* * *
An hour later, Charlie was pacing a rut in the gallery floor, watching the police question a grim-looking Jake. He was still wearing nothing but boxers and a neat, new roll of bandages, this time winding from wrist to elbow, stark white against his darkly tanned skin.
She ran her hand through her hair for the dozenth time. It had scared her, waking up to see Jake grappling with Hatchet Face. And it had terrified her when Jake had gone after him, leaving her all alone. “What was he thinking?” she muttered yet again.
Next to her, Stacia let out a noisy sigh. “I imagine he was thinking of tearing out the throat of the man who broke into your room.”
Her face was tight as she watched her brother, her blue-gray eyes narrowed to smoky slits. They flicked back to Charlie’s pale face in the ensuing silence.
“Did you think Jake was some gentleman thief, like your Thomas Crown?” Stacia hissed. “Somebody who looks hot, dresses well and doesn’t get his hands dirty. Is that it?”
Charlie swallowed. Stacia closed her eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“My brother is a dangerous man, Charlie.” Her voice had gentled. “Don’t ever forget that. He ran with the gangs in Sydney from the time he was eleven years old. He may look and act like a charming, harmless rogue, but that’s all it is, an act. My brother’s got demons you never want to meet.”
“He’s never killed anyone before?” she whispered.
Stacia frowned. “No. At least I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure I’d know, whether he told me or not,” she mused, her voice drifting away before it sharpened. “But I can tell you right now, he’s more than capable of it. Timor is lucky he got away, because if my brother had caught him, there’d be no need for a manhunt. Just a body bag and the coroner.”
She swallowed. The cops had left Jake and were crossing the room toward them.
“Remember what I told you,” Stacia said, her voice very low.
She remembered. She’d called 911 and Stacia, in that order, but Stacia had beaten the cops to her room. You don’t know the guy. Never got a good look at him, but you’re pretty sure you’ve never seen him before. This is important, Charlie. Please. If you want to help Jake, you won’t say anything else.
And so she’d lied. To the cops.
But now she knew Hatchet Face’s real name—Timor. Stacia was more shaken than she appeared, to have let that slip.
The sunlight winked off the badge of the officer nearest them.
Goddamn it. She wasn’t sure she could manage to keep up the story, now that the shock was wearing off.
Thankfully, she didn’t have to. The cop and his partner didn’t have any more questions, only warm reassurance. Her skittish behavior made them more solicitous, with that genuine Southern charm that made her feel guiltier for her deception. Probably a thief your boyfriend startled. No need to worry, ma’am, but we’ll get the word out.
Likely a random attack.
But she knew better. She’d seen the way Timor had looked at her, backing against the window, snarling. She’d heard the words he’d spoken to Jake. No, it was all very, very personal.
Her head was throbbing before they finally left. Jake padded over and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her tight to his bare chest.
She clung to him, in a way she hadn’t clung to anyone in years, seeking his warmth and strength just like she had last night.
“I don’t get it, why would he come after me? I’m not a part of all this.”
She looked up when he didn’t answer. Jake’s lips were pressed together so hard they had gone white. He was struggling with something, wrestling with those demons his sister had mentioned earlier, no doubt.
“I’m not sure,” he said finally.
Her bullshit detector went off. That wasn’t true. Jake knew why Timor had come after her. She gave him a look.
He sighed, then leaned over, his lips close to her ear. “But I’ll find out, Charlie.” He squeezed her one more time before letting go. “Take a long shower and then come meet Stacia and I for brunch.”
Her nose twitched. Jake still sounded off and there was something in his expression as he looked at his sister that she didn’t like. Charlie opened her mouth…then shut it again. She’d trusted Jake with part of her soul last night.
She could give him an hour or two.
* * *
Jake didn’t have very much time, but he had to make sure of something first. He watched Charlie walk away, resisting the urge to snatch her back, to ensure by any means necessary that she stayed safe. Even if that meant chaining her bodily to his side.
But it was too late.
She’d never be safe again, thanks to him. For the first time since that night in Minneapolis, he wished he’d chosen another window, that he’d never laid eyes on Charlotte Gracen.
