by Denise Wells
I nod. Not sure what else to say, I don’t know myself what he was doing there or if he truly plans on buying and selling women. My father is not a nice man. He’s not a decent man. But even I thought he’d draw the line at human trafficking. Especially after what happened to Katya.
“You didn’t know he was here? In the US?” Al asks, grabbing a bottle of vodka from the side table along with four glasses and pouring us each a healthy shot before taking her seat across from me.
“No. Not that he keeps me apprised of his plans though. He could be in and out of the States a hundred times without telling me and I’d never know. Hell, he could be in and out of Santa Caranina a hundred times and I wouldn’t know.”
If my father had a superpower, it would be his ability to be everywhere at once. To know everything at once. He’s omniscient like a god in that respect. I grew up under his tutelage and I still don’t know how he does it.
I finish my vodka and hold my glass out for a refill.
“The likelihood that he’s buying or selling is slim because of Katya, right?” Al downs her shot and pours us both another.
I nod, letting the second shot slide down my throat slowly, relishing the burn as it makes its way through my system.
“So, really, we know nothing,” Roxie adds unnecessarily.
“What would you like us to do?” Jen asks. Of the girls who work with me, which in the last few weeks has dropped to just these three, she’s the quietest. The one you would least expect to be a killer. Al and I are similar in personality and stature—calculated, meticulous, tall, and thin. Whereas Roxie reminds me more of Quinn if I’m to compare her to someone I know, with her curvy figure, bubbly personality, and tendency to act before she thinks. But Jen is somewhere right in between. Always watching, rarely speaking, forever thinking, and constantly suspicious.
Jen’s story is brutal. All the girls have horrible pasts, but Jen’s is the worst. And she has the scars to prove it. Literally and figuratively.
I realize she’s still looking at me, brows raised, waiting for an answer to her question. Which I’d almost forgotten she’d asked.
“I’m not sure yet,” I say honestly. “If he’s involved, I won’t hesitate to take him out.”
“Or at least try to,” Al adds.
I nod and laugh, my tone sardonic. Because she’s right. Even though I’m not afraid of men like my father or Ronan Sinclair, I’m also not one hundred percent sure I could win in a war against them. One on one? I stand a decent chance. But a full-blown war? I just don’t have the resources they do.
“I’ll call him tomorrow and see if I can find out what he’s doing.” I pour myself a third glass of vodka, this one double the amount of Al’s usual pours, still not feeling the calming effects of the alcohol in my system.
“Can you girls just stay on alert and be ready for anything?”
“So, business as usual?” Roxie asks with a grin.
“Yes.” I raise my glass. The girls return the gesture and we cheer to what has become our unofficial mantra. “May we forget it enough to get over it, remember it enough so it doesn’t happen again, and not stop until we’ve made ourselves proud.”
4
Daria
A ringtone chimes through my phone I am not enthused to hear. Given everything that is going on my father is the last person I want to talk to. I haven’t been able to figure out why he’s in town, or why he was at the auction, and I don’t enjoy talking to him when I’m unprepared. And right now, I am definitely not prepared.
Even though I had plans to call him, I still haven’t done it. And if I don’t answer, he’ll continue to call until I do. Or he’ll show up at the bar unannounced. Or worse, have a couple goons come grab me and drag me into his car. He’s good at that.
“Father,” I answer.
“Daria, my dear, how are you?”
“I am well, Father, thank you for asking.” I wait for him to continue talking, or at the very least give me a hint as to why he’s calling. He can’t possibly know that I know he’s here. Can he?
“Did you have a nice vacation?”
“It wasn’t really a vacation.”
“No? Two weeks in Maldives sounds like a vacation to me.”
“We were following a lead. Did I not mention that?” I know that I did. He knows exactly why I was there.
“And how did that go? Have you caught the man responsible for your sister’s death?”
“Not on that trip, no.”
“Oh, you’ve caught him otherwise?”
Fucking, fuckety fuck. I hate it when he plays these games. He knows everything that’s happening, yet he’ll continue to bait me into saying something that he can use against me.
“No.”
“So, a trip that did not result in anything productive still sounds like a vacation.”
“I believe we are closer to getting somewhere.”
“You are not. David Tremblay is now dead. Unless I’m mistaken, he was your only lead, no?”
“Yes, he was.” This is what I’m talking about. He has a way of taking a conversation that seems normal and turning it into something that exists solely to make you feel incredibly stupid about yourself.
“And that is why I am taking over.”
Ty che, blyad?
What the fuck?
“Father, I don’t think that’s necessary. I have everything under control, and we are close to—”
“We? As in you and your little boyfriend?”
Shit, he knows about Mack. I should have known he knew about Mack. It was foolish for me to think otherwise.
“No, me and the girls.”
“Ah, yes. Your Dirty Darlings, is it? May I presume under control enough that you had time to take over two weeks off for a vacation?”
My fists clench, one at my side, the other around the phone. He‘s not going to make this easy. So, I attempt to turn the tables, let him know that I know he’s here.
