My knee aches, and every time I shift to check the time, shooting pain runs down my left arm. The damp yet frigid air always messes with my old injuries. Rubbing the back of my neck, I slide my fingers up and into my hair until I find the exit wound from the bullet that tore through my brain.
I was lucky. Or so the doctors told me. My faculties are intact—other than some mild aphasia and stuttering when I’m under pressure. But the repercussions from that day will haunt me for the rest of my life.
Mickey Ryan died, and I’m the one who killed him.
Across the street, two workers casually glance around before raising a large roll-up door. At 2:00 a.m. in the Tenderloin, no one in their right mind would be out—not unless they were up to something nefarious. That’s why I’m here, after all.
Grunt duty. That’s all I’m good for anymore. At least to Frank Ricci. But flying under the radar as an injured mob flunky is a damn good way to gather intel.
Tapping my earbud, I activate the mic I hid in a planter twenty feet away from the guys Frank thinks are working for the Healy crime family—born from the ashes of Mickey Ryan and led by his second in command, Noah Healy.
“He’s late,” the smaller one says, his voice gruff and raspy with a hint of an Irish accent.
“He’ll be here.” Pulling out a phone, the larger guy checks the screen. “He’s a block away. Get the dolly.”
Thug #1 ambles back inside, and thirty seconds later, a white van pulls up to the curb. Snapping photos of the driver, I crouch down when they scan the street. “Hurry it up,” another voice demands. The van’s passenger. If I had to bet, that’s Noah Healy.
The rest of their conversation fades into grunts and the sounds of boxes sliding across the metal floor of the vehicle, and when the van pulls away, I turn and head for my car. All I want to do is get out of the cold, deliver these pictures, and fall into some semblance of sleep.
6
Aiden
A little after 8:00 a.m., I pour myself a mug of coffee in Ricci’s kitchen. The text message that woke me at seven told me to be here at nine for a family meeting, but I’ve learned over the past three years. Ricci thinks you’re late if you’re not twenty minutes early.
Sylvio’s lounging in the parlor with his own cup of coffee when I join him. As Frank’s lead enforcer and defacto second-in-command, he lives here, along with his flavor of the week. This one’s Tonya, I think.
“You know what’s going on?” I ask as I take a drag from the mug.
“Yep.” He pulls out a signal jammer and flicks it on. “Found another two bugs last night.”
My heart rate ticks up a bit, and I try to hide it behind another sip of coffee. “How you think they’re getting in?”
Sylvio shrugs. “Enough people come in and out of here. And as long as the Fibbies think they’re getting’ intel, they won’t try any harder than they are already.”
He’s not wrong.
With a slightly baffled look smoothing out his features, Sylvio meets my gaze. “Mickey Ryan’s alive.”
The hot coffee slides down my windpipe and I start to choke, slamming the mug on the ornate wood coffee table and leaning forward as I cough and sputter. Sylvio leaps to his feet and then he’s slapping my back so hard, I feel it down to my toes.
But it does the trick, and I draw in a wheezing breath. “What...the...hell?”
“You shoulda’ seen Ricci’s face when I told him. The old man about fell over.” Sylvio chuckles and returns to his seat. “That whole job was one giant clusterfuck. Mickey’s guys showin’ up, the FBI close behind...” With a shake of his head, his eyes soften. “Not many guys could come back from what you went through, Aiden. And be willin’ to go out there again.”
Like I had much choice. This is all I’m trained to do—even with my injuries, I’m still better at it than anything else.
Sylvio’s little trip down memory lane makes the coffee turn to acid in my stomach. “We didn’t think you were goin’ to make it. Not with that head wound. Ricci was pissed that the ambulance got to you first, but they saved your fuckin’ life.”
I don’t remember much of anything from that day. Or the day after that. I woke up a week later in Ricci’s Sierra Nevada cabin with two of his enforcers and a doctor watching over me. From what I was told, Ricci paid off the hospital staff to sneak me out of there. Not my choice, but it did save my cover.
My lips twitch, and I struggle with my words. “N-never had a...a...” My fingers flex around the mug and I blow out a breath as I try to find the word I need. “A f-family,” I force out. “You saved my life. I p-pay my debts.”