Because he’d put her in the crosshairs of a man capable of anything. Whether Darnell had figured out Charlie was important to him or was just pissed that she’d managed to save him, Jake had no idea. And it didn’t matter because Timor finding them in bed together—regardless of the innocent circumstances—was going to get back to the arsehole. If Darnell had wanted her before, he’d be doubly interested now.
His hands ached and Jake looked down, unaware he’d been clenching them tightly since Charlie had left the room. With a curse, he rolled his shoulders and shook them loose. He had to act and he was pretty sure of his first step. There was just one thing he had to run by Stace first.
Both of them had been so young that horrible day when Darnell came, even younger than Charlie had been when her sister was taken. Last night he had told Charlie the truth about the way dreams twisted the past into pieces to try and make things fit together. For years, Stacia had suffered from god-awful nightmares, waking in a cold sweat, screaming for their mother. Nothing had helped. He’d been as helpless to protect her as he’d been his mother. Jake swallowed as he met his twin’s eyes from across the room. She frowned, tilting her head before walking toward him.
He did know that Stacia had seen the men from their bedroom window and instinctively hid, just like Charlie had. But that was all Jake knew. They’d gone over his memories exhaustively, obsessively, but never hers. As strong as Stacia appeared to be, he knew better. Facing her own memories of that day was not something his sister had been capable of.
Then. He had to hope things had changed, because he was about to push her back to that day. He had no choice, not after what Timor had said.
Or what Jake had seen before he’d gotten away.
As soon as Stacia was in earshot, Jake opened his mouth, but his twin spoke before he could.
“You going to tell me why in the hell you were in Charlie’s room last night?”
Shit. “It wasn’t what you think.”
She rolled her eyes, giving a weary sigh. “Wasn’t it?”
“No. She had a nightmare. I heard her crying through the wall.”
Stacia stiffened. In her eyes, he saw the questions she wouldn’t ask.
Jake scrubbed a hand over his jaw. His adrenaline was fading, exhaustion setting in. He still wasn’t at a hundred percent and this shit wasn’t helping. “It was bad. Her sister.”
“Do I even want to know?” she whispered.
“No.”
She nodded slowly, another question in her eyes. “Did you . . .”
“Tell her about Mum? Yeah, I did.”
Her eyes widened. “We don’t do that.”
“You told Lucjan.” Even to his own ears, Jake sounded defensive.
Her lips pressed together, Stacia studied him. “Are you saying you feel about Charlie the way I feel… felt about him?”
“I’m not saying anything.” Impatiently, Jake dismissed her question with a wave of his hand, before touching his twin’s shoulder. “Do you still have nightmares about the day Mum died?”
She blinked up at him, obviously confused and a bit flustered. “No. Never. Not since Lucjan . . .” She swallowed h
ard, bright spots of color in her cheeks. “Why?”
“I was wondering,” he said, holding her gaze, “if you could tell me exactly what you saw that day?”
Her slender shoulders tightened and Jake winced, feeling like a rat bastard. But it was time. Past fucking time.
Stacia must have agreed, because she only hesitated a moment. “I was playing, in our room. Playing with my doll, Brittany.” She gave him a small smile. “You always teased me about her, so I was happy you were helping Mum with the cookies. She’d just made Brittany a new dress.” Her eyes closed. “Blue velvet. I loved velvet. Mum had that one skirt, remember?”
“The gold one.” He nodded, his own throat tight. “Yeah, I remember.”
She sighed without opening her eyes. “I was giggling, fastening up the little hooks in the back of Brittany’s dress when a shadow fell over the window.” Her face grew paler, more pinched and Jake had to resist the urge to pull her into his arms, to tell her to stop. “I never heard the Rovers, I think the genny was too loud.”
Their room had been by their father’s shop, and John always ran the genny most of the day when he was working. His sister’s voice changed, going higher, more childlike. Did she even realize it? Shivers slid down the backs of his arms. He could almost see their old room through her eyes. The blue curtains waving in the breeze . . .
