by Portia Moore
“I am,” I tell him, and it’s not a total lie—I am excited to go back to Manhattan. I loved it there when we visited, but the anxious pit in my stomach reminds me that we’re going farther away from my friends and family—what’s left of them anyway—and my roots. “I just wish you would have told me,” I say hesitantly, not wanting to upset him.
“I did tell you, Poppy,” he says, almost placatingly. “Don’t you remember?”
“Well, yes--” I lick my lips nervously, trying to think of how to phrase it carefully. “I just didn’t expect it to be literally the next morning, that’s all.”
His face hardens immediately, and I feel my stomach flip over. His jaw tightens with irritation, his eyes narrowing. “Well, what else do I need to run by you, Poppy? Please, let me know, so I don’t fuck up again.” Everything about his tone is irritated and sarcastic, and I fight to keep anxious tears from springing to my eyes.
How did I end up here, about to marry this man?
“I didn’t say you fucked up,” I whisper. “It was just a surprise. I was just caught off guard. I’m sorry.” I hate my voice, how I sound, wheedling and begging for him not to be angry. I hate that I’m afraid of him. But every conversation feels like a ticking time bomb now, just waiting to explode with one wrong word.
“Don’t you trust me, Poppy?” he asks, smoothing his hand over my hair again. His voice has switched back to tender, almost soothing, and I bite my lip to keep it from trembling. “Don’t you trust me to do what’s best for us?”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Of course I do, Vincent,” I whisper. “I really do.” I’m lying. I just lied to the man I’m supposed to be in love with, my future husband. But what else can I do? If he’s so angry that I questioned our sudden move, what would he say or do if I admitted that I don’t trust him anymore? That everything he said to me last night shattered the last bit of trust I had in him?
His hand moves from my hair to my face, his fingers sliding over my cheek, and then he grips my chin tightly, tilting my face up so that my eyes meet his. His grip on me has turned from gentle to painful, and I whimper without meaning to as his cold green gaze latches on to mine.
“That hurts, babe,” I manage, my pulse suddenly beating hard in my throat. “Vincent--”
He drags my mouth to his and kisses me hard, the way he did outside of the plane, but there’s no passion in it this time, no love. It’s not a lover’s kiss. It’s a reminder that he owns me now, that I’m his, and that I need to remember my place. He doesn’t have to say it out loud for me to understand.
“Go,” he says, releasing my face and waving towards the back of the plane where April and Andrea are sitting. “Go sit with them. I’ve got work to do, and I can’t be distracted.”
I try to ignore the hurt that wells up within me. I feel like a dog, dismissed and slinking away with my tail between my legs. I wonder how much of all that April or Andrea, or both of them, saw. I can’t meet their eyes as I sit down opposite them, looking out of the window at the passing clouds and trying to ignore the knots in my stomach, the sinking feeling in my chest.
How did this happen? No matter how I try, I can’t untangle the series of events that led me here or pinpoint exactly when things spiraled so out of control. All I know is that I don’t have any way out now, and the situation is far beyond anything I can do.
Vincent doesn’t say another word to me for the rest of the flight or the drive into Manhattan from the airport once we land. He holds my hand tightly in the back of the town car, though, as if to remind me of our little conversation on the plane. I don’t look at either April or Andrea because I’m too embarrassed to meet anyone's eyes. I couldn’t even face myself in the mirror at this point.
When we arrive at our new home, I’m greeted by the most gorgeous brownstone that I’ve ever seen, situated on a tree-lined, perfectly kept street on the Upper West Side. Vincent goes up the stairs first with me just behind, and when we step inside, I stifle a gasp. It’s already decorated and furnished, meticulously prepared for our arrival. I follow Vincent through the house as he shows me around, wide-eyed despite myself.
The penthouse in Chicago is beautiful and modern, but this has an old-world, luxurious feel to it. There’s exposed brick everywhere, the living room filled with gleaming hardwood and thick Persian rugs, with velvet curtains at the windows and overstuffed, plush furniture everywhere in front of a massive brick fireplace. The house is three stories with a rooftop deck, with a kitchen full of gleaming brass hardware and new appliances, and a long mahogany table for dinner parties in the adjoining dining room. The bedrooms are all perfectly made up, not a speck of dust anywhere. Our master suite has a fireplace in the bedroom in front of the king-sized, four-poster bed, plus a massive soaking tub in the bathroom.
Vincent takes me all the way up to the deck. It’s flourishing with potted plants and flowers, a firepit, and elegant lounge furniture, as well as a wet bar along one side. He takes one look at my face as I take it all in and beams at me.
“Well, do you like it?” he asks.
I might have had to lie to him on the plane, but as much as I want to hate it after everything he’s done to me in the last twenty-four hours, I don’t have to lie about this. “Of course I do!”
He smiles at me. “You can show me how grateful you are later,” he says with a wink, and I feel my stomach knot again. “Go ahead and get settled in. Andrea is familiar with the house, she can help you. I have more work to do. I’ll be back later.”