“Which is why you’re here.” Sylvio gestures to the secured door that leads to the basement war room. “Why we took care of ya’ after. We’re makin’ a play for Mickey, and we’re doin’ it in the one way that’s guaranteed to force him out of his hiding place.”
“What’s that?” I ask. The caffeine, along with the glint in Sylvio’s eyes, is making my stomach gurgle in a less-than-reassuring way.
“We’re takin’ his daughter.”
An hour later, I stare at a photo of Dahlia Rose Ryan. She looks nothing like the proud, confident woman I met at Whips and Chains three years ago. No, this version of Dahlia is haunted. Scared. Ready to jump at the slightest noise. She leaves Sotheby’s and pulls the collar of her jacket tighter around her.
“What makes you think Mickey’s alive?” I ask Sylvio as he and Robbie’s replacement—Paulie—relax on the leather sofa across the room. “Dahlia‘s back in town, yes. But has she met up with anyone?“
“That’s where you come in,” Sylvio says. “Tail her. She’s sellin’ a ruby called the Crimson Dahlia. That’s how we found her. Mickey swooped in the year his kid was born and bought the gem from under Ricci’s nose at an auction. Ricci’s never gotten over it. We’ve been searchin’ for any mention of the Crimson Dahlia ruby ever since Mickey died, and today, it showed up on Sotheby’s roster for an auction next week.”
“That doesn’t mean Mickey’s alive. Maybe he left it to Dahlia, and she’s been sitting on it all this time.”
Sylvio rubs his hands together. “That’s just as good, man. Mickey collected rare gems. The Crimson Dahlia was only one of them. There’s also the Sapphire of Kashmir and the Chalk Emerald.”
He lowers his voice, even though any recording equipment in this room would have resulted in his arrest a hundred times over so far. “Ryan and Ricci went at it like kids, Aiden. All before your time. Ricci would make a play for one of the jewels, and Ryan would find some way to get his hands on it first. What if she has them all? Combined, they’re worth more than ten million.”
I whistle and step closer to the screen. Despite how different Dahlia looks, her eyes are the same, and in three years, I haven’t been able to get her out of my head. Of my dreams. I can still smell her. Taste her. Hear her moans and whimpers as I made her come.
“So, just watch her?” I rub my left shoulder absently. The weather’s been shit lately, and I can feel every single one of the four surgeries I had to repair the bone, ligaments, and tendons.
“Just watch. For now,” Sylvio says. “But listen, Aiden.” He lumbers to his feet and rests a hand on my shoulder. “Ricci wants her. So find a way to isolate her. Get her alone. Make sure she’s not with anyone so on Friday night, we can take her to the cabin up in the Sierras. Either she’ll give up the location of the rest of the jewels or she’ll tell us how to find Mickey. Either way, she’s ours. And I know how much you enjoyed playing with her at the club before things went to shit.”
He pauses until I hold his gaze. “This is your way back in, man. To the inner circle. You make Dahlia Rose talk and Ricci will never doubt you again. Ever.”
A little after noon, I find a booth in the back of the Market Street Diner. A pretty server no older than twenty-two starts towards me, but she’s waved off by a skinny guy who looks like he’s all of eighteen. Only a handful of people know better.
“What�
�ll it be?” he asks, his voice deeper and gruffer than it has any right to be.
I jab my finger at the menu, not even caring what I’m pointing to. “Can you tell me more about this?”
He cocks his head and leans closer, as if he’s trying to figure out what dish I’m referring to, and I rush to give him my report. “Dahlia Rose Ryan is back in town. What the hell, man? I thought someone was supposed to be watching her in Seattle?”
“Oh, the double patty melt. Well, that comes with two quarter-pound burgers, your choice of cheese, and…” Lowering his voice, my contact, who’s wearing a name tag that says Huey, continues, “It’s been three years. Her detail was pulled six months ago.”
“Fuck.” Making a show of scanning the menu, I point again. “What about this?”
“Oh, the Frito Pie is excellent.”
