by Amber Morgan
He nodded, taking another drag on his cigarette that made the cherry-red tip glow hot in the darkness.
“So you know the guy, the brown-haired guy? Tall, big ... arms?”
He gave her a knowing grin. “Slater? Yeah, I know Slater.”
She mulled on that. Being in a MC didn't mean Slater had connections to Sammy. She didn't pretend to be an expert, but whenever she saw anything about MCs in the news, it was invariably bad. Turf wars, drugs, gun-running... The knot in her stomach twisted a little tighter.
“You want me to pass a message to him?” the bouncer asked, a teasing note in his voice.
Freya frowned, scanning the empty road for her cab. “No,” she said firmly. “Absolutely not.”
Chapter Eight
Ever since their dad had passed away, the Slater kids had made a habit of descending on their mother for dinner every Wednesday. It was usually the only day of the week they could all extract themselves from work and relationships at the same time, and their mother thrived on the cheerful chaos they brought. Anita Slater, matriarch and enthusiastic cook, would spend the entire day making traditional Spanish dishes, from gazpacho to caparrones, then beam with pride as her brood devoured it all in a frenzy.
Whatever else was going on in his life, Slater made sure he was always at his ma's at six sharp on Wednesday evenings. More often than not, he had Punk in tow, because Punk had been an unofficial member of the Slater clan since Anita spotted him outside of school one day, aged thirteen and scrawny enough to be mistaken for ten.
Today was no exception. Punk was waiting outside the house—because he still couldn't bring himself to go in without Slater, despite twenty years of dinners with the family. He sat on his bike, cradling a bottle of Anita's favorite Rioja, tapping his foot impatiently as Slater parked up. The wide driveway was already crowded with his siblings' cars, but he parked his bike behind Punk's and said his usual silent prayer that Izzy wouldn't ram into it as she left. She still owed him for the repairs from last time.
“You're late,” Punk said.
“I'm not,” Slater said. “You're just scared to go in without me.”
“Kelsey's cat wants to kill me. You can't blame me for wanting a human shield from that devil creature.”
They both glanced toward the bay window in the front room, where Kelsey's monstrous tom cat waited, glowering at them through the glass. Pazuzu was at least half-panther, based on his size and glossy black coat, and definitely all man-eater, based on the way he attacked Punk every time Punk came around.
“Yeah, fair enough,” Slater said.
The front door was unlocked, and the scent of smoky paprika and frying garlic greeted them as they walked in. Music played in the kitchen, the uplifting ye-yé songs Anita grew up with in Barcelona. In the front room, the TV blared and Slater heard the distinct sounds of Izzy and Kelsey squabbling over TV channels. Business as usual.
Slater and Punk headed for the kitchen, which as usual, was full of men. Anita stood at the stove, stirring a giant pot of sausage and bean stew and singing along to the radio. Slater's younger brother and business partner, Shane, was washing up a stack of tomato puree-stained pots. Will, the eldest Slater kid—though at thirty-eight years old and six-foot-five, way past being mistaken for a kid—was setting the huge farmhouse-style table in the center of the room.
All the Slater boys were tall, inheriting their father's build and height. All the sisters were as short as Anita, and all six of them favored their Spanish mother in looks. Punk, with his dyed black hair and olive complexion, had often been mistaken for one of them when they were all younger. The runt of the litter, Will would tease.
“Evening, ma,” Slater said, crossing over to kiss his mother's hair. “Can we do anything?”
She waved him off with a wooden spoon dripping with stew. “No, honey, you just go sit down. Colby, pour some wine for everyone, will you?”
Punk, who would forever be Colby to Anita, obeyed, filling the huge wine glasses Will had already set out.
Shane nodded a greeting to Slater. “Had a call from Chalmers after you left this afternoon,” he said.
Slater drew closer to his brother, picking up a dish towel to dry off the plates Shane was stacking up. “Oh yeah?”
Chalmers and King was the PI firm ArcLight worked with, which meant it was something to do with Nash's request. Slater's brain buzzed. He'd only called Alice Chalmers on Monday. Chalmers and King prided themselves on working hard and fast, but even so, he hadn't expected news already. Nash had given him the impression that Liviana Mancuso could be buried deep.
“Yeah, wants to call in the office tomorrow. I told her you'd be there around ten.” Shane pointed a spoon at him. “Don't blow her off for biker shit, okay?”
Slater frowned. Shane frowned back, and Slater cracked first. Shane was younger, but the reality was, since Slater became a prospect, Shane had taken control of ArcLight for the most part. Technically they were equal partners, but Shane put in more hours and handled the migraine-inducing shit like taxes and certifications. He rarely pulled rank, but when he did, Slater knew better than to argue.
“I was planning to go in tomorrow morning anyway,” he said, snatching the spoon from Shane. “Want to check out a few new boot camps. Not happy with the new coaches at FastTrack. Did you see the bruises on Nico the other day?”
