I finish a bun and hand the box to Anita; she passes me another one. As I take it, our eyes meet. "You told me before that you'd support me no matter what I decided, that you'd help me disappear if that's what I wanted."
Her eyes turn grave. "I will," she promises. "Freedom is often more important than life itself."
"I'm not planning on dying, Anita."
"No one is, Sydney. No one ever is."
Chapter Five
Lenox
A message alert chimes. I reach over and pull my phone from its cradle. Anita.
I put in my code and read it. Call when you wake.
Petra shifts next to me, rolling over and throwing a thin arm across my chest. Her pale skin stands out against the darkness of my own.
I slide out from under her embrace and head to the bathroom. Freshened up, I go into the kitchen and start a pot of coffee.
It’s dreary and wet this morning, colder than early fall usually is in Istanbul, but climates are shifting the world over. The street below our window shines with last night's rain. The grocer on the corner, Ahmed, is opening his shop. The gate rises with a rattle, and he pauses to blow on his hands before unlocking the door.
The coffee machine gurgles, and I glance back to it before gathering milk and sugar.
I take a cup into the bedroom. Petra enjoys it light and sweet… nothing like her personality. She blinks her eyes open as I place it on the side table. A smile curls her lips. "Thank you, my pet," she says in Ukrainian. I brush a kiss across her forehead before returning to the kitchen and my own mug of coffee.
I go to the safe, removing my laptop and other communication equipment, and sit on the couch. I set up the hotspot and key in my code. Petra comes out of the bedroom, wraps her arms around my shoulders, and kisses the side of my neck.
"Have you decided what to do with the girl?" She stands, her arms slipping away. "We paid a heavy price for someone so useless to us. You showed Yusuf a piece of your true self. And now we owe him."
"I could not leave her there," I answer, pulling my laptop from its bag and putting it on the coffee table, leaving my lap free, anticipating that Petra will want to climb into it. She comes around the couch and stands in front of me.
"It has only been a day, Lenox, but you cannot leave her at The Dragon's Cage forever." We dropped her at one of our clubs before heading home. She left Yusuf's suite with just the dress she wore and barely spoke two words the entire cab ride. We both knew she did not want to be a sex worker.
"I know. I’m sorry that it’ll cause us trouble."
Petra rolls her eyes. "Lenox," she purrs, "you are such a good negotiator if you keep your heart out of it. Please." She steps closer and puts a knee on the couch by my thigh, leaning over me. "Do not do something that stupid again."
I smile as she throws her other leg over my lap and rests her weight onto me. "I will try."
She puts a hand on each cheek and stares down at me. "I worry about you."
It's as close to “I love you” as we'll ever get.
I tilt my chin, and she lowers her mouth to meet mine. We kiss deeply, her hips shifting on my lap, and she lets out a soft moan. "Go get in the shower," I tell her. She raises a brow. "I must make a private call."
She laughs and stands. "You are too much, Lenox Gold."
The shower turns on as I boot up my laptop. You awake? I text Anita. It's 8:00 a.m. in Istanbul, so after midnight in Miami. Yes, she responds quickly.
I put in my earbuds and dial her number, using the app that Dan installed on my computer. It allows for private conversations away from prying eyes and ears. "What's going on?" I ask when she picks up. Last we'd spoken, everyone was back at the hotel safe and sound after a harrowing escape from a gang of incels at a refugee center in hurricane-ravaged Miami. Everyone except Robert Maxim, who apparently was shot and killed. I'll cry a river next time I cut an onion.
Anita sighs. "It's been a bloody crazy forty-eight hours."
I respond with an affirmative sound but don't speak. She needs space to talk.
"First I get a frantic text from Mulberry saying that Sydney is bleeding profusely, barely conscious and headed for the hospital. She's okay—it was a complication from the pregnancy," Anita is quick to add. "And the baby is fine."
Good. Though a miscarriage could be a blessing. I have no idea how she will raise a child. Our enemies will work hard to destroy it, and therefore Sydney. It makes her extremely vulnerable.