I nod without speaking, my mind still tied up with thoughts of what he’ll want from me later and if I’m a good enough actress to give it to him. A beautiful brownstone isn’t enough to turn me on. I can’t think of sex with him without thinking of all the other women that have been in and out of his bed, while I was stupid enough to believe that he was being faithful to me. I don’t know how I’m going to pretend to just forget about that, to act as if I want him when I know I’m not the only one anymore.
I start to walk back down the stairwell that leads into the house when Vincent’s voice sternly booms from behind me. “Don’t forget about the diet that you were given earlier, Poppy,” he reminds me. “I expect you to stick to it here and your training schedule. Andrea knows the address of the gym where your trainer will meet you. She’s based in New York; I flew her into Chicago this morning especially to meet with you.”
It should sound like an extravagance, like the generosity of a loving fiancé who only wants to give me the best, but with my rose-colored glasses gone, I can see it for what it is. Even though he knew we’d be in Manhattan in less than a day, he couldn’t wait for me to meet with the trainer here. He wanted me to know from the minute my day started this morning that his control, from now on, will be absolute.
As we step into the kitchen where April and Andrea are waiting, he slaps me on the ass, his hand gripping one cheek firmly before letting it go. “This is getting a little too fat,” he says, a grin on his face. My face flames red, and I want to melt into the floor and disappear. April and Andrea see and hear all of it, and I can’t look at either of them, but I can hear the hmph that Andrea makes as she walks out of the room.
Vincent goes too, leaving me there almost entirely alone. Not for the first time, I wish more than anything that I could be.
4
Zach
I have the cover down pat—ex-con, did some time in a minimum-security prison for peddling drugs in his neighborhood and stealing a few cars, slapped with a felony charge and just trying to find a means of making his way up in the world now that the “respectable” channels are closed to him. Reliable, tough, knows his way around a fight but will try to talk it out first. I have the “look,” as Special-Agent-In-Charge Blake had said, and I know the type. Hell, more than a few of my friends I grew up with are probably living out that exact life right now. Since I obviously can’t use my real name—I’ve been given a fake name complete with every kind of identification I could possibly need. My birth
certificate, Social Security card, and driver’s license all read Chase West now, as well as the debit card that I’ve been issued. No credit card for me. My cover isn’t exactly the kind of guy who gets approved for an Amex.
I hate the name—I think it sounds like I’m Kim Kardashian’s long-lost child—but I shrug it off as just another part of the job and one that I expected.
What I didn’t expect was to be installed at one of Vincent’s lower-end businesses first, a sketchy bar near the South Side of Chicago known for having good pool tables, looking the other way if you smoked inside, and waitresses who would do a hell of a lot more than serve you a drink if you tipped enough. From my research on Vincent, I know that he owns a lot of glamorous, high-end clubs and restaurants in Chicago alone, as well as a couple of apartment complexes and a high rise or three. But it’s soon clear that the plan is for this to be a slow climb upwards—playing the long game.
The manager who brings me on is one of Vincent’s lower-level guys, a scruffy-looking man in his forties who everyone calls Brick—because he killed a guy with a brick once. He doesn’t talk much and doesn’t bother getting to know me beyond the most basic questions, which is fine with me. The fewer people I have to explain myself to, the better. It’s clear from the start that my “past” as an ex-con gets me some respect from him—it doesn’t seem to matter that my supposed time was for getting busted selling weed, Adderall, and hot-wiring cars, while he was in for a murder that no one seems completely clear on whether it was accidental or not. I did time, and that makes me a brother of sorts in his eyes.
I know from the intel I was given that this particular bar moves smaller shipments of lower-level party drugs. I’m surprised when less than three weeks after I’ve started, Brick asks me to make a run with him.
“Really?” I don’t have to pretend to look surprised—I’d expected it to take longer to get any real trust or traction here. “I’m supposed to work the afternoon shift.”
“Dan will cover it,” he says shortly. “You’re a hard worker, kid; I’ve seen that already. And I need an extra pair of hands.”
He doesn’t mention why he’s short a pair of hands, but I can guess. Those hands—and quite possibly the man attached to them, is probably buried under a pile of concrete or dumped in the lake somewhere. It’s a cold reminder of the stakes in the game that I’m playing. But I’m not as afraid as I probably should be. If anything, I feel like I’ve found my calling. It’s thrilling, pretending to be someone else, knowing that I’m playing them without them even realizing it, and the danger of it too. I’ve been overlooked and underestimated my whole life, but not anymore.
The job itself is simple—pick up a package, deliver it to the appropriate party. Me and two other guys run backup for Brick when he meets the man in an old warehouse a few miles away, and then he promptly chucks the package in the trunk of the car and waves for us to get in so we can get going.
“What happens if we get pulled over, and they’ve got dogs?” I ask. It doesn’t hurt to ask a seemingly stupid question—I’m not meant to be familiar with how this sort of thing works yet. And I’m curious as to whether they have to worry about local police or not.
Brick just snorts. “You don’t have to worry about no cops, son. Not on this side of town, anyway.”
That’s my answer then. As expected, there are dirty cops in Vincent’s pocket, enough to mean his guys can move the product without worrying. We’d expected as much, but it’s good to have the confirmation.
