At least she’s consistent, and more than once, I’ve teased her that she must use the same rhythm with her boyfriends.
I open the door, leaning against the frame, “Hey, Sis. You know, I was hoping you were Theo James, come to ravish me and give my loud neighbors something to really aspire to noise-wise.”
She smiles, but it’s not her usual wide grin, and she quickly looks left and right, scoping out my hallway like the boogeyman is gonna jump out at her.
It’s then that I notice how she’s dressed.
Blue jeans, a generic white tee, and a red ball cap pulled down low over her face. And though I can’t see her expression since she’s dropped her head again, I can read her energy that something is wrong.
Claire pushes past me into the apartment, watching as I close and lock the door behind me. But she comes back to peek out the peephole.
She still hasn’t said a word, so I try again. “Uh, hi?” I offer, not sure what’s going on.
Claire is an FBI agent, but she’s always compartmentalized to the extreme so I tend to forget what she does.
Okay, not really forget, but push it to the back of my mind so I don’t worry myself crazy over what her not-at-all 8-to-5 gig happens to be and how dangerous it is.
Finally, she lifts her face fully to me and I can see the fury in her eyes.
“We need to talk. I need a favor, Sis.”
Chapter 3
Emma
“Say that again? You want me to do what?” I ask incredulously, sinking down to a chair at my tiny kitchen table.
I knew Claire was in trouble, but what she’s asking isn’t just out there, it’s Nucking-Futs.
She grabs my hand, squeezing it. “I know, Emma. Trust me, if I had any other way, I wouldn’t ask this of you. But something is up at the office. I don’t know what yet, but I need this intel and I got denied at work. You know I’m a rule follower, black and white, right and wrong to the ninth degree. But I’ve thought this through more times than you can imagine and this is the only way.”
“Okay, speak slowly. Tell me what you want me to do again,” I say, humoring her though the refusal is on the tip of my tongue.
“There’s a guy, Nathan Stone. He’s a big shot in the gem industry, but we strongly suspect he’s got some under the table dealings that aren’t quite so legal. He’s meeting with a Russian crime lord, Nikolai Romanov. In fact, he’s throwing him a party. Stone’s really rolling out the red carpet for Romanov, and I need to know why. This party is a perfect opportunity to get some information because Stone is notorious for keeping a small circle, and even then, he doesn’t share intel with them. The only one who knows all his dirty secrets is his brother, and he’d never say a bad word about Nathan.”
Her explanation sounds more like a movie plot than real life, but I guess it is her life.
I’m probably a wuss because my next thought is Better her than me, but then I’m reminded that she wants to throw me into this mess.
She’s my big sis and one of the most awesome agents I’ve ever seen, not that I’ve seen many, but this has got to be some sort of sick prank.
Otherwise, she’s lost her damn mind.
I give her the stink eye, challenging, “So, two big bad guys are having a meet and greet, and you want me to go waltzing in like Hostess Holly and start asking questions?”
When she doesn’t disagree with my assessment of her crazy idea, I ask, “You know that’s insane, right? Don’t you have undercover agents for stuff like this, or can’t you make one of the girls spill after the party? Hell, why don’t you do it yourself? You can get gussied up.”
She nods but doesn’t look happy about it. “We do have agents, a whole list of female agents who can get prettied up with the best of them. And trust me, I considered doing it myself. But the op got the red light, which makes absolutely zero sense. Our suspicions are circumstantial at best, but this is our best shot on two big fish like this. If I go in after being told no, it’d be career suicide. If you do it, I have plausible deniability. I hate to say that, but it’s the truth.”
She drums on the table, telling me wordlessly just how nervous she is about this idea. “Look, I know you’re not an agent or anything. But you’re something better.”
She pauses dramatically, like she’s coercing me to give her my best Barbie doll for her old one after she’d chopped its hair. Yeah, that happened, and I haven’t forgiven her even though it was fifteen years ago.
She continues, laying it on thick. “You’re an actress who can get in, strut around a little, and fit in with the other hostesses, but if they start talking gems and stuff, you have a brain in that thick skull of yours that might actually pick up on something important. That’s why I don’t want to use one of the other hostess girls. She’d be an unknown, and what if she’s ditzy as can be? I can’t risk that she might miss something. Don’t go snooping or anything dangerous. Just play hostess and listen. Small talk at most.”
She takes a deep breath, her eyes meeting mine, and I can see the fierceness lurking in their depths. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t the only way, Em. Please.”
“Tell me about the hostesses. I’m not going Pretty Woman hooker for your work, Sis. No matter how big the bust might be.” Though I don’t say yes, she hears that I’ve already decided in my heart. She’s my sister, and I can’t turn her down. Not on something this important, not when she’s virtually begging.
She shakes her head vehemently, unable to hide the smirk at my reference. “No, no, no, not hookers or escorts or anything like that. I mean, some of the girls I’m sure will be gold diggin’, but this will be just like one of Mom’s galas. Walk around, make small talk, and compliment all the men, basically just eye candy.”