“Is that why you’re here in America?” My anger rings true in my tone.
“There’s my girl,” he enthuses. “And tell me, how did you know that I was here.”
“I saw you.” If he is involved in any sort of trafficking, I may just kill him. “At the auction.”
“Ah.”
“What were you doing there, Father?”
“I think from this point, it is only I who will ask the questions, Daria.”
“Are you buying and selling women?”
He’s silent on the other end of the line.
I sigh heavily.
He waits another beat before talking. “Daria, if you have the energy for a boyfriend and break enough for a vacation, you clearly have prioritized none of your time appropriately. Now sounds like the right opportunity for you to return to Moscow, no?”
His voice is soft as he asks his questions and proves his points. To anyone who didn’t know him, it may appear he is caring and concerned. But really, he is controlling and manipulative. The soft voice is used to lure his prey into complacency before he moves in for the kill.
I love my father because he is my father. But I would not consider our relationship to be close. I think in some ways, he blames me for Katya’s death. As though I could have stopped her from doing anything. I couldn’t. She would not have listened to me. She never listened to anyone.
I think back to the night we went to a party at Andrei Turgenev’s for the first time.
“How can you stay so calm, Dar? There are going to be Hollywood actors at this party,” Katya asked.
“You don’t know that for certain,” I said. “And even if there are, what are you going to do?”
“Walk up to them and tell them how much I love them. Maybe it will be Tom Cruise.”
“Doubtful,” I snickered.
“Or Chris Hemsworth.”
“Even more so.”
“Liam Hemsworth and Miley Cyrus!”
“I thought you said they broke up?”
“They always get ba
ck together.” She flicked a hand at me like I’m the foolish one in this conversation. “Well, I know for certain there will be a big-time producer there. Nico told me so.”
“Who is this Nico guy, anyway?”
“I told you. He’s a Hollywood talent scout.”
“For who?”
“For Hollywood.”
“It’s not like the city is its own entity and has employees. He can’t work for Hollywood; he has to work for someone in Hollywood. A production studio or a network.”
“You just like to pooh on my fun,” Katya pouted.
“I do not. What I do like is to remain levelheaded and not get too excited. What I also like is to make sure that our stay here is fun for both of us and that one of us doesn’t get carried away.”
“We all know you mean me. I hate that you mean me.” She paused for a moment. “You do mean me, right?”
“Not necessarily. Don’t take it so personally. You and I both know you have a tendency to jump before you look.”
She rolled her eyes at me, dismissively. My father spoiled her to the point of ruin. I don’t know what it is about her that father regarded so much higher than me. My grandmother once said it was because he felt threatened by powerful women, especially any in our family. Which is weird, all things considered.
My parents were very distant cousins who shared the same last name. They were united at a young age in an arranged marriage, but it worked for them and eventually, they fell in love. However, my father was always slightly bitter about my mother being a better shot, a better killer, a better fighter. She wasn’t stronger, but she was faster and craftier and sometimes that’s all it takes to win.
And when her opponent was my father, she almost always won.
I realized at a young age, from watching my father and his devotees, that few men can handle being with a woman who is stronger, richer, and/or more successful. Though my mother was not wealthier or physically stronger, she was smarter and more successful, and my father had a hard time with that even though he loved her. A battle he waged within himself up until the day that she died. After my mother was killed, my father took all that jealousy and transferred it to bitterness over her death. So, now he’s still angry and unsettled, albeit more so because of his grief.
As much as I hate to admit it, I think a small part of him is relieved she’s gone. Because now he doesn’t have to worry about not being top dog. No matter the circumstance, he will come out on top. Even if for no other reason than because none of his men would dare go against him.
If he weren’t so torn up over my mother’s death, I might think he’d been responsible for it. But the grief he’s displayed is just as real as mine.
I return my attention to the conversation I’m having now with that same man. “I don’t need to return to Moscow. And I don’t need your help.”
“It is too late for that. You’ve had more than enough time to take care of this without success.”
“Father, you can’t just go in and start randomly killing people. It doesn’t work like that here.”
“I do what I wish.”
“It’s not like Russia.”
“Do you think I don’t have control here? That I don’t know what I’m doing?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Then remain silent.”
I nod in acquiescence even though he can’t see me.
“I’m taking over, Daria. You no longer need to worry yourself with anything regarding Katya and her death.”
“Father—”
“I’m uncertain why you think this is up for debate, Daria. It is not. My mind is made up. You will step aside, you will not get in my way, you will watch how to properly avenge the death of your sister. Perhaps you will learn something.”
My face heats with anger. I’m tempted to hang up on him. This is not for him to decide. I’m the one who was here with Katya, the one who tracked her down, found her broken body, killed the men in the house with her, released the other women held captive. The one who now has systems in place for helping such women in similar situations.
He won’t care about any of that. He’ll just go in and start shooting. No regard for who he hits, no care taken to protect the innocent, no one left alive to bear witness to any atrocity his men commit.
