Sargon shrugged. “I like surprising people.”
Jett passed a look at the body on the floor. “So I see. Shame you killed my man.”
“Shame you killed my boss.”
“Yes, seems you need a job, don’t you?”
“Seems I will.”
Jett sighed. “Lucky for you, a spot with my men just opened up. If you’re interested.”
“That depends on the pay.”
“I will pay you quite well if you assure me you’ll protect me, and only me, for as long as I deem fit. Then, you can safely assume I will not also ask you to answer for … well, this little mess here.”
“Nice trade,” Sargon said. “Being it’s my life, and all.”
“I suppose. And what is your life worth?”
“That would depend on who you ask.”
“I asked you.”
Fair enough.
He pretended like he was weighing his options. He really didn’t care as long as he got the job done.
“My life is worth, well enough, I guess.”
“Your name?” Jett asked.
“Sargon.”
“Last name?”
“Makri,” Sargon murmured.
He knew why Jett asked. The gentleman would crawl through any and all of Sargon’s history to make sure he was who he said he was. That was one thing a person could count on when it came to people in this world—they did their fucking homework, or tried to.
Otherwise, it was just plain foolish not to look into someone’s past. No one needed that kind of trouble at the end of the day.
Jett was welcomed to try to find whatever he wanted where Sargon and his life was concerned. There was nothing to find on this continent, really. His parents made sure of that, and it had served him well over the years.
Sargon Makri did not exist in any official capacity. Supposedly dead like his Iranian parents, or something like that. Sometimes he went by the name he had been given at birth, and other times, he used the name his parents gave him to help him blend in.
What did it matter?
He didn’t exist.
April 9th, 2013
Mostly empty floors and bare walls stared back at Cozen. The lower Manhattan apartment was going to cost her a pretty penny every month, but it was still considered affordable given New York rental rates.
It wasn’t the kind of apartment—she didn’t even like apartments—that Cozen would typically go for personally, but this wasn’t personal. It was a job. She needed a place right in the city because she knew that was where Jett Griffin spent most of his days, and did the vast majority of his business.
She intended to, over time or sooner, put herself directly in his path, and work her way closer from there. It could be quick, or it could take time.
In between, Cozen didn’t necessarily need to like or love the place she would call home. No, she simply needed a decent roof over her head that would not draw suspicion. This wasn’t her first rodeo—not even her tenth.
The apartment wasn’t anything particularly good to look at, but a person couldn’t scoff at it, either. Light-toned hardwood floors, and beige walls. Freshly painted a week ago, according to the landlord. The one-bedroom apartment had been cleaned at some point. Bleach and lemon still clung to the air.
Cozen gave them points for that.
Not for much else, though.
Other than a basic kitchen table with two chairs, a small love
seat sitting in front of a nineteen-inch flat screen, and a box spring and mattress resting on metal rails in the bedroom, this place had no furniture. There wasn’t even a cheap piece of art on the walls, and one of the taps in the bathroom had made an awful creak when Cozen checked it.
Apparently, this was considered furnished.
And up-to-date.
Cozen made a noise under her breath, and dismissed that notion. This place was not even close to being furnished, and it definitely needed some work. She couldn’t see herself putting much time in to the place by way of fixing things, but she did have a taste for spaces that comforted her.
She might decorate.
Depending on how long she stayed, that was.
“Black and white, I think,” Cozen murmured to herself.
She loved that style.
The little bungalow in California sitting on a private beach property overlooking the ocean where she called home came to mind. With its black and white interior, and simplistic bohemian inspired pieces scattered throughout the small rooms, it was the picture of peace and Zen. Cozen was always trying to mimic that style wherever she had to stay, even if only in little ways.
“Black and white?”
The unexpected—yet not unfamiliar—voice made Cozen spin on her heel with the intention of protecting herself. She was already reaching for the knife she had tucked into a sheath and hidden beneath her black lace bralette.
At the sight of the old landlord leaning in the apartment’s front door, Cozen let her arm fall back to her side. In his late fifties, a little too round in his middle, and always wearing a wide, warm smile, the landlord of the building was harmless. He lived on the bottom floor—Cozen was on the second at the far end with an escape ladder right outside the living room window—and according to other tenants she spoke to, he liked to make his rounds.
A little too friendly, sure.
But harmless.
Cozen could handle the rest.
“How’re you liking the place?” Ronald asked.
Cozen shrugged, and turned back to look at the apartment. “It’s a little lonely looking.”
“Mmm, I thought so, too. Last tenants snuck out a lot of shit.”
“Furniture, you mean?”
“And some things we had on the walls. No worries—I have them in for a civil case in two months.”
“I thought this was a little bare for being fully furnished.”
“Never thought to change the ad for the place,” Ronald said. “I just told the wife to put it back to active online. Sorry about that.”
Cozen shrugged. “Maybe you’ll have some things to keep for the next tenant.”
“Why’s that?”
Because she wouldn’t be staying once this job was finished, and New York was not her home. Even if she wanted to stay in the city after she did what she needed to do, it would be incredibly dangerous.
And stupid.
Cozen disappeared after a job. She went back underground, and hid from anyone who might be able to find her. It made things easier. She did not take things back with her once she was done as they were just things.
Replaceable things.
Nothing she got attached to.
The ringing of Cozen’s phone saved her from having to deflect the landlord’s question. She gave him an apologetic look over her shoulder as she dug out the cell phone. He gave her another one of his too-wide smiles, and backed out of the apartment as he closed the door at the same time.
