Reno stepped inside, shoving the keys into his pocket. “Please don’t leave,” he begged, taking her hands in his. “Someone close to me has been shot. I have to get to him.” He waited a few moments for that to absorb. “Whatever you’re seeking refuge from, we can help you. Promise me you’ll stay here with Skyler until I get back.”
They gazed into each other’s eyes for what felt like an eternity but was closer to a few seconds. Reno couldn’t break the connection if he tried. Zuri had pulled him in without any effort and that disturbed him on so many levels. Many women of all ethnic backgrounds walked through the doors of the center. None of them had this effect on him.
“Reno, you need to go,” Skyler reminded him, clearing her throat.
“Not until I get an answer.”
Zuri was the first to break eye contact, releasing Reno of the hold she locked on him. Pulling her hands away, she responded, “I’ll stay.”
Something about Zuri Okusanya made Reno feel like she could be “the one”. The timing was certainly unfortunate. What was he going to do? He could never get involved with a client.
“Great.” He smiled and high-tailed it out the door.
CHAPTER 7
VIKKAS GERMAINE
“Go get your wife,” Khalil Germaine whispered, his voice barely sounding above the hum of the machines monitoring his vitals in a private room at Northwestern Hospital. The wait for the specialist to arrive seemed an eternity.
“Dad, I haven’t agreed to marry that woman,” Vikkas replied, giving his father’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Though Mama thinks I don’t know she’s already conspired with Damini Gupta’s mother. They’re so sure I’ll say yes, that they’ve already made it well past the initial preparations.”
“Go get your wife,” he insisted, then crooked a finger to bring Vikkas closer. “That smart, pretty brown-skinned girl.”
Vikkas flinched and stood, straightening to his full height. Just the thought of the one who pushed him away all those years ago evoked pain and sadness. “Milan?”
“Yes.”
“You know the family expects me to marry Damini. Why bring Milan into it?”
“They expect you,” he countered, and his voice was stronger than it had ever been. “I never did. While they have me in surgery, go find her.”
Go find her. Vikkas drew in a sharp breath as his heart missed a beat.
He perched on the edge of the bed, being careful not to sit too close and cause his father any pain. Though that might not be a factor since the intricate traction system they had him hooked up to, and the pain meds should have meant he was as comfortable as they could make him. “It can wait. I want to be here when you wake up from surgery.”
“Then I won’t wake up until you arrive,” he replied, and a small smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “And I want news of her.”
A slight tremor of anticipation centered into his soul at the thought of reconnecting with the girl who once stole his heart, then crushed it with one sentence. When the bullet grazed Vikkas last night, and the others hit Khalil, her image flashed through his mind. The only regret he had in life. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her in over fifteen years. He’d never find her in the small time his father had allotted.
“My planner is in that hidden compartment in my briefcase in that small closet,” Khalil said. “She works at a community center—”
Vikkas stood, bracing himself on the silver railing. “You kept tabs on her all this time?”
“The bigger question is … you didn’t?”
He held in his answer, settling on one of the leather chairs positioned near the window facing a view of lush greenery and tree-lined hills. He could tell his father was having a laugh at his expense. “That was another life. She abandoned our dreams.”
“Did you ever ask why?”
Vikkas didn’t have the heart to give his father an answer, but his silence said it all.
“No?” Khalil inhaled and let it out slowly. “So, you let that sting of rejection keep you from finding out the truth.”
We can’t do this, Vikkas. I won’t come between you and the people you love.
Her words replayed in his head like a song on repeat.
“She said she’d already lost her mother; she didn’t want me to lose mine.”
“Did her mother transition?”
“No,” Vikkas said, feeling chastised.
“Then what did she mean?”
Stung, Vikkas sidestepped the question with a major observation. “She could be married, have children, and a whole life by now.”
“Are my other sons on the way?”
Other sons. Men who were love-related, not blood-related. “Yes, they’ll be here when you get out of surgery. All except Dwayne, who they wouldn’t pull out of class.”
“I’m not going into surgery until I speak with them.”
“Dad, you can’t keep delaying this.”
“I’m not moving,” he said, eyes locking on the contraption they’d put him in once they realized the placement of the bullets required a world-renowned specialist to ensure he didn’t become a quadriplegic. “The bullets aren’t moving, either. It’ll keep. I will talk with them before my eyes close.”
“No talk of dying.”
“Who said anything about dying?” Khalil shot back. “There’s this thing called anesthesia and all that.”
Vikkas tried not to laugh but failed. “You’re killing me, Dad.”