"So I get to the hospital and everything is fine. Sydney is, of course, being a pain in the ass." There is a note of humor in her voice. “Then I get back here, and Dan calls a few hours later to tell me his mother is sick, he’s headed halfway across the world to be with her, and he is leaving everything in Rachel's hands."
"Rachel?" I turn the name over in my mouth. "She took over as his second-in-command after..." I leave the unfortunate incident of the infiltration and blackmail of Dan's team hanging in the air. Anita and I both know what happened. There is no need to rehash it. My eyes drift to the window. Ahmed is building a tower of oranges now.
Without that infiltration, I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't have met up with Petra again. I wouldn't be in charge of a network of brothels. Ian McCain's brothers would still be alive, and Yusuf wouldn't be my problem.
"Yes, that's right," Anita confirms my assumption about Rachel. "So he is flying to New Jersey right now."
"I see, and you are still in Miami. Sydney is with you?"
"Yes, but she is, get this, going to Spain."
"Why?"
"Fuck if I know."
"Anita, you sound frustrated."
"I am! Sorry to yell. Sorry, Lenox." She sighs. "We need to have a council meeting. I've spoken with Merl briefly. Mulberry is going to head to Costa Rica and help out there and also just get out of the way." She gives a sharp laugh. "He's all kinds of messed up about Sydney going to Spain. She said she needs a break from everything."
"I imagine. That makes sense for both of them. The looming responsibility of motherhood coupled with the physical limitations of her growing pregnancy will be an extreme challenge for Sydney. And for Mulberry, I can see it must be very frustrating to be so emotionally involved with someone so incapable of vulnerability."
Anita laughs. "You are..." Her voice fades away into a breathy laugh. A smile tugs at my lips. "You're right. Very well put, Lenox. You should have been a therapist."
"My profession is not so different. I've always done more listening than anything else."
She laughs again. "That makes total sense." Her voice sounds more relaxed. Listening can ease so much stress and pain. But it is difficult for many. I wait in silence to see if Anita has more she needs to share. "Would a council meeting in two hours work for you?" Anita asks.
"Yes." The shower turns off, and I hear Petra moving around in the bathroom. "Talk to you then."
We hang up, and I return my equipment to my bag. Petra comes out dressed for the day in tight jeans, a beige turtleneck, and stockinged feet. "Will you run down and get some fruit? I crave papaya, and we are out," she says, pouring herself another cup of coffee.
“If you wish." I move toward the door, swiping my phone, gun, keys, and wallet off the table by the door. I put the small pistol into the belt holster at my low back and pull my shirt over it. When I turn back to Petra, she is standing at the kitchen bar, watching me with that strange intensity. Our eyes meet, and unspoken truths flitter in the air between us.
We've made promises to remain loyal to each other in practical ways, but the vulnerability that Mulberry begs from Sydney is not on the table. Neither of us have offered or asked for that depth of connection. Are either of us even capable of it?
"I'll be right back."
She smiles, her lips bare and eyes still puffy from sleep.
I wonder if that deeper connection can sneak up on you, lie in the grass waiting as a snake does, enjoying the warmth of the sun, then strike, poisoning and paralyzing from a place that momen
ts ago was utter stillness.
"Ahmed, Gunaydin," I say as I approach the fruit and vegetable stand. The sun has peeked from between the clouds, and I didn't bother with a jacket. A cool breeze whips through my thermal shirt, and I shrug off the chill.
Ahmed turns from where he is crouched, organizing watermelons. A thin man with narrow shoulders and thick black hair that catches the light like a record, he grins when our eyes meet.
"Good morning!" He knows I’ve exhausted my Turkish. He stands and turns to a stack of papayas. "Very fresh today. And Frida, she made you some more yogurt."
"Wonderful, thank you, and please thank your sister." He moves to the small fridge behind the counter and pulls out a jar, placing it next to the old-fashioned cash register.
"I think she will be sorry she missed you." Ahmed waggles his eyebrows and bursts into laugher.
I shake my head, ignoring the insinuation as I pick out a papaya. His sister is barely eighteen and mad for me. Petra says I encourage her, but really all I am is polite. Placing the papaya on the counter next to the yogurt, I pull out my wallet.