“Someone was outside. I thought maybe you were teasing me, so I crawled up on the window seat and peeked under the curtain. That’s when I saw him.”
“Saw who, Stacia?”
“A dark man. He was thin and tall.” She shivered. “I was scared because he had a gun. That’s when I went to hide under Mum and Dad’s bed.”
“Could it have been Timor?”
She blinked, coming out of her daze. “Timor? Why . . .” As her voice trailed off, her eyes got hazy again. “I’m not sure. Maybe. I think…maybe.”
Jake went still as Stacia gaped at him, thinking things through, trying not to let emotion get the best of him, but it was impossible.
His stomach twisted as he dropped his gaze to Stacia’s narrowing one. “What is going on, Jake?”
“Take care of her while I’m gone.”
“Gone?”
But he was already out the door.
* * *
Less than an hour later, the breakfast room of the hotel was bright, full of good smells and pleasant voices. Well, except for Stacia’s. She’d barely spoken a word since Charlie had walked in. Stacia looked uncommonly rattled, far more so than she had been earlier around the cops. When Charlie asked her if she was okay, Stacia’s response was so thick Charlie could scarcely understand her.
“Are you coming down with something? You sound like a blues singer after a hard night of whiskey and cigarettes.”
Stacia cleared her throat. “Must have been all the schmoozing last night on top of all the bullshit this morning. I’ll be fine.”
She frowned but accepted her mimosa from the smiling waiter. “Speaking of all that ‘bullshit,’ where is Jake? He promised we would talk about it.”
Stacia turned away, her chic black sunglasses flashing in the strong Louisiana sunshine. “He’s gone, Charlie. He flew back to Europe this morning. I don’t think we’ll be seeing him for a while.”
Charlie’s champagne glass fell to the floor, but she barely heard the tinkle of breaking glass over the laughter in her head. Stupid girl.
Stupid, stupid girl.
Chapter Nineteen
The plane ride didn’t faze him. Or the train ride out of the city. Jake had been swept along for the past twenty-four hours by a cold, quiet fury. But now, as he stared up at the building in front of him, the icy calm was burning away.
He had questions, and by god, he was going to get answers.
Just a few minutes longer, he promised himself. Keep up the act just a few minutes longer.
They let him in. They searched him, of course. They searched everyone. But they let him keep the revolver in his boot. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t seen it dozens of times before. He was family. And because he was family, they didn’t escort him upstairs.
One of the guys watched him come off the elevator, bright eyes doing a sweep of Jake’s person before jerking his chin down the hall.
Jake nodded. He paused in front of the door, reaching down as if to scratch his foot but palming the small gun before straightening back up. Then with a quick breath and a glance down the hall, he opened the door.
Inside, it was quiet except for the soft strains of something that might have been Liszt coming from an actual turntable in the corner. Lucjan was leaning back in his chair, comparing two sheets of paper, his eyes flicking back and forth between what looked like two long columns of numbers. When he saw Jake, he set the papers down and got to his feet with a smile but no surprise. Lucjan would have known he was here from the instant he emerged from the cab that had brought him from the train. Hell, he might have known the moment his plane touched down on Polish soil.
“Hey, Lucjan.”
“Brother.” Lucjan watched him approach, his smile still in place, but not stepping forward to embrace him as the man usually did. Jake’s heart kicked up a notch but he moved closer anyway. “I heard about the trouble in New Orleans. I’ve already spoken to my men. Seems they saw you enter Ms. Gracen’s room and foolishly assumed they could relax their vigilance. I’ve—”
Jake said nothing, casually reaching out an arm to clasp the other man to him, the metal of the gun warm in his free hand. Lucjan didn’t resist, even when the snub-nosed pistol pressed hard against his ribs. Jake turned it in just a hair, making sure it was aimed toward the heart.
His brother-in-law shook his head, his voice soft. “What are you doing, Kuba?”
“We need to talk.”
“A talk that requires the threat of a bullet?”
“It would seem so. You’ve been keeping secrets, brother.”
Lucjan laughed. “You will have to be more specific than that.”
