by M. S. Parker
Arik’s voice vibrated inside my head again, and now, as if they were in front of me, I could see Bethany and her guy again. Then she faded out, like a washed out, old photograph and all I could see was him.
The guy.
He was in stark, clear color. Those harsh, cut cheekbones, high, arched eyebrows and dark eyes. Eyes that were almost black. He was handsome, in a cold, brutal way.
Cold.
Brutal.
Yeah, that summed it up.
I’d thought that the first time I’d seen him, and suddenly realized that it hadn’t been with Bethany a few days ago.
“Oh, shit,” I whispered as it slammed into me.
I knew his face alright. His face, yes. But not him.
I’d never seen him in person before that night, but I'd known that face all the same.
“Okay,” Carrie said, her voice holding a note of finality. “That’s it. You’re going to tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t.” Clearing my throat, I turned away from the news cast. A sense of foreboding washed over me, and I had to fight to keep from sending furtive glances all over the place.
“You damn well better,” she retorted. “You’re starting to freak me out.”
“I’m fine.” I’m pretty sure I even sounded like I believed it. Which was good. I didn’t need carry or Gavin to come rushing out looking for me. Not now that I finally figured it out. Not now that I finally solved the damn puzzle.
The last thing I needed to do was put my friends in the same danger I was pretty sure I was putting myself in if I kept digging into Leayna Mance's case.
“I just figured out something pretty important to my case, Carrie. I can’t talk about it, though. And I kind of need to go. It’s important.”
Talk about the understatement of the year.
She huffed out a sigh. “Fine. I wish I didn’t understand that I can’t so well, but a lawyer's oath doesn't change, no matter what type of law we practice. Call me when you can. And whatever it is, kick its ass, okay?”
“Yeah.” I managed a weak smile as I disconnected and stood there, staring at absolutely nothing.
What in the hell was I supposed to do now?
My skin was crawling as I stood out there on the street. It had nothing to do with the stories I’d seen on the news, though, and all to do with the things that I'd finally managed to put together.
My potential witness, the police informant. He'd been Russian. And he'd been connected to Leayna Mance's husband.
Oh shit.
The Russian mafia.
Arik had been so convinced his client was innocent. So convinced that there was something else going on. He was right, dammit.
I’d had more than a few reservations of my own, all of it because things just didn’t add up and Bethany had refused to listen to me. That had rubbed me wrong, although now even that made a twisted sort of sense.
Swallowing hard, I made myself take one step, then another. It wasn’t likely that I had people following me, not really. But if I did, it would be best if I acted normal, right?
That guy in Bethany’s office. He was connected to the mafia. Connected in the worst possible way. He was also wanted. Not just by the NYPD, but by the FBI and probably several other law enforcement agencies. Wanted on the national, and possibly the international, level.
He was a known hit man for the Russian mafia.
And my boss, an assistant district attorney for Manhattan, had been fucking him.
Shit.
Continues in Unlawful Attraction Vol. 5
Unlawful Attraction Vol. 5
Chapter 1
Dena
“Talk about sleeping with the enemy.”
After five minutes of being completely shocked into silence, I finally managed to come up with something to say.
My boss – the Manhattan assistant district attorney who was supposed to be training me, teaching me the ropes, making sure I didn’t screw up or get in trouble – was sleeping with a man suspected of being a hitman from the Russian mafia. This wasn't just a rumor either. Or something I merely suspected. I'd actually seen Bethany McDermott bent over her desk, the strange man I just identified pounding into her from behind.
A chill raced down my spine, and despite the warmth that came with the press of bodies around me, I felt cold.
I could have bundled up in front of a fire and still been cold.
It didn’t help that my clothes were damp. I’d started walking almost automatically after hanging up on Carrie, ending up half-soaked before I even realized it. I managed to take refuge in the nearest coffee shop, along with what felt like half of New York City, but even the smell of coffee hadn't been able to get my mind off of what I'd seen.