A bill slips free and flutters to the ground. As I bend to pick it up, I hear the sharp sound of glass cracking, and Ahmed sucks in a breath.
I glance up to see him tip to the side. My heart thunders. Staying low and hidden behind the fruit display, I crawl around the counter. Ahmed lies on his side, his eyes wide and fearful. The man's hands grip his stomach. Blood seeps from between his clenched fingers.
Ripping my shirt over my head, I press it to the wound with one hand while wrestling my phone free with the other. "Hold this," I tell Ahmed. He wraps his bloody hands around the shirt.
Dialing 112, I press the phone to Ahmed's ear. Using my free right hand, I pull the gun from my waist holster.
Ahmed speaks in pained tones.
"Ahmed?" Frida's head pops over the counter. Her eyes widen.
"Get down!" I command. She doesn't move. "Now!" I seethe. Her eyes move off her brother to me.
Frida's oval face, framed by a navy head scarf, is pale. Her eyes land on the pistol in my hand, and she jerks as if slapped. "You shot him?" Her voice is a bare whisper of pain and fear.
"No, get down!"
Instead, she turns and runs into the street, screaming for help. No one shoots her. Sirens stir to life in the distance. Yogurt drips off the counter and mixes with the blood on the floor.
I rise to my knees, keeping my head down. The shooter is probably in the building where Petra and I have an apartment. It's got the best advantage. Taking my phone back from Ahmed's ear, I hang up on emergency services—they are on their way—and call Petra.
She doesn't answer. I can see our window, but the sun glints off it, obscuring any activity inside. I dial her again, and this time there is an answer. "Lenox Gold," Ian McCain's Irish brogue reaches across the line.
"Ian," I say, scanning the shop, shutting down all emotion. The best actors can turn it off as much as on. I start to crawl toward the back door, keeping close to the fruit displays so that a sharpshooter won't be able to see me.
Frida is still screaming, and the sirens are growing closer. I reach up and turn the knob of the back door. As it swings open, a brush of cold air caresses my naked chest, raising goose bumps. The storage room. I've never seen a truck pull up to the front of the shop, so deliveries must come through the back.
I crawl in and shut the door behind me, cloaking the room in darkness. "You want Petra back?" Ian asks.
The air is thick with the sweet scent of fresh fruit and the crisp coolness of produce. "She's alive then?" I ask, switching to speaker so that I can turn on the flashlight. Ian laughs as I run the beam over shelves lined with cardboard boxes.
"Yes, she's alive," Ian answers. "I plan to have some fun with her." The insinuation is clear, but Ian continues. "I'm going to fuck her like the bitch she is." My body stiffens, but I keep moving. Sometimes we must remove ourselves from our body and allow it to work without the conscious mind interfering.
"What do you want?" I ask as my light hits a back door. I move toward it, one hand holding the phone, the other gripping my pistol.
I turn the deadbolt and yank the door open. Sunlight streams in with no shadows from unseen attackers. But there is a truck, old and battered and just begging to be stolen—as if Ahmed needed anymore crap luck today.
"What do I want?" Ian asks. "I want my brothers back!" His voice rises in anger. Anger leads to mistakes.
Glancing around the storage room, I spot a red toolbox. A screwdriver waits in the top compartment. "But since that's impossible," Ian goes on, "I'll take Petra's life, after I've used her up." I find a wrench under a greasy rag in the bottom.
"If you kill her, what will that do?" I ask, moving out the door into the now sun-filled day. It warms my bare skin, and I squint against the glare.
Ian laughs as I pull open the unlocked driver's side door of the truck. "Revenge, obviously," Ian says. "What possible reason would I have to let her live?"
"She is valuable to me."
He laughs again, a big, broad sound that rolls out of the phone as I lower the visor. No key. I wedge the screwdriver into the key cover.
“How valuable?” Ian asks, his voice dipping lower.
The key cover comes off in my hand, and I use the screwdriver to pull the plastic away from the key mount. “How much do you want?” I ask.
