by Taylor Lee
After Rafe had assigned tasks to the other men, he turned to her.
“Nicki, I want you to hit the social media sites and chase down any possible connection between these two girls. Find out if they participate in similar chat rooms, play the same internet games, shop in the same online stores. Then talk to their friends, their families. Find their nexus. There has to be some connection between the two of them besides their prominent high income parents.”
Nicki silently agreed and went to work. She forced herself not to think about him, to ignore him and concentrate on her task. It might be tedious grunt work, but she well knew how critical it was, as well. She was more familiar with the sex trade than many of the men on the team. Over the years, she’d met countless victims, listened in stunned disbelief to their hideous stories, and participated in multiple rescues. Long ago she’d stopped asking how men could be so cruel, so vicious to young girls, and even children. As her father told her sadly, there isn’t a more lucrative connection than the one between sex and money. From the hideous evidence she’d seen, her father, as always, was right.
The Cave hummed with activity. Rafe had called in all of his high level technical staff and put them to work hunting for connections between the victims. While Nicki and Caleb focused on the girls’ personal circles, the others researched family backgrounds, businesses, and social ties looking for the elusive element that might have put both girls on the kidnapper’s radar.
It was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon when Nicki allowed herself to put her head down on the desk for a moment, hoping no one would notice. She’d just hung up from a grueling conversation with Sophie’s grief-stricken mother. As gently as she could, she’d asked the hard questions that no parent wanted to face. Who were Sophie’s best friends? Did she have a boyfriend? Was he one her parents approved of? Did she spend time on the internet? Then that particular question certain to elicit denials from even the most informed parents, did she do drugs? Was she active on the party scene? On and on.
She shook off her fatigue and forced herself to tackle the six pages of notes she’d taken from her conversation with Mrs. Schwartz. Hillary’s mother, on the other hand, was much less forthcoming. Rafe had warned her. Mrs. Chambers was either a very good actress or heavily into denial. Probably both, Nicki thought wearily.
She looked up as Caleb shoved a Diet Coke in front of her. She accepted it with a grateful smile.
“This is the last thing I should be giving you, hotstuff. But since you didn’t touch the sandwich I brought you, or the salad, or even the chocolate mints I hid in your desk, at least I can give you caffeine.”
“Thanks, Caleb. I’m not hungry, but the Diet Coke is great.”
Hoping that he would take the hint, Nicki picked up her stack of papers and began adding notes in the margins.
But Caleb wasn’t about to let her off that easy. Instead of leaving her alone, he parked himself on the edge of her desk then reached down and took the papers out of her hands.
Nicki reared up.
“Dammit, Caleb. I need to sort through those. Please. Let me work.”
Holding her papers above his head, Caleb grinned at her but she saw the concern in his eyes.
“Look, hotstuff. I never thought I’d say this but you look like hell. Damn, you can barely keep your eyes open. Plus, if you looked any sadder, you’d break my heart. You tell Daddy Caleb who stole your favorite teddy bear and I’ll kick his ass for you.”
Nicki tried to smile. “I appreciate your concern, Caleb. I’m fine, honest. I didn’t get much sleep last night. I’m just tired.”
Ever the outrageous flirt, Caleb gawked at her. His bright blue eyes twinkled dangerously. Assuming a professorial manner, he said, “Here is my suggestion, Ms. Powers. I recommend we go off in a corner away from prying eyes and play doctor. I’ll be the doctor and you can tell me all your symptoms. All of your problems. Then I’ll strip you naked and, you know, check you out. Just from my cursory examination, I’m confident the problem is something to do with those girlie parts of yours that keep us guys yanking off at night.” Leering at her breasts, he added, “I won’t know which parts, of course, until I do a thorough examination.”
The groans and catcalls from around the room confirmed that the other men had overheard Caleb’s outrageous teasing.
Nicki jumped up and reached up trying to grab her papers, but Caleb held them higher, forcing her to reach up over his strong body.