But the rain had stopped a few minutes ago, and now I was walking along the street, taking my time as I made my way home.
I had to...
I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk – a cardinal sin in New York City.
Somebody crashed into me, knocking me out of my daze, and I offered a distracted apology as I moved over to the side and stared out into the crowd. I couldn’t keep from looking around me, my eyes bouncing from one face to the next. I didn't know what I was looking for, or maybe hoping to find, but there was something.
I was looking for something.
Somebody.
An attack maybe. I felt like I was caught in a spotlight, that somebody was going to swoop down and pull a gun on me, shoot me for what I'd seen.
I knew something now, didn't I? Did that make me a risk? Someone who needed to be eliminated? Was that how it worked?
“You’re being paranoid,” I muttered.
But even as that thought faded from my mind, I realized something crucial. I couldn’t go back to the office on Monday. What was I going to do? Confront Bethany? No way in hell. But then who could I talk to? I didn’t know anybody at the DA’s office I trusted well enough for something this potentially deadly. For all I knew, there were half a dozen dirty ADA's.
To be honest, outside of Carrie, Krissy, and Leslie, the list of people I’d trust with this information was decidedly short. And I wasn't going to put any of my friends in danger. They might claim to be able to take care of themselves, and maybe they could, but I sure as hell wasn't going to put that to the test. Maybe Gavin or DeVon, if he'd been on this side of the country. But maybe not even them. They were Alpha Male with a capital A. They would've called the cops and not let me out of their sight.
A face flickered through my mind and I went rigid.
Arik.
I could go to Arik.
That would probably be the stupidest thing to do, but the moment the thought crossed my mind, the muscles in my shoulders started to relax, and I managed to take my first easy breath since I'd seen Bethany in her compromising position. My nerves were stretched so taut that I felt like even the slightest touch would break me. Talking to Arik might help. Even if he was too new in the city to have a lot of contacts, maybe he’d have at least a general idea of where to start.
“Grasping at straws.” Shaking my head at myself, I moved to the edge of the curb and held up a hand, waiting for a cab.
I probably was grasping at straws, but one thing was certain – between Arik and a stranger at the DA’s office, Arik was the safest option. Talking to him might be a bit unethical, but it wasn't like I was planning on discussing the case. And I knew, with him, I didn’t have to worry about him telling the wrong person, resulting in me getting acquainted with the business end of something sharp and shiny.
I tried calling his number, but no one answered. I wasn't sure if that meant he was busy or if he was just ignoring me. Either one was a possibility, I supposed. I left a brief voicemail, asking him to call me back, but not giving any details. This wasn't the sort of thing I wanted a recording of.
Him not answering, however, meant I’d have to find him and hope he'd agree to talk to me. I didn't know exactly where the two of us stood at the moment, but I wa
s fairly confident it wasn't bad enough that he'd turn me away without hearing what I had to say.
I didn't know the exact address of the place where Arik had taken me earlier this week, and I didn't even know if he was living there or somewhere else while it was being finished, but it was a place to start. My only other options were to go to his office and hope he'd worked late, or find out if there was any way Officer Dunne could get the information. Most defense attorneys, even ones who'd been born and raised in New York, didn't have their home addresses available to the public.
I was going to take my chances with the first option before I did anything else. I was second chair on a case that Arik was trying. Showing up at his office would probably be a bad idea. The less people who knew that the two of us were acquainted outside of the courtroom, the better. But, if I had to, I'd go there.
I needed to talk to someone, and he was my best option.
Even if I wasn't entirely sure how I felt about him at the moment.
An idea occurred to me as I was waiting for a cab to finally notice my out-stretched hand, and I felt dumb for having not thought of it first. I’d been so focused on seeing him, I hadn’t considered calling first. At least that way, I'd know where he was.