She rolls her eyes at the same time I do. We have been to enough of Mom’s so-called charity events and Dad’s business get-togethers to know the routine by heart. Look pretty, play nice, and fawn over the guy’s substantial wallet so he’ll open it up, while making sure our legs don’t go the same way. It’s a role I could play in my sleep because I’ve done it most of my life.
“And the hostess company? How do they feel about me encroaching on their gig?” I ask, looking for any flaw in her plan. But Claire is a pro and has thought of everything.
She pulls a few pieces of paper from her bag, setting them down and slapping an ID on top with a picture of me from a few years ago.
“They won’t even know. The call went out for ten girls, and ten girls will show up. I’m afraid Jessica is due for a little car trouble and she won’t be able to make the party.” Claire’s smirk is one of pure arrogance. “The girls don’t always know each other. It’s a pretty high turnover rate industry, so you’ll just be the new girl.”
I pick up the ID, running my finger along the picture and words. “And my name is Kitty? Seriously, you couldn’t have chosen something a bit less ridiculous? Since you’ve already got my picture on there, I guess you thought I was a pretty sure thing, huh?”
She shrugs, not upset by my biting tone at all. “I strongly hoped you’d do it for me. And I had to do the fake documents on the fly. They’re good, will pass muster, but I had to take what I could get.”
I set the card down and look Claire in the eyes as I take a big breath. “Okay, but if this is like one of my usual acting gigs, I need to know the characters. Who they are, what makes them tick, any advice on getting the details you need. Lay it all out for me, Claire. If we’re going off-assignment at work for you, and into the lion’s den for me, we need to be smart about it.”
She bites her lip and I can see the hesitancy. She needs this, but she’s nervous about sending me into it, or maybe about going against the rules at work.
Or more likely, both. And that is more telling about her desire to run with this scheme than anything else she’s said.
Claire was always the one to look out for me, hiding away from Mom and Dad together to make our own clubhouses, and later, setting the precedent for not being a
trophy wife. No, she went to university and started pre-law, a respectable decision, according to Dad. Not because she’d actually be a lawyer, but because she could speak legalese at her future husband’s parties. He actually told her that.
And when she’d been recruited by the FBI, she’d jumped in with gusto, declaring that she was never getting married and was instead going to love her work.
And she has. Until tonight.
After a moment, her face hardens and she goes into business mode, pulling a file folder from her bag. I vaguely wonder what else she’s got in there since it seems to be the Mary Poppins style of tote, just a Bourne version.
“First, Nathan Stone, oldest son of Michael and Monica Stone. Mom died when they were young, suspected suicide after a bad cancer diagnosis. Michael was a businessman dealing in gemstones but widely suspected of running an underground shadow network of . . .well, basically, treasure. He was legit a treasure hunter, full-on Indiana Jones type, but he was murdered a little over a year ago. Nathan was a soldier. Well, mercenary is more like it, but when his dad was killed, he came home and took over the family mantle. He’s good. Too good, I think. The company has had a huge upswing in profits under him, but I think the true influx of cash is much greater behind the scenes and under the table. I think he’s running an illegal jewel operation that stretches globally and involves multiple people, from government workers to sales reps within respected institutions. We’re talking billions of dollars annually here.”
She spreads her arms wide to emphasize her point, then places a fingertip hard on the table. “That’s the info I need. What he’s doing, how he’s doing it, and where the assets are. You’re not gonna get all that info, but anything will help.”
She pauses to let me confirm that I understand. “Got it. Main lead is Nathan Stone. Soldier, businessman, dangerous, and smart. Who else?”
“The younger brother, Caleb. He’s more the wild child of the family. Works for Nathan doing odd jobs, but we’re not talking running the dry cleaning. More likely, stealing jewels, strong-arming competitors, and the one who gets his hands dirty so Nathan can appear to be above-board. He’s cute, charming, got that whole boy next door façade, but he’s hardcore. Served as a mercenary with Nathan too. Last, but certainly not least, is Nikolai.”
“The Russian crime lord?” I say sarcastically, like that’s something I would ever say on a regular day.
Claire must hear something in my twisted humor that sets her off because she leans forward, getting in my face.
“This is serious, Em. I mean it. If you go in there all casual and get up in something dangerous, I’ll never forgive myself. I need you to understand that this is risky and to be smart.”
“I do. I’m with you,” I reassure her. “Nathan, Caleb, dead mom and dad. And a crime lord in a pear tree.” I singsong to the famous Christmas tune. “Seriously, Claire. I get that this is dangerous. I’m coping with some humor here.”
She closes her eyes for a second, and I think she’s changed her mind, but when they open again, she keeps going. “Okay, Nikolai Romanov. He’s a thug, ruthless and powerful, cruel and smart. Looks a lot like every Russian mob stereotype you’ve seen, but don’t let the central casting looks deceive you. He’s been on the FBI watchlist for a long time because he controls a large territory in Northern Russia, like his own dictatorship. But his organization has tendrils that reach out. His family is the major financier for one of the cartels in South America. He basically owns the land but lets them play shot-caller unless it suits him otherwise. He even has pull in the US, right here in New York, as the distant boss for our local Russian mob hierarchy. As far as we can tell, he’s never committed a crime on American soil. At least not himself, but people have died at his command, and likely at his hand. We’re hoping that this might be our chance to get something on him, and maybe Nathan Stone, all in one swoop.”