“Whoo hoo. I knew it. Look fellas. The little warrior woman is trying to jump my bones.”
A sharp voice cut through the guffaws and outright laughter.
“Cut the clown act, Masterson.”
Rafe appeared beside them, anger spitting off of him like grease on a hot griddle. Glaring at Caleb, he took the papers out of his hands and put them on Nicki’s desk.
Caleb flushed. “Hell, Rafe. I was just teasing her. You know I’m crazy about the little sprite. But damn, even a blind man can see there is something wrong with our hotstuff. If I can’t get her to come clean, maybe you can.”
Ignoring Rafe’s fierce glare, Caleb turned to Nicki and chucked her under her chin.
“You know, I’m looking out for you, hotstuff. Always have, always will.”
He sauntered off, whistling under his breath.
Rafe realized he was holding onto Nicki’s arm when she tried to twist out of his tight grip. He let go, embarrassed that he’d lost his cool. Seeing Grayson looking from him to Nicki with a puzzled frown, Rafe chided himself. Fuck. Why not just proclaim it. Nothing like the alpha dog marking his tree and warning the other alphas off in the process.
But Caleb was right. Nicki did look like hell. Her face was pale, strained. She had dark circles under her eyes. He’d kept a surreptitious eye on her throughout the day, although she hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction. She’d dressed in commando gear this morning, a signal not to mess with her. Unfortunately the sleeveless black t-shirt showed off her toned golden arms and soft skin. And no t-shirt tight or loose could hide those voluptuous breasts. Rather than masking her figure, the cammo pants hung low on her hips, straining across her perfect ass. Rafe grimaced. All the tough clothes did was to underscore how feminine she was and how fragile she looked today. Christ, what did he expect? She’d been hit hard last night. By him.
Rafe moved closer, purposefully crowding her. She backed as far away as she could, but the desk behind forced her into his space.
“Look at me, Nicki,” he said quietly so the others couldn’t hear him.
He waited until she reluctantly peered up at him.
“Caleb’s right, Nicki. You need to eat. We have some long, hard days ahead of us.”
She tossed her head and glared at him.
“As I told Caleb, I’m not hungry. When I am, I will eat. Whether I eat or not is none of your concern. I can take care of myself. I always have and I always will.”
She squeezed by him and sat down, pointedly picking up her papers. When Rafe didn’t move, instead assuming Caleb’s pose leaning against the edge of her desk, she glanced up and flushed at the look on his face.
She whispered, “What do you want from me, Rafe?”
He quirked a brow and smiled at her. “It’s like I told the Senator: my company, my rules. I require all my “men” to be in top physical condition. And that means eating whether they want to or not.”
Nicki flushed even brighter, her eyes were spitting fire. She asked in a harsh whisper. “What are you going to do, force feed me?”
He smiled at her but his grin didn’t reach his eyes.
“If necessary.”
Or, he thought to himself, ignoring her shocked gasp, turn you over my knee and spank your bare ass, after I fuck the hell out of you. Shoving down the mix of anger and lust that had his dick straining at his pants, he turned to the men in the room.
“Gray, Caleb, Dylan, Sergio, Nicki…. Everyone, gather around.”
After the men surged forward and he was reas
onably confident his shameless body wouldn’t embarrass him, he moved to the aisle.
“There’s new information. I just got off the telephone. We have a third girl. Cindy Peterson. The eighteen-year-old daughter of Judge Henry Peterson.”
“The Affiliate Court judge in line to be a Supreme?” Caleb asked, his eyes wide, astonished.
Rafe nodded.
“One and the same.”
Grayson whistled.
“Volkov?”
Rafe gave a grim sigh. “Volkov.”