When I couldn’t reach him on his cell, I tapped my screen to call his office. A woman answered on the second ring. “Sheldon, Simon and Sharpe. How can I help you?”
“Good evening.” I worked to make my voice as business-like as possible. “I'm with the DA's office and I need to speak to Mr. Arik Porter.”
“He's not here right now,” the woman replied. “Can I take a message?”
“No,” I said quickly. Then, before I could stop myself, I asked, “Is he at home?”
There was a momentary pause, then the woman's voice got decidedly cooler. “I'm sorry. I can't give out personal information.”
“Of course,” I said. “I'll call back tomorrow.”
When I ended the call, I closed my eyes for a moment. That had been stupid, asking if he was at home. For all that woman knew, I was some psycho former client. Just because I said I was from the DA's office didn't mean I actually was.
I opened my eyes and told myself that it didn't matter. I'd at least narrowed down the possibilities of where he was. I supposed it was possible that he'd gone out, but I wouldn't bother trying to figure any of that out until I found out if he was home or not.
A cab finally pulled up to the curb and I got inside. I was going to go broke on cab fare the way things were going lately. I gave the address and settled back into the seat. At this time in the evening, it would take a while to get there.
As we inched forward, my phone started to ring. I wasn’t able to get it out of my purse before it stopped ringing, but I looked at the screen anyway. I hoped it was Arik, that he'd somehow sensed how much I needed to talk to him and had gotten back to me right away. It was silly, I knew, because we weren't like that, and even if we were, things like that were romanticized. Arik and I were logical people. We thought things through.
I frowned when the words unknown caller popped up on my screen. Whoever it was, it looked like they'd left a voicemail at least. I glanced up and saw that we'd only gone a couple blocks. At this rate, I might've been able to walk there faster.
I called the voicemail, thankful that I had a fairly taciturn cab driver. There was a long buzz of dead air before I heard...something. My frown deepened as I strained to listen.
There was a series of muttering voices, mumbles more than anything else. I was about ready to lower the phone and delete it when something sharp and ear-piercing came through the receiver.
A scream that cut off abruptly when the call ended.
I almost dropped my phone.
“What was the street number again, miss?”
Jerking my head up, I looked at the cab driver. Shaken, but fighting not to show it, I told him. Then I clamped my mouth shut before I could ask him to hurry the hell up. Suddenly, I needed to see Arik, and it wasn't because I was worried about me anymore.
Chapter 2
Arik
My cell phone rang for the second time in a space of ten minutes. Not that I could answer it this time any more than the last. With it being face-down, I couldn't even see if it was the same person calling.
It lay on the plush, steel gray carpet of my entry way, some fifteen feet away from me...and from my friendly neighborhood hitman. He flicked a look at it before shifting his attention back to me and smiling.
I had to give him credit. If he'd been a man I had to defend, it would've been a piece of cake to coach him. He was actually quite polite, charming even. He'd be the kind of man who'd be cool-headed on the stand when questioned about a murder, but not make the jury think he was being cold.
Then he could go out and put a bullet in someone's head without blinking an eye.
A good thing in a defendant. Not such a good thing when the man had a gun pointed in my direction.
“The second time. You are quite popular. Are you expecting to speak with someone tonight?” His accent was Russian. Maybe one of the surrounding countries. I couldn't quite distinguish it, especially since it was fairly faint. He'd been in this country for a while.
Lifting one shoulder, I said, “I’m a lawyer. I’m always expecting calls. Alleged criminals don't always keep usual work hours.”
It was both the honest truth and the best non-answer I could come up with. I also thought it couldn't hurt to throw a little humor into the mix.
He looked amused, so I supposed that was a good thing. A happy hit-man was less likely to kill me, right?
When the phone went silent, he gestured at me with his gun. “You are not drinking your scotch. Were you not so thirsty after all?” He raised an eyebrow. He'd finished his first glass already.