“It better be for the price.” With a glance around the diner, I relax a fraction. “She’s selling something called the Crimson Dahlia, and Ricci’s after it. And her. He’s convinced Mickey gave it to her—recently—and that he’s alive. But you gotta run this up the chain, Huey. They want to kidnap Dahlia Rose and force her to talk.”
Huey’s eyes widen, and he almost drops his order pad. “One Frito Pie, coming up, sir. Do you want a drink with that?”
“Hell yes, I want a drink. I want a whole team of them. Ricci’s going to be on my ass about this until it’s done. I’ll keep her safe. But you’ve got to find out about Mickey and get me the intel as soon as you can. The op’s going down on Friday, and if I don’t know what I’m dealing with by then, it could go sideways in a hurry.”
“One Coca-Cola, coming right up, sir.” Huey nods and rushes to the kitchen, where he drops the notepad into the cute little twenty-something’s hands and tells her to put the order in before he disappears.
He’ll deliver the intel without missing a beat, but the last time I used this info drop, my Frito Pie turned into a veggie burger. I hope he’s learned his lesson.
7
Aiden
It doesn’t take long to find Dahlia Rose. A few words with the manager at Sotheby’s—and a call from my boss—and he hands over her local phone number. The Hotel Montrose is on the very edge of Union Square, only a block from the Tenderloin, and the building’s seen better days.
The guy at the front desk stifles a yawn as I approach with a pizza box. “Can I help you?”
“Can you call Deanna Raskins’s room? I’ve got her loaded pepperoni and double cheese.”
My sunglasses hide my eyes, but I watch as the clerk dials. Room 315. Before Dahlia can answer, I pull out my cell and wave it at the guy like I’m getting a call, then double-time it out the door. For a few seconds, I press the phone to my ear and pretend to talk to someone, then, as soon as he looks away, I take off, leaving the pizza on the counter.
By now, she’s told the guy she didn’t order a pizza. I just hope I don’t freak her out so much she moves hotels. But if she does, I’ll be watching.
A bar across the street and two doors down affords me the perfect vantage point to keep an eye on the hotel. A little after four, Dahlia slips out of the building wearing a pink sweater that peeks out from a puffy black coat, jeans, and sensible boots. So different from the image of her from Whips and Chains—and all of my fantasies.
Her hair—all those gorgeous waves of purple and green and blue—is piled on top of her head with tendrils curling around her face. She looks...like a broken angel. I follow at a discrete distance, pulling my coat tighter around me, my sunglasses still firmly in place, despite it being near dusk.
Dahlia stops at a little corner market and picks up a bouquet of lilies, then fiddles with her phone. I brush past her amid a crowd of six others and catch sight of the Lyft app. Dammit.
I scan the street, searching for a taxi, and thank fuck one stops within five minutes. After I slide into the back seat, I pass the driver a c-note. “There’s an extra one of those in it for you if you stay parked here until I tell you, then follow another car for me.”
The man’s eyes widen, and he huffs out a laugh. “You’re not serious, are you? This sort of thing only happens on TV.”
“And when you’re a PI working for a wealthy son of a bitch who thinks his wife is cheating on him. I’m not joking. Do I look like I can afford two hundred bucks just to play a game with you?” In his rearview mirror, I watch Dahlia as a white Toyota Prius pulls up to the curb, its pink Lyft light glowing.
“Okay, man. Whatever. It’s your cash.” He shrugs, but when I tell him to follow the Prius, he does without another word.
Forty-five minutes later, the Prius pulls up to the cemetery just outside the city. The taxi driver stops around a corner, and I hand him the extra hundred, plus double his fare. “Do I need to say it?” I ask as I arch a brow.
“I never saw you.”
Smart guy.
I give Dahlia a five minute head start, then make my way through the cemetery’s gates. At the first gravesite with a full complement of flowers, I snag a bouquet. I’m going to hell for this—and a lot of other things—but I need to look like I belong here. “Sorry, Alan,” I mutter as I scan the landscape for my target.
She’s kneeling down in front of a large headstone, and I walk silently three rows behind her, pausing only briefly to try to read the name. Of course. Mickey Ryan.
“Dad, I wish you could hear me,” she says, the light breeze carrying her voice to me, faint and trembling. “I have to go back to Seattle in a couple of days, and I...probably won’t visit you again. I...can’t. It’s too hard.” She stifles a sob, and I move up a row, then crouch down in front of a random headstone so I can listen.