“I would appreciate the opportunity to help any victims you come across,” I tell him.
“Victims?”
“Women held against their will.”
“That can be arranged.”
“Thank you.” I don’t know what else to say to him, if anything. I can’t go against him with this, he’s my father. The smartest thing for me to do is to agree with him and hope for the best. “Where will you begin?”
“That is to be decided. But I believe I obtained solid information at the auction I can use to proceed.”
I’m being dismissed. “Good luck, Father.”
“Thank you, Daria. I would like for us to have dinner at least once while I’m here.”
“I would like that too. Let me know and I’ll make sure I’m available.”
“Very well. I’ll be in touch.”
He disconnects the call before either of us can say anything else. The invitation to dinner is the only gesture of love or praise I will get from him. The Limonovs are not an affectionate bunch. Strong? Yes. Rich? Obscenely. Ruthless? To the core. Loyal? Until death. But the utterance of a tender phrase has no place amongst such esteemed traits.
Disheartened, I grab my phone to text Quinn.
ME: Wanna drink wine and watch movies?
I wait for the three dots to appear showing her reading and responding. When it doesn’t happen right away, I set my phone down and go to the restroom to wash my face. Somehow the act of washing my face and the result of then having a clean face, is relaxing and rejuvenating for me. Something I desperately need after my conversation with my father.
Quinn has not responded by the time I’ve finished. So, I hit the button to call her, but get her voicemail immediately. Like her phone is off. So, I reach out to Mack on the off chance he’s heard from her.
ME: Have you heard from Quinn lately?
MACK: Not since Reed ditched her.
MACK: Everything okay?
ME: Not sure. Can’t reach her. I’m going to run over to her house.
MACK: Let me know. Be careful.
ME: I will. Thx.
Quinn doesn’t live far from me, and the drive over only takes about ten minutes. She lives in a nice neighborhood in an above the garage apartment owned by an older couple. In general, they keep an eye out for her, which I appreciate.
I park on the street and look up at her apartment. The blinds are all closed, which is unusual for Quinn during the day. But if she’s not feeling well, or if she’s sad about Reed, it would make sense.
I use my key to let myself in, softly knocking as I open the door. “Quinn?”
My call out is met with silence. I see right away that she’s not in the living room or kitchen. I head down the short hallway to her room. Also empty. As is the bathroom.
Where is she?
I text Mack.
ME: She’s not here. Can you reach Reed?
MACK: I can try. But it’s doubtful.
ME: I’ll put Alyssa on it.
MACK: Good plan. Do you need my help?
ME: I’ll let you know.
I lock Quinn’s house back up and call Alyssa while I’m on my say to my car.
“Hey, boss,” she answers.
“Hey, can you track Quinn’s phone for me? See where it is or where it was last used?”
“Sure. You coming by or want me to call you back.”
“I’ll come by. Office or your house?”
“Office.”
“See you soon.” I hope to hell Alyssa can track Quinn’s phone, if not, I have no fucking idea where she is.
5
Mack
The chief calls me back into his office before I have time to do anything mo
re.
“I got bad news, and I got worse news. Which do you want first?”
“Bad news.”
“The only guy I got to give you right now is Andrews.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, certain I must have heard him wrong because there’s no way in hell he just said I have to partner with Andrews, right?
“Come again?” I stick a finger in my ear and rotate it, as though I’m cleaning it out to hear him better.
“You heard me.”
“I’ll go solo.”
“You can’t go solo.”
“I work better alone, anyway.”
“You know the rules, Murph. And I break a lot of them for you. But I can’t break this one, sorry.”
“Fuck me. When?”
“He’s on his way now.”
“Well, shit. If that’s the bad news, what’s the worse news?”
“Nick Moony just turned up dead.”
“Goddamn it!” I turn to punch something before I remember where I’m at and try to reign it in.
Mother fucker!
“What happened?” I ask.
“Hung himself. Though I doubt it was self-inflicted.”
“Shit. Okay. I guess we’re back to square one.” I turn to leave the office, turning back as I hit the doorway. “Oh, chief?”
“Yeah?”
“You got that backwards. Andrews is definitely the worse news of the two.”
“Get outta here, ya’ dick.” He throws a crumpled piece of paper at me. I duck even though it wouldn’t hurt if it hit me.
When I get back to my desk, Andrews is already sitting across from me, in Reed’s chair. Rocking back and forth like he’s self-soothing and tapping his pencil against his forehead.
It’s how he thinks.
Fuck my life.
“That your girl?” Andrews asks with a nod toward my phone.
“It’s official business. Possible missing person,” I say.
“You always smile like that over a missing person?”
“Smile like what?” I play dumb. Not sure why. It’s not like Daria is a secret. Except, I guess she is. Just because she is finally willing to give it another try doesn’t mean I’m any less employed by the FBI or that she’s not still guilty of a million different crimes. To validate my own decision, I realize the less Andrews knows, the better.