“You think I want money?” Ian asks. “Do you think there’s a price, a monetary price that can make us even?”
I put the screwdriver down and pick up the wrench, opening it to fit around the ignition turnstile. “If it’s not money you want, then what?” Sweat trickles down my nose, and I swipe at it. Despite the chilly day and my bare skin, I'm hot.
“Come back to your apartment,” Ian says. “We will negotiate. Yusuf says you're quite the negotiator.” I clamp the wrench onto the key mount and turn. The engine rumbles to life.
“Come back to the apartment? What will stop you from killing me and Petra?”
Ian laughs again. “Petra’s not worth risking your life over?"
“You're not asking me to risk it. You’re asking me to offer it up on a silver platter.” I take the phone off speaker and hold it between my ear and shoulder as I pull the truck out into the road and start down the alleyway.
“I’ll catch you eventually. If you come now, I’ll let you both die quickly.”
It’s not a bad offer, not really, but one of the key tenets in negotiations is to never take the first offer. I turn onto the main road and start navigating away from the apartment. “How about instead, you let her go and I let you live?” Open with a big ask...
Ian chuckles softly. “You’re in no position to negotiate. Come here now, and I’ll be kind enough to kill you quickly. Make me hunt you down, and I promise you’ll regret it.”
“You’ll make me regret it?” I mirror him.
“That’s right."
“It seems like you think I deserve a painful death.”
“I do.”
“You're angry,” I surmise.
“I’m beyond angry. I will have my revenge on you. I will take it on Petra now. She will be dead before sunrise. She’ll be begging for it by nightfall. You could change all that. You are choosing her death for her.”
“Only God can choose our death, Ian.”
“That’s wrong. Only God can choose where we go after we die. Men decide each other’s departure every day. You chose for my brothers. Petra’s in my hands; you will be as well soon." His breath is heavy.
"I will be in your hands soon," I mirror again.
He laughs, and I hear movement on the other side of the line, as though he is walking through the apartment. "I’m going to go now. Your woman awaits my attention. See you soon, Lenox.”
He hangs up. I take the phone from my ear and throw it on the passenger seat, concentrating on the traffic ahead. I have until nightfall, perhaps even until sunrise to save her life.
Chapter Six<
br />
Lenox
The door slides to the side, and a pair of brown eyes blink at me through the opening. I tilt my head and raise a brow, indicating for her to open the door.
The locks disengaged with a solid clunk of metal, and Anna opens the door of The Dragon's Cage. She gives me a shy, confused smile. Probably wondering why I’m here so early in the day and why I don’t have a shirt on.
I don’t answer those questions. I offer her a reassuring smile as I step into the building, closing the door and setting the locks. “Is Johnathan up yet?” I ask. She shakes her head. “Okay.”
I move through the bar area, its silk-draped walls and plush furnishings recently installed. The brothel doesn’t open for hours, but most of the girls and our manager sleep on-site.
Ian knows this location. It used to belong to him, but he'd never recognize it. The air is perfumed by an incense infuser, and the bar is stocked with top-shelf liquors. When he and his brothers ran it, the women were prisoners, the drinks half poison, and the air fetid.
We removed the former manager and put one of my lieutenants in charge with plans to train one of the women to run it. Her maternity leave began last week, so we had several months to set up our systems. We still do, I remind myself.
Petra and I always expected Ian to come after us. Petra worked with the McCain brothers for a decade before attempting to enlist me in their plans to destroy Joyful Justice. Instead, I convinced Petra to join me in bringing freedom and justice to the sex trade.
There is nothing inherently wrong with selling one’s body for pleasure. Criminalizing the sale of women’s bodies is another form of patriarchal control. And because it is illegal, women need protection not only from clients but also law enforcement creating an even larger loss of power.
This is why for a long time I only traded men. But Petra convinced me that the only way to truly change the business was from the inside. And so I agreed to take over the brothels and trade routes she’d run with the McCain brothers.
We always knew Ian would come for his revenge. This is not a surprise, and we are not without resources or protocols in place. Like Yusuf, we prepare.
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