They fell into idle business chatter then, shit that didn't require too much brain-power from Slater and allowed him to dwell on his meeting with Alice. Should he tell Nash? Nah, no point beforehand. Alice might just say there was nothing to be found on this Liviana. Although that wouldn't need a face-to-face meeting, would it?
He mulled that over until Anita announced dinner was ready, bringing the girls and Pazuzu scurrying in to claim their places at the table. Pazuzu crouched under Punk's chair, swatting at his ankles and snagging his claws in the laces of Punk's heavy boots.
“Got my shit-kickers on today, demon,” Punk told the cat. “Fool me twice, shame on me.”
“He just wants to play,” Kelsey said, settling in next to Punk.
“Yeah, with my shredded intestines. He's evil, Kel.”
“You should have got him neutered earlier,” Izzy said.
“Should have got him exorcised,” Punk muttered.
Kelsey slapped the back of his hand and he made a great show of being wounded. Business as usual. Slater had always thought the pair might end up together, and prayed they wouldn't, because Kelsey had the same temperament as Pazuzu, and Punk was exactly the kind of guy you dreaded your baby sister hooking up with. If anything had ever happened between them, though, it had fizzled out fast enough to leave no traces behind.
Anita bustled around the table, dishing up food and ignoring the bickering and banter of her children. “Haydee, how's it going with this new man?” she asked her eldest daughter as she served up gazpacho. “What is it? Peter? Perry?”
“Pierce,” Haydee said, blushing. “It's good, ma, but I'm still not bringing him round yet.”
“Well, what's wrong with him then?” Anita asked. “Or what's wrong with me, if you don't want him to meet me?”
“We've had three dates, ma.” Haydee scanned the table in quiet desperation, her gaze latching onto Will. “Will! How's Jemma?”
“Still pregnant,” Will said through gritted teeth. Haydee grinned triumphantly as Anita swung her attention toward him.
“And when are you going to tell me if I'm having a grandson or a granddaughter, young man? You kids keep me waiting all this time for grandchildren and now you won't even tell me what I'm having?” Anita shook her head, graying curls bouncing as she sat at the head of the table. “You're taking all the fun out it, Will.”
“Jemma wants it to be a surprise,” Will said. Like Haydee, he now cast around his siblings, looking to divert Anita again.
Slater kept his head down, focusing on his food. Shane was the best target. He'd been talking about proposing to his girlfriend for a while now. Izzy had
divorced her high school sweetheart last year and Kelsey was as single as Slater. Anita bewailed it frequently, her longing for grandchildren having become an obsession in recent years. Everyone had hoped Will's wife getting pregnant would calm her down, but it had only made Anita more determined to see her other children hitched up and knocking out babies.
“Nathan, when are you going to bring a nice girl home?” Anita asked, surprising him. “Or a nice boy. I don't mind which, really.”
Punk burst out laughing.
Slater kicked him. A vision of Freya, naked and flushed from dancing, streaked through his head. “I'm working on it, ma.”
“I thought MC clubs were full of girls,” Kelsey said. “I mean, not nice girls, but you're not getting any younger, Nate. You can't afford to be too picky.”
“You know in the old days, Kel, women your age were considered damaged goods if they weren't married with three kids already,” Punk said.
“Yeah, well, we've had feminism since then. I can be a crazy cat lady without fear of being sent to a nunnery or whatever the fuck they did in the Middle Ages.”
“Kelsey! Language!” Anita scolded.
Kelsey's foul mouth neatly moved the conversation on, to everyone's relief. With the food and wine flowing, the atmosphere soon relaxed, and Slater felt knots of tension he hadn't known he was carrying loosen up. It wasn't just familial duty that brought them all here every week. This was an escape for all of them, from work, from relationship problems, from money worries. In this kitchen, basking in the strong smells of chorizo and basil, with Pazuzu prowling under the table, they were all just kids again. Loud, carefree kids. Even Punk, who'd never got to be a loud and carefree kid in his own home.
It was a very domestic kind of magic, Slater always thought. Rhonda had brought a little bit of it to him, working as his housekeeper, and now she was gone, these Wednesday gatherings meant even more to him. The others had mocked him. Haydee and Shane had loved to imply he was hooking up with the older woman, while Kelsey went straight for the jugular and asked him every week if he was banging Mrs. Robinson yet.
Slater had always ignored it. Rhonda had known them all for most of their lives, and offering her a job after her husband died had been the only thing Slater could think of doing that would help her with her grief. It had distracted her, made her happy to have someone to take care of, and Slater had been able to focus on ArcLight, and then Wild Blood, without worrying about whether he had clean underpants or not. What had started as a gesture of compassion had turned into something they both valued.
And now Rhonda was gone too. Like her husband, like Slater's dad. Like Judge. He frowned, his wine turning sour in his mouth.
Punk speared a piece of sausage from Slater's stew. “If the wind changes, your face will stay like that.”