After we deliver the package, which goes as smoothly as anyone could have hoped, Brick drops off the other two guys and takes us back to the bar. As he pulls into the parking space and kills the engine, he turns in the seat to face me, his expression thoughtful. “You did good today,” he says.
“Thanks, man,” I tell him. “I appreciate the trust.”
He peels off a few bills from a roll that he pulls out of his jacket, handing them to me. “Here you go,” he says and then pauses. “How would you feel about making some more money, kid?”
“I’m always interested in more money,” I tell him coolly, careful not to sound too eager.
“I almost hate telling you this because you’ve been a hell of a good worker here at my place. But I’ve been where you are, and I’m not one to deny a man opportunity.” Brick waits for a beat before speaking again, looking at me as if he’s sizing me up.
“A spot’s opened up at one of the big boss’s nicer clubs, real fancy place. One of the big moneymakers. They want someone who can clean up nice but can do some dirty work if need be, and I think you’ve got the look they want. Bigger thing is, they need someone there that they can trust if something goes wrong. I haven’t known you long, but I think you’re a man that can be trusted. You’re smart enough to know who not to screw over at least.” He grins at me, but there’s a threat behind his smile, one that most guys like him have.
“Before you get the job, you’ll have to meet with the boss over there. Keep in mind, it’s a whole different ball game at those places. But I think you’ll be a good fit. Just got to get the okay is all.”
“I won’t let you down,” I assure him.
“Oh, I believe that.”
I finish out my shift at the bar just in time to get across town to where I’m meant to meet with my handler, another agent named Davidson, who I pass information, and keep updated on any changes. I know that he’s going to be looking out for any signs that the job is wearing on me, too, or that I might be slipping. I’m sure he’s been briefed on how hesitant they were to leave me on the case.
We meet in a pub downtown, and I find him tucked into a corner table, far from any prying ears, with a beer that looks like he hasn’t taken a sip of it.
“I’m moving up,” I tell him, keeping my voice cool, even though inwardly I’m fucking ecstatic. I hadn’t expected things to move this quickly, but it just seems like evidence that I’m good at my job. “The manager at the bar recommended me for a spot at one of the big clubs that Vincent owns. I’ve got to meet with the manager there before it’s official, but it sounds like it’s just a formality. I’m sure I’ll get it.”
Davidson frowns. There’s a look on his face as if he wants to say something, but isn’t sure how to put it.
“What?” I lean back, taking a sip of my own beer. “This is good, right? I’m already in.”
The other agent sighs. “Rostov, they didn’t fill you in on this. They wanted to see if you’d make it in first, how well the crew would take to you. But it’s time you know before you make this leap. The last agent that we put in your position who worked this closely to Vincent disappeared.” He pauses, meeting my eyes. “We still haven’t found the body. You’re moving up into a dangerous position by doing this, and you should be aware of it.”
I’d imagined the day I might hear something like that, and I’d thought that I might be more nervous. But I don’t feel the least bit intimidated. I’ve gotten this far, and it sounds crazy, but I’m not afraid of dying. It’s not as if I have that much left to lose. No girl, not much family, no close friends. This job is dangerous, but I’d rather die doing something like this, something worthwhile, than breaking my body every day in a factory like my father until I become a bitter, angry man like he was.
“I appreciate the warning,” I tell him calmly. “This is the job, and I intend to do it to the fullest of my ability. So I’m not afraid of whatever this has in store for me.”
The expression on Davidson’s face says that he thinks maybe I ought to be, but he drops it. “Fill me in on the run,” is all he says, and I do, telling him about Brick asking me along and the tidbit of information that he dropped about the local cops.
“Just keep your head on straight, Rostov, and I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
He doesn’t sound as sure as I’d like him to be. But I let it go, heading home as soon as I’m done giving him the information I have. I’m ready for a drink in my own apartment and a decent night’s sleep.
I make it up to the top of the stairs on my floor, and when I look up, I see a woman standing near my door. My guard immediately goes up as I pause at the landing, wishing for my gun, which is inside the apartment. The woman sticks out like a diamond in a mound of coal. She’s gorgeous, almost as tall as I am, and exotic-looking, with long silky black hair and wide, dark brown eyes fringed with thick lashes. I have to force myself to keep my eyes from wandering too far—she’s got a perfect figure and an ass that fills out her tight skinny jeans in a way that makes my mouth go dry. It makes it all the more suspicious that she’s in this building. In this part of town, even the women who used to be beautiful have long since lost their looks to poverty or drugs, or both.
Before my gaze can wander too far, though, two guys that are at least twice my size appear out of the shadows in the hallway, dressed in identical black suits with expressions that scream, don’t fuck with me.
“I’m Sonya,” she says, a smile on her lips that doesn’t reach her eyes as she holds out one perfectly manicured hand. Her voice has a trace of an island accent, like Rhianna. It’s sexy as hell, and I have to remind myself why I’m here and how dangerous this woman could possibly be. Remember what Davidson said. The last guy in your spot was never seen again.
“I run the Palace, which is where you’ll be working if Brick’s recommendation holds up.”
Shit. This is the boss Brick was talking about? She’s not at all what I’d pictured.