Chapter 12
Brooklyn, New York
Boris glared at the brazen young man in front of him. How dare this piece of shit threaten him? Didn’t he know who he was? He glowered at him but the kid just grinned and tossed back the shot of vodka Boris had poured for him. Quaffing his own, Boris waited for the burn to subside, to numb the wrenching agony in his gut. Christ, even the NaOH inhibiters he popped like Tums didn’t help. His medicine cabinet looked like a fucking pharmacy, but nothing worked any more. Dubie was right. He was going to have to give in. Have the fucking surgery. Hell, at this point they could take his whole damn stomach out. As long as he could still drink vodka, what the hell did he care if he had half a gut or a quarter. He could get better a whole lot faster if he didn’t have to deal with penny ante shysters like this piece of crap in front of him. He longed for the days in Russia when Leonid was running the gang. When just a pointed look from the towering man would have had bums like this cowering in their boots, begging for mercy. How had he fallen so far, so fast? He thought with a groan, he only wished it had been fast. But it hadn’t; it had taken almost a quarter of century to get to this point. One fucking year after another from Russia, to Chechnya, to London and now finally New York City.
This was supposed to have been where he turned around his life. Made up for the past. Redeemed his family’s name and once again became a respected, and yes, Goddammit a feared member of the Vory. He longed for the old days when being a Vor meant something. When clan members valued their membership in the family above all else. When the Vor was honored and feared. Instead, he had to rely on punks like Aiden.
Aidan for god’s sake, what kind of a name was that? Like some fucking rock star instead of a cold blooded killer. But then Boris reminded himself, Aiden was indeed a cold blooded killer and a scary one at that. He killed for pleasure like all punks did. But the unsettling, downright scary thing about Aiden and the assholes who hooked up with him was the way they killed. Slowly. Building up to the final moment with every imaginable torture woven into the fabric of the kill.
Even though the little punk made him want to reach down his throat and rip his guts out, Boris admitted that Aiden was effective. Those All-American golden boy looks opened doors Boris could never open. Boris was suspect. Foreign. So much for the melting pot of America. He knew what those patrician assholes saw when they looked at him. A thick-jowled, fifty-year-old Russian immigrant. A guy with a heavy body and a heavier accent. No matter how expensive his clothes or how much he paid his barber, his harsh Slavic looks were getting harder and harder to tame. A telling contrast to the suave gym rat looks of an Aiden. Boris poured himself another shot of vodka and tossed it back glowering at the cocky kid in front of him.
Aiden took a long drag on his cigarette and grinned. As much as Boris hated it, the kid scared him. Pure evil glowed in his obsidian eyes. Boris had watched him gut an adversary then sit down to his dinner without a backward glance at the screaming man writhing on the floor, his bloody entrails scattered across chipped linoleum. Christ, Aiden even used the same knife to cut his steak that he’d used to slice open the asshole’s gut. The men around him were just as perverse. Not a single one had stopped feeding his face as the unfortunate fucker had mercifully died just before they’d started on dessert. As it was, Boris hadn’t been able to eat meat since that fateful day. Christ, as if his stomach wasn’t bad enough, now he was a fucking vegetarian. Or hell, admit it, his diet was almost purely liquid.
“You heard me. From now on we’re equal partners. Fifty-fifty, Boris, my man.” When Boris scowled and shook his head vehemently, the kid stopped grinning.
“Look, you fat Slavic slob. It was one thing when we were picking up sluts in alleyways and raiding our buddies’ cribs. No one would pay to retrieve those skanky girls if we hung diamonds around their necks and sold them on Fifth Avenue as former Barney’s models. But thanks to me and my “associates”, we’re bringing you the cream of the crop. And don’t think I don’t know that your gig has changed. Uh uh Boris, my man. Selling sluts on the international market is one thing. Paying by the head for those pussies is business as usual. But ransom? Picking off the spoiled brats of people like Senator Bobbie Chambers? You don’t think we don’t know the game has changed? That we don’t know who you’re having us snag? What do you take us for, Volkov? A bunch of illiterate gangbangers?”