“Might be an improvement,” Kelsey said.
Then the bickering and banter started again and carried on until Anita served up her famous homemade Tarta de Santiago, which, as always, united everyone in perfect harmony.
****
Freya crept into her house through the back door, shoes in hands. Her bare feet made no sound on the cool kitchen tiles. It was nearly midnight and the last thing she wanted to do was wake Kayden up. She felt sixteen again, sneaking in after a night of partying with boys who were too old for her. Except instead of being drunk and buzzing with energy, she was exhausted and dispirited. Another night at the Hot House, another night of disappointment.
Once again, she thought she'd done pretty well with private dances, and once again Benedict had taken the lion's share of her earnings. No matter how much she tried to tell herself it was fine, that this was the whole point, and that she didn't have any choice anyway, she couldn't be okay with it. Not really, not down in her heart. She was being robbed. She knew that. And she knew that no matter what she earned, Sammy would keep saying it wasn't enough.
Resentment swamped her for a hot second, and she swore softly, thumping her hip with her fist. How had things gotten so fucked up?
There was a sound on the stairs in the hall, wooden steps creaking quietly. Freya sighed, perching on one of the stools at the breakfast bar as her twin brother crept down the stairs. This. This was how things had gotten so fucked up. Because of Kayden and her instinct, her need, to protect him.
In the shadows, he looked sickly-pale. But then, that was how he looked in the light now, too. His blond hair stuck up wildly and his t-shirt smelled of pot. He was tall and too thin, spider-like, Freya thought. She loved him. She hated him.
“Hey, sis,” he said as he joined her. “How was your night?”
Anger bubbled in her, threatening to boil over. What was she supposed to say to that? Instead of answering, she went and pulled a can of soda from the fridge. The cold, sugary liquid tasted divine after the sticky heat of the club.
She felt Kayden hovering nervously behind her, heard him crack his knuckles, and wanted to slam the can down on his hands to stop it. The impulse made her shiver. She was not an angry person, not normally.
Maybe angry was her new normal.
“So...” Kayden said.
Freya spun to face him, gritting her teeth. “It was fine, Kayden. My night was fine. I don't want to talk about it.”
He backed off, alarm on his face. How did he manage to look both younger and older than his twenty-four years? Looking at him just compounded Freya's exhaustion.
“Okay. Well ... okay,” he said, smoothing his hair down. “Mom called,” he said, as if it was a peace-offering. “Sounds like her and Dad are loving the UK. Cool, huh?”
Their father was a neurologist who'd recently accepted his dream job working for a prestigious British university. It was something he'd worked toward for years, but he'd waited until they thought Freya and Kayden were settled in life before making the move. Their mother, a kindergarten teacher, had been anxious about the move, both in terms of leaving her kids and starting over in a new country.
They'd been there four months now, and while Freya was genuinely glad they were happy, this wasn't a conversation she was in the mood for. “Fantastic,” she said, draining the soda. “I'm going to bed then.”
As she passed him, Kayden caught her arm. “Freya,” he said, voice tight and high. “I ... I...” He paused, clearly changed his mind about whatever he'd been going to say. “I love you, you know.”
Freya's heartstrings twanged. “I love you too, Kay.” She patted his arm. It was all the affection she could muster just then. She dragged herself upstairs, leaving Kayden alone in the cold, dark kitchen. He made no move to follow and head to his own bedroom. He stayed behind and let her go ahead.
That was the way it had always been and that was the way would it always be. And that was why things were so fucked up.
Chapter Nine
Alice Chalmers was waiting for Slater in his office at ArcLight, dead on ten o'clock the next morning. Looking cool and crisp in a tailored suit, with her short hair shining in the autumn sunlight, she was the kind of woman Anita would have loved any of her sons to bring home: smart, pretty, and professional. Sadly for Anita, she was already happily married to her partner in Chalmers and King, Miles King.
She was also definitely not Freya Markham. Slater shook his head as he sat down, bemused by himself. He'd seen the woman twice. She shouldn't have this kind of hold on him, but he was hooked. It was completely irrational.
He flipped on the coffee maker on his desk. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said to Alice. He wasn't late, but he should have known she'd be early.
She shook her head. “I'm fine. I can't stay long. I just wanted to bring something to your attention about this Mancuso thing—although you probably already know.” She pulled a manila folder from her bag.
Slater's spine prickled, red flags rising in his head. “I don't know anything,” he said. “I was surprised to hear back from you so fast, to be honest.”
“Well, we haven't found Liviana Mancuso, if that's what you were thinking,”
Alice said, opening the folder. “But even the most cursory digging around unearths a lot about the Mancuso family.”
She put a slight emphasis on family, one that made a puzzle piece click into place for Slater, even before he saw the newspaper cuttings she'd gathered. “They're Mafia?”
Alice nodded. “Were Mafia, past tense. Lucio “Lucky” Mancuso, the