Cozen only answered the call once she was alone. “Cozen here.”
“Pearl would like an update, Zen.”
Ace’s voice instantly grated on Cozen’s nerves, and she didn’t particularly have a reason why.
“Isn’t your job done where this deal is concerned?” Cozen asked.
“It should be.”
“And yet, you’re calling me, Ace.”
“It’s the Astors. I have to call. Or they keep calling me. Make of that what you need or want to make of it, Zen.”
Fuck.
“I’ve been in New York for an entire three days.”
“Yes, and it’s already the second week of April. Three months since Pearl transferred a quarter of your payment. She’s getting antsy now for good news from you. You haven’t updated them.”
“I made it clear this job might take a while. Any heist like this takes time to do it properly.”
“Anyone can go in and steal something if they know what they’re doing, Cozen.”
She took great offense to that.
She didn’t even try to hide it.
“Anyone, really?”
“Well—”
“Why don’t I transfer that money to you, and then you can make your way to this city. We’ll let you do this job, Ace. How about that?”
“I just meant—”
“You’re right,” she interjected sharply. “Any thief can steal, but not every thief is like me. I have my own way of doing a job like this, and it is not the flash and dash kind of thing. I might like to work again someday. That’s kind of hard to do when you make a fucking scene.”
“My apologies.”
Cozen played with the gold ring on her left thumb. She twisted the thick band around and around to let it calm her as much as possible. The small piece of jewelry gave her a sense of peace and security whenever she touched it.
That’s why she wore it.
“It has been three months,” he reminded her.
“I told her six at the most,” Cozen returned.
“Might it be more?”
“Depends on how much people piss me off. And you know, how much Pearl Astor wants her ring back.”
“Noted.”
“Why is she all of the sudden concerned about how long this job takes, Ace? Pearl was well aware that it would take me time to integrate into Jett’s life, and work on extracting the ring. They didn’t want fanfare, remember?”
Ace cleared his throat. “Maybe it isn’t so much Pearl as someone else.”
Cozen’s gaze narrowed. “Who is this someone else?”
“Fourth.”
Really, again?
Didn’t her little lesson with him teach the man anything?
“Fuck him—Fourth didn’t hire me.”
“True. Have you got eyes on the target?”
“Depends on what you mean by eyes.”
“Your eyes?”
“I’ve seen him,” Cozen replied, offering nothing else. “I plan on seeing more of him very soon.”
“How soon?”
“Listen, I have to go. A job to do, and get, you know.”
“And get? What in the hell does that mean?”
“It means the set up around a heist is just as important as the final scene, Ace,” Cozen murmured, already done with this conversation. “Don’t call me again. Be sure to pass the message along to anyone else who needs it.”
She hung up the phone without saying goodbye.
April in New York was not like April in California.
Cozen was never more aware of that fact than right now. She was not used to this wet, cold weather. The dampness wouldn’t let up, and she swore it soaked right into her bones no matter what she did.
Tightening the bomber jacket around her frame, she was grateful she opted for skinny jeans and knee-high boots instead of the dress and ankle boots she waffled over. Sometimes, showing off a little leg got her further when she was on a mission to get shit done, but she could do anything with just her smile, too.
Smile it was.
Today, anyway.
“Thirteen, twenty-five,” the vendor said.
Cozen handed over the cash for the random paperback novel she had picked up from the vendor stand. The guy had tucked his cart in under an eave as to save anything from getting wet. She needed the book as a prop.
Of sorts …
“Thanks,” the guy said, “and enjoy your book.”
Cozen smiled. “I will.”
But probably not.
She checked out the cover as she headed further down the street. A house loomed on a dark background surrounded by overgrowth and mist. Big, block letters gave the title, and in a bigger size font, gave the author’s name, too.
How self-entitled did an author have to be to demand their name be the biggest thing on a book cover?
Cozen didn’t get it.
She wasn’t all that interested in the thriller, but it would make for a good distraction. Or rather, it would make people think she was just another New Yorker lost in her own space should anyone look her way.
Soon enough, she had grabbed a seat on a bench in upper Manhattan. People blew around her, bustling from one thing to the next, and never paying her much mind. A half a block down, Cozen could see someone shooting video of a guy stopping random people on the street, and asking them questions in front of the camera.
Her gaze drifted between the book in her hands, and the restaurant across the street.
The Kingdom.
Heavy, cursive font spelled the business’s name above the door. The large windows covering the front were darkened enough that she couldn’t see inside, except for the occasional shadow that passed behind one.
Four days after Cozen had settled into her apartment, and she already had her eyes on Jett Griffin. It took a while, and a couple of phone calls. A favor or two called in, just because. As much information as she could gather about the man, she needed it.
But she had it.
Now.
The Kingdom was a favorite haunt of Jett’s. Not a business he owned, but rather, one he liked to frequent at least four times a week for lunch. A friend of a friend of a friend said the man knew the owner, and thus, could discuss business safely.
That business being … many things.
Seemed the New York man was not just a king in the legal business sense, as Jett also had a heavy hand in the black market. He was sort of like Ace in the way some might call him a broker. A man who came in as the middle man to make deals, and sign them in blood.
But where Ace did his best work with people, Jett seemed to work with things.
Anything.
Drugs.
Guns.
Skin.
That told Cozen quite a few things all at once, and she didn’t need them to be confirmed, either. The man likely didn’t have a lot of morals if he didn’t particularly care what he was selling. That also made him dangerous. And if he could sell just about anything to just about anyone, that meant he was a damn good talker.