“Okay, so Nikolai is the wild card danger. I’ll be extra-careful with him,” I say to show Claire that I’m not taking this lightly.
But she shakes her head. “Not just him. Nikolai is dangerous in a confrontational, impulsive way. Nathan is just as dangerous, but he’s slick, sneaky. I wasn’t sure I should tell you this, but I think you need everything before you walk in those doors.”
I swallow, nervous that after all the crazy shit she just dumped on me, there’s something worse she doesn’t want to tell me. What’s worse than murdered families, thug mafia, and jewels stolen by devious businessmen?
“So, this is all rumor and speculation, but I think it’s a real possibility. Back when Michael Stone was alive, he had an Italian resource named Anna Russo. She was a linguist-slash-historian who worked with him on the more off-book jobs, particularly in Europe.”
“Was?” I ask, dreading the answer.
Claire nods. “Shortly after Michael was murdered, she was found dead in her apartment. She was six months pregnant. Foul play was suspected, but nothing could be proven. We didn’t even find out about it for weeks because the tie between Michael and Anna was quiet and shadowy, and the distance didn’t help. Two intercontinental agencies worked the crimes individually, mostly. Since it happened in Italy, their polizia investigated and the FBI could only do so much. Interpol’s corrupt as shit, and the Italians weren’t interested in our help. But the working theory is that Nathan believed she had something to do with his father’s death and put out a hit on her. An eye for an eye vengeance-type deal.”
“Jesus, that’s awful. Six months pregnant? What kind of monster would do that?” I shake my head, not able to accept the pure evil something like that would require.
Claire takes my hands. “You sure you can do this? I don’t have any other way, but if you don’t want to, I’ll figure something else out. Really, Emma.”
“If these guys are the monsters you say they are, and all you need from me is to play nice at a party and keep my eyes and ears open, I can do that. Let’s just hope I get something that will put these bastards behind bars. The sooner, the better.”
I agree to this madness with bluster and venom, but inside, my heart is pounding and my brain is yelling at my stupidity.
Chapter 4
Carly
After hanging up with Emma, I don’t give myself a moment to back out of the plan I agreed to.
Immediately, I use my phone to book a flight to NYC in a few weeks’ time. I could probably shop around for a better rate, or wait a week to book the ticket, but I might back out if I do that.
But for Emma, I’d do just about anything. And to be fair, she doesn’t know the truly bad stuff since I always glossed over the details, just telling her my parents were malevolent dictators of Carly-land.
She didn’t know about the more sinister side of things in my household. Instead, she was my constant friend who always accepted me, who loved me for who I was and never asked for more. So I click the Book Now button on the non-refundable ticket, ensuring I don’t chicken out.
But even if I am going back to the United States, come hell or high water, I am standing by my decree to not see my parents. I refuse to let their toxic venom back into my life. I’ve had more than enough of it.
“I’ve given you everything, you ungrateful brat! This is how you repay me?”
“You won’t last a day in the real world without me to save you. Stupid girl.”
“You’re a disgrace! Do not call me for handouts. If you walk out that door, you’re dead to us.”
And that was just in our last encounter. There’d been years of verbal beatdowns before that. Never good enough, but expected to do everything to the letter as they prescribed. The perfect little puppet for their storybook life.
And I’d gone along with it for way too long.
Until I realized it was all fake. Every single bit of the life they represented. Just sparkly lipstick on a really ugly pig.
The house? Mortgaged three times over.
The money? Like the house, more debt and show than substance. As soon as Dad
poured it in, it was pouring right back out to support their lifestyles.
The friends? Don’t make me laugh. A cow has more friends in a river full of piranhas.
The reality was, that was the good side. Things got even uglier. Dad gone on ‘work’ trips all the time with assistants half his age, Mom sipping mimosas until it was acceptable to switch to chardonnay, both of them treating me like an unwanted puppy demanding attention. I swear, neither of them had ever given me as much attention as they did when I jumped off their merry-go-round.
And I don’t regret it. I only regret not doing it sooner.
I hadn’t even meant to go so far when the whole mess had started. I’d let them control me, had gone along with their plan to marry me off to the son of one of Dad’s closest business associates, Robert Gunze II.
No, not a junior.
That was far too proletariat.
The marriage would have been essential to my parents, who would have gotten access to both the business connections and the society connections they’d long cherished.
So I’d dated Robert and had been told that he was my fiancé though he’d never proposed.
And I had accepted that it was to be my fate. Until Robert—
No, I’m not going back to that night. The important thing is that he crossed the line and I’d figuratively shoved him back over it and vowed to never let it happen again.
I’d told Dad what Robert had done, expecting him to be as shocked as I was, but he’d been on Robert’s side, horrifically asking me what I’d done to force Robert’s hand.
When I’d said that I wasn’t marrying that asshole, Dad had gone nuclear, angrier than I’d ever seen him as he ranted about working so hard to make this deal go through and how he wouldn’t let his mouthy daughter ruin the whole thing.
Deal.
Not wedding, not marriage.
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