I’d forgotten about it, to be honest. Looking down at the glass, I lifted it to my lips and sipped, letting it glide down my throat like fiery velvet. Being drunk wasn't a good idea, but something to take the edge off wasn't necessarily a bad idea. “I’m afraid I’m off my routine. Your unexpected visit caught me off guard.”
“Again, I like your style, Mr. Porter.” He nodded slowly as he took a sip of his drink as well, sighing lustily in appreciation.
Nice to know he enjoyed the scotch. The shit cost more than a thousand dollars a bottle. Not that I couldn’t afford it, but I didn’t really want to waste that kind of money on someone who was probably considering where in my body was the best place to put a bullet.
The Russian mafia, sitting in my penthouse, and drinking my Macallan. If someone back in Chicago had told me that this was where I'd end up, I never would've believed him.
He swirled the dark amber liquid in the glass as he studied me over the rim of the cut crystal. “You know, a man like you could be useful to us...if you can convince your client to plead out. You don’t get nervous. You don’t get…” He waved a hand in the air. “Panicky. I had a man once, he screamed like a little girl when I pulled a gun on him. Fucking pathetic. Annoyed the shit out of me. Pissed his pants before I shot him.”
“Glad I’m not…annoying the shit out of you.” Had I hit that key fob? Was it working? Would the cops get here?
He grinned at me, showing me brilliant teeth in a sharp smile. “I hear sarcasm in your voice, Mr. Porter. Sharp, smart – you have balls.” He leaned back a bit but there was nothing relaxed about that pose. “Would you like to be useful to us, Mr. Porter? To me? To my boss? I could make calls.”
“No.” I replied without even blinking an eye.
I didn’t even have to think about it. Aside from the fact that there was no way I wanted this bastard coming back here, there was no way in hell I was going to work for the mob. I’d just as soon he put a bullet in my head right now.
I kept my tone as polite as possible. “Let me be clear, Mr...well...sir, I’d like to be very clear. Hell, no. I don’t want any misunderstandings.”
To my surprise, he laughed. I didn't really see t
he humor in it, but who was I to tell him he couldn't find this amusing.
A bead of sweat rolled down the back of my neck and I swallowed again, the tension in my neck so heavy now, I thought it might crack if I even turned my head. The alcohol wasn't really doing a whole lot to relax me. Or, if it was, I wouldn't want to know how strung out I'd be without it.
“You want to be clear, hmm. No misunderstandings? Smart man.” He nodded. “You do not wish to get...involved in certain elements. I understand this. I am not surprised. You are smart. It is...” He paused, his brow crumpling as though he was searching for the word. Then he smiled. “Okay. It is okay. There are other people we use, better probably. They are predictable. You are not. You are smart, and smart is always good. But predictable is better. I know a lost cause when I see one.”
He came out of his seat then, that gun loosely held at his side.
I didn’t let myself look at it, as much as I wanted to. No. I didn’t want to. It was that my gaze felt drawn to the weapon. But I didn't think that was a good idea.
He took another step toward me, and I tried to decide which was going to be my best bet, grab for the gun or try to get out of the way.
The landline rang.
It surprised me enough to distract me from the gun, and this time, I couldn’t stop myself from looking at the object that held my interest. From looking at the phone, sitting innocuously on my counter, waiting for me to pick it up and answer.
The damn thing hardly ever rang. I had the cellphone, and used it more often than not. But sometimes, cell phones didn’t work. Storms had knocked cellular service out more than once, even in the city, and I’d learned early on to have a more reliable way to stay connected with the world.
However, the worst thing I could have done was react to it.
In the months I’d been in New York, that landline had rang maybe five times.
Why in the hell was it ringing now?
The hitman noticed my attention, and his brows arched. With a smile curling his lips, he walked over, cutting a wide circle that kept me in his line of sight as he moved to the phone. He held my eyes as he picked it up, a different kind of amusement in his gaze. In the other hand, he lifted the weapon, pointing it at me.