Boris couldn’t hide his shock. Cold sweat ran down his spine. Gorge filled his throat. He could barely choke it down. How did they know? How could this little gutter rat know who he was, what he was doing? He called on every reserve he had to swallow the bile swamping his mouth. He should never have let Aiden and his crew attend the parties. What could he have been thinking? That was his mistake. But he knew why: His own men stood out. The way he did. It was one thing if the host was a Russian émigré. He was the accepted foreign dignitary, the international moneyman, who specialized in the import/export business and threw parties with the purest blow even these dissolute young people had sampled. But too many of his men, all foreign, all Russians, raised suspicions. Made people curious. The indulged offspring of American’s elite liked their foreigners in small doses with carefully constructed pedigrees that matched their own. He’d thought it would be useful to include a few of the golden boys who ran with Aiden, to keep the girls enticed until he lured them from the room. That had been only one of his major misjudgments.
At the moment, what had Boris’s gut churning, had him fighting to keep from pissing his pants, was Aiden calling him Volkov. Only a handful of his most loyal followers, true Russian Mafiosa, knew the code name for their enterprise. They were men who’d followed him from Russia, their ties went back through generations. They’d all known Leonid. All been party to the great betrayal. The slaughter. The loss of face for his family that Boris had spent the last twenty-five years trying desperately to recoup.
And now this precocious prick and his band of degenerate deviants with their arsenal of knives and weapons wanted in. Wanted in on the venture that was going to buy back his standing in the Mafiosa. Prove that the Kozar family was worthy. That no matter what Leonid had done, his nephew and the people who surrounded him were worthy of respect, of inclusion. For a quarter of a century Boris had fought to get back in the inner circles. But he always fell short. No matter what scheme he dreamed up, something went wrong. His big ideas fizzled, often embarrassingly so. Once again earning his reputation as a ne’er do well. A fuck up.
But this time he was determined to get it right. He’d spent two years setting the stage, creating his persona, making contacts with high level American leaders. Spending a fortune to be accepted, to be sought after by the men who would ultimately be his victims. He planned to hit them where it hurt the most. In their bloated wallets. And he would take more than their money. He would take their second most prized possessions, their women. Better yet: their daughters.
He knew how important the international sex trade was to the Russian-based mafia. How valuable, virginal-looking American girls were. But any run of the mill Mafioso could kidnap girls off the American streets. Americans were so careless with their women. Their women were brazen, sure of themselves, confident that they were as tough as their emasculated men. But he had convinced himself and his men that in order to redeem their honor they needed to do more than simply supply girls to the trade. They needed to be as bold as they were outrageous. That was the genius of the Volkov strategy. He would become an international supers
tar in the criminal underworld, known for his courage and cunning. By adding the fillip of ransom to the mix, he would be poised to buy back the respect the Wolf had stolen from his family twenty-five years ago, in a bloodbath that had gone down in the annals of Mafia internecine violence.
Now after years of being dismissed, laughed at by his former peers, Boris’s master plan was threatened by the dregs of American society. Looking at Aiden’s men sloshing his imported vodka as if it were Bud Light, he was filled with righteous fury. Who did they think they were? This mangy bunch of lowlifes. They were every color from the darkest ebony to every shade of brown in between and finally to their golden boy leader. Most of them spoke like the sewer rats they were. But one look at the gleam in Aiden’s eyes as he sliced off one piece of apple after another with a blade so sharp it skinned the apple with one swipe, Boris acknowledged them for who they were: his new 50/50 partners.
Chapter 13
As though one bombshell weren’t enough, Rafe fired another one. This one ended up ripping her heart apart.
Nicki was as shocked as the men, at the announcement there was yet another girl being ransomed by Volkov. Along with the others, Nicki worked until late in the evening ferreting out everything she could about Cindy Peterson, looking for connections with the other girls.
Knowing that none of them could take off for dinner, Andre delivered sandwiches and soup to the Cave. To placate Caleb and get Rafe off her back, she forced herself to take several bites of her sandwich and a few spoonfuls of soup.