He dug the muzzle of the gun in deeper. “Sit down but keep your hands on top of the desk, where I can see them. No sudden movements. Are we clear? You know how good of a shot I am.”
“Of course I do.” Lucjan sat, leaning back again, watching Jake through slitted eyes. “Just as we both know that should you pull that trigger, you’ll never leave this building alive. So why the dramatics?”
“Because I still believe you love my sister. Which means you won’t kill me.”
“Hard to protect you from my men if I’m dead.”
Jake smiled. “Oh, I won’t kill you, I’ll just aim for something painful.”
Lucjan sighed. “So talk.”
“Darnell. He was behind the attack on Charlie. The attack you let happen.”
For the first time, Lucjan looked angry. “I told you, that name means nothing. He’s a ghost . . . no. He is the rumor of a ghost. And I won’t endanger my whole organization or your sister poking at—”
“I know, Lucjan.”
When Timor had lifted his hand to taunt Jake, his sleeve had fallen back, revealing a scar, a thick, horrible one, like a burn. But it was actually a brand, one he knew a certain faction of the Russian mafia used on their grunts.
Jake knew because he’d seen it before.
On the back of his brother-in-law’s neck.
With a long-suffering sigh, Lucjan lifted his big shoulders. “What is it that you think you—”
Lightning quick, Jake slammed Lucjan’s head into the desk, pinning him flat while the other man cursed. Jake pressed the gun hard against the raised scar. Lucjan went still. “This, you motherfucker. One of Darnell’s men is sporting this same piece of artwork. One of the animals that was there the day my mother died. So spare me the tight-lipped crime lord act. You know these motherfuckers. You always have.”
He gave Lucjan a rough shove and took a seat across from him.
Lucjan straightened slowly, watching Jake as he rubbed a hand over his bleeding mouth. “Tell m
e. Does Nastka know about this man?”
“She was the one who remembered seeing him there.”
With a roar, Lucjan swiped one hand across his desk, sending cups, coins and paper flying. Jake’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Are you a fool?”
“Seems I’ve been a trusting one.”
Lucjan leaned over the desk, shoulders hunched, his eyes mad. “And the Bratva mark, does she know this as well?”
It was a gamble. Obviously, Stacia was aware of her husband’s mark, but Jake had deliberately chosen not to tell her of Timor’s. Not until he figured out what the hell was going on.
Knowing he could be signing his own death warrant, he still chose not to lie. “No.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, the record skipping lightly in the background.
“Are you planning on telling her?” Lucjan’s voice was whisper soft.
Jake gave him a level stare. “I haven’t decided yet.”
Lucjan nodded once. Then again. He sat back down. “I am not the enemy.” Lucjan looked directly into the gun aimed between his eyes. “Truly I am not.”
“Convince me. How do I know you haven’t been protecting him all along?”
Lucjan sneered. “The Russians haven’t controlled me in over a decade, not that they ever did. I’ve never met your Darnell.”
“But you know people who have, don’t you? You could have helped us get to him all along. And yet you did nothing.”
Lucjan watched Jake, then motioned at the table behind him. Jake jerked his head. Lucjan grabbed a bottle of blackberry brandy and poured two tumblers half full of the dark purple liquid before pushing one across to Jake. “You know how the Bratva works?”
Holding the gun steady in one hand, Jake reached for the liquor with the other. “I know there is a boss, like a godfather.”
“The papa.” Lucjan nodded and kicked back a shot. “And under him, you have the . . . Well, I know your Russian is not so good. Let’s call them generals. The big commanders, security and support. And the moneyman, of course.
“Then there are brigadiers. These are the backbone of the structure. They each run a group of men, street warriors. The men working the muscle of the body—pulling the hits, doing the dirty work. Below them, at the very bottom of the heap, is the shestyorka, the ‘six.’” He tapped the back of his neck, twisting so Jake could see the brand again. “I was six for two years. Only a few of the brigadiers brand their sixes, and of those that do, they each favor a particular body part. Where is your man’s brand?”
CLEAN to the BONE Page 13