“Find Milan, my son,” he whispered. “And open your heart … again.”
CHAPTER 8
DRO REYES
“It’s about time it got here,” a young man griped, scanning the untidy apartment littered with bottles and signs of leftovers from days past. “I’m starving.”
“Then, don’t you think it’s time you answered the door?” his friend pointed out.
“Oh, right. Hang on,” he yelled across the room. “Be there in a sec.”
He halted halfway there. “Give me some money.”
His friend shook his head. “Uh-uh. I covered the drinks. You take care of the food.”
Another bang echoed through the room a second later.
“Okay, okay.”
When he made it to the door, he glanced through the peephole and squinted. Unable to see anything but brown, he yanked the door open.
“Here, hold this.”
He grabbed the bag. “Why do I—”
“Ow!” He fell to the floor, the contents of bag holding takeout Chinese food littering the marble-tiled entryway. Grabbing his nose, he glared up at Dro. “What the heck did you do that for?”
Dro backtracked to close the door before yanking the man up by the collar. He dragged him along behind him.
“Whoa, what the heck are you doing, man?” his friend demanded as Dro practically flung the other man onto his lap.
Dro growled, “Where are they?”
“Who?” Rolling his bleeding friend off him, he stood. “I don’t know—”
“You don’t want to play this game with me. I’m giving you one last chance. I suggest you shut up and think about your next answer.”
“Do what he says,” his friend murmured, still cupping his damaged nose.
“Where. Are. They?” Dro repeated slowly.
Glaring back, the man stood defiant for a few moments before he gave in. “The bedroom.”
Dro ran down a hall on the other side of the suite. When he returned to where the other two men were, two frightened young ladies were on each arm. One was a barely concious Nina Cherry. A knock on the door prompted him to action. He opened it to find a tall, muscular man standing on the other side. He passed both women into his care.
“Take them to the car, Joe. Make sure no one sees you.”
His bodyguard of eight years nodded, hoisted one woman over each shoulder, and disappeared down the hall.
Dro closed the door and faced the two men.
“Look, we know those girls,” the more talkative one began.
“Oh?” Dro crossed his arms over his chest. “What are their last names?”
The ringleader’s ivory face turned crimson.
“Smile.”
Dro whipped out his cell phone and snapped their pictures. He included the drugs and alcohol strewn on the coffee table.
“Who are you?”
“Listen, Derrick.”
The boy frowned and shrank back. “How do you know my name?”
“I know much more than your name,” Dro countered. “I know where you live, work, play, what you ate for breakfast, and the hideaways you like to frequent.”
Flipping through his pictures, Dro shoved his phone under their noses. Both men looked away.
“Did you touch them?”
They didn’t pretend not to understand what Dro meant.
“What if we did?”
Dro laid a punch into his stomach.
He doubled over in pain. The air rushed out of his mouth in a loud whoosh. “No,” he coughed out. “No, we didn’t.”
“Trust me; you’re going to want to be straight with me.”
“We are,” they said in unison.
Dro unzipped his jacket and retrieved an envelope. He opened the folded papers and placed them on the table. Taking out a pen, he slammed it down. “Sign these. They’re NDA’s. I presume you know what these are.”
“I work for a trading firm. I think I know what a non-disclosure agreement is,” the leader snapped.
“That’s good, Derrick. Lucky for you none of your posts thus far included my client’s daughter—”
“Wait, how’d you—”
“If I see anything on social media or hear about a word either of you has spoken about this night, we’ll have to have another discussion,” Dro continued. “It won’t be as pleasant.”
Dro didn’t wait to see them agree. They scribbled their names before he snatched up the documents and left them to contemplate the error of their ways.
* * *
The sun was up by the time Dro maneuvered the black Audi R8 Spyder into a carriage style garage at the back of his house. He strode across his fenced terrace and into the back door. He was passing through the kitchen when Travers sauntered in from the walk-in pantry.
“Ah, welcome home, sir,” he said in that clipped British accent. “Would you care for some breakfast?”
“I’ll pass, Travers. I need a shower and a few hours of sleep.”
“I’ll see that you’re not disturbed,” Travers replied.
He slid up the back stairway to the second floor. Walking down a small hallway, he took the next flight up to his private wing. After showering, Dro collapsed into bed, grateful for his blackout shades. He had just about drifted off when his phone vibrated. For a second, he contemplated not answering.
“Reyes here.”
“Hi, Dro, it’s Lola. Did I wake you?”