My knee pops, and I have to stifle my groan, but Dahlia doesn’t notice me. She’s too much in her own head. Her shoulders curve inward, and she runs her hand over the etching of her father’s name.
“I don’t want your money. I wouldn’t have touched any of it, but after what happened...I just couldn’t stay in my condo any longer. And I can’t get out of my lease for a year. I know you wanted me to have the Crimson Dahlia, but...it’s too much. Every time I looked at it, I’d think of you. Of how you died.”
I’m about to text Sylvio to tell him that Dahlia believes her father’s dead when footsteps rustle the dead leaves on the ground to my right. Anger prickles along my spine. The fucker’s striding across the lawn, his hand inside his jacket, about to go for his gun. No. No here. Not now.
But before I can stop him, he focuses over my shoulder, across the cemetery, and drops his arm. Coming up next to me, he claps me on the back and pulls me close, like he’s trying to comfort me. “Time to put on a show, Aiden. Look upset, and come with me.”
“What the hell is going on?” I hiss. “This is my surveillance.”
Sylvio half-growls as he shakes his head. “You need to check your damn phone once in a while. I’ve been textin’ you for two hours trying to get a report. That’s why I’m here. Ricci’s not goin’ to stand for fuck-ups on this job. But that doesn’t matter now.”
“Why not?” I keep my head down, but behind my dark glasses, my eyes scan all around us, making sure Dahlia’s still at her father’s grave. And then I see him. The man almost hidden in the trees at the edge of the property. He’s older. Leaning on a cane. Surrounded by four large men.
Mickey Ryan. It can’t be. But it is. The fucker’s alive.
“She doesn’t know,” I say quietly as Sylvio angles his head towards mine and then makes a show of swiping at his eyes. “And he’s not approaching her.”
We watch for another few minutes, and I cup my phone behind my hand, letting the camera peek out from between my fingers. A couple of quick shots of Mickey for proof.
Zooming in on the pictures, I frown. The man looks…broken. The left half of his face droops badly, and as I watch him out of the corner of my eye, he limps away, looking more like an invalid than the most ruthless mob boss in the country.
“Ricci’s gonna love this.” Sylvio chu
ckles as he releases me, then takes my arm and leads me down the row away from Dahlia. “Just walk slowly.“
We stop at the edge of the parking lot while Sylvio digs for the keys to his black sedan. I turn, and Mickey’s gone. A Lyft pulls up at the other end of the lot, and Dahlia hurries for it. Thank God, otherwise Sylvio would probably have insisted we take her right now.
“We’re going back to the house,” the big man says as he opens the driver’s side door. “We’ll pick up Paulie and then go for Dahlia at her hotel.”
“No.” Sliding into the car across from him, I shake my head. “This one’s mine. You said it yourself. I need something to prove to Ricci that I’m back. That I can do everything I used to do. I’ll grab her.”
“Not without backup you won’t.” Turning onto the highway, Sylvio checks his watch.
“Goddammit, I can do this. She’s a natural submissive. Yeah, she’s feisty, but I know how to keep her quiet. I know the layout of the hotel. Where the laundry carts are. And how to get into her room. You two want to be down in the garage, fine. But no one goes into her room but me. No one puts their hands on her but me.”
Sylvio shoots me a look that tells me I’m on thin ice, and I scramble to find a reason why he and Paulie can’t go up with me. They’ll hurt her. I know them too well. Ricci too. I can’t save her. Can’t stop them from taking her. But I can protect her until I can figure out a plan.
“I’m doing this, man. She’ll trust me, because she’s done it before. I had her eating out of my fucking hand at Whips and Chains, and I know how to get her to do it again. Drop me at my apartment, then meet me at the hotel at 1:00 a.m. Park in the garage and bring a blanket.”
“If you screw this up,” he warns, “Ricci will kill you.”
“I won’t. Where are we going to take her?”
With a snort, he shakes his head. “You’ll find out once we have her. Just get her down to the car without being seen. Leave the rest to us.”
Leave Me Breathless: The Black Rose Collection Page 73