Lola Samuels was the most gorgeous nightmare he’d ever met. She was a public relations guru who never took no for an answer. She worked for Alistair Mayhew, a land baron from one of Chicago’s first families, and notorious for shady business dealings. That alone was reason enough not to deal with her.
“Would you hang up if I said yes?”
“Not a chance.”
Dro sat up and leaned his back against his headboard. He took a moment to clear his head. “So, what do you want?”
“I want you.”
Dro’s eyebrows shot upwards. “I’m sure you do.”
Lola didn’t miss a beat. “Don’t flatter yourself. You know this is strictly business.”
“Well, that’s too bad.”
“Focus, Reyes,” she continued. “Mr. Mayhew’s son is in trouble. I need your help.”
He knew Shawn well; just another privileged rich boy who had too many toys and not enough ambition.
“Lola, even if I were interested in helping you, which I’m not, it certainly wouldn’t be for Shawn Mayhew.”
“You’re the best in the game, Dro. Everyone knows it. Help me with this, and you can write your own ticket.”
“I can write my own ticket without helping Mayhew,” he shot back. “Adiós, Miss Samuels.”
“Dro, wait—”
Smiling, he disconnected the call mid-sentence. It was no secret that he loved trading barbs with Lola. Each of them gave as good as they got. She must be desperate, indeed, if she reached out to him to help with one of his family’s sworn enemies. She was smart with a sharp wit, had a luscious body, and an infectious smile, but he still wasn’t taking the bait.
Travers tapped on the door twice but didn’t wait before he entered.
Dro glanced toward the doorway, surprised at his actions.
“There’s been a development, sir,” he said quickly.
“Can it wait, Travers? I’d like to catch a few more winks before I jump into the fray,” he teased.
“I’m afraid it can’t. Mr. Germaine is in the hospital, Sir. He’s been shot.”
CHAPTER 9
GRANT KHAMBREL
Grant nodded slowly, trying to keep his anger in check as two sets of eyes bored into him. Meeks and Francine were his business associates, but more importantly, they were his friends, and there were things he couldn’t share.
“I don’t give a damn how it looks,” he snapped. Everything was done on the up and up and our bid …” He used an index finger to make a circle in the air to remind them that they were in this together. “We provided the best price to renovate and expand the United Center, which is why we won.”
Meeks gave Grant a quick nod, stood, and took Francine’s hand to help her out of the seat. Grant rose from his chair, feeling a bit off-balance.
“When are you leaving for Chicago?” Meeks asked.
“In about a week or so,” Grant replied, shoving his hands in his pockets.
Meeks’ shoulders dropped, and his jaw clenched. Grant glared at his friend. “Use your words, Meeks.”
“I was headed home with plans to ravish my wife, but thanks to some asshole out there threatening both our wallets and reputations, I have work to do.”
Grant pressed his lips together, trying not to let his laugh escape.
Francine gave her husband a playful punch in the side. “Don’t pay him any mind. We’ll start by looking into everyone who touched the proposal before it left this building. I’ll send someone to pick up the envelope tomorrow.” Francine turned and smiled up at her grumpy husband. “Everything will keep until morning. That ravishing thing you had in mind, that’s still happening.”
Meeks gave Francine a quick kiss, grabbed her hand, and pulled her towards the door. “We’ll give you an update in a couple of days,” Meeks called out over his shoulder as they swept out of the office.
Grant threw his head back and laughed. That was something he didn’t think he’d do again any time soon. He was happy for his friends, but more importantly, he was pleased to have them on the case. He hated withholding information from them, but he couldn’t share the whole story. They already knew enough. Too much, and it would put them in unnecessary danger.
Grant reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled half sheet of paper containing a second note he’d received.
First, you use dirty money from a gangster to start your business. Then you fail to disclose the necessary information for a government contract you’re bidding on. You have access to something we want. Help us get it, and we’ll help you. We’ll be in touch, Mr. Khambrel.
“Damn.” Grant balled up the paper and hurled it across the room.
Grant had spent years trying to make things right and keep certain deeds secret. He had no intention of stopping now. His cell vibrated, and he checked the time. It was too late to be receiving a call from a number he didn’t recognize.
“Grant Khambrel.”
“Mr. Khambrel, this is Katrina White, and I’m a nurse at Northwestern Memorial Hospital in Chicago.”
“How can I help you?”
“I’m actually call
ing to advise you that there’s been an incident, and Khalil Germaine has been admitted.”
Grant’s heart rate increased at the thought of his former mentor and teacher—someone he hadn’t been in touch with for years—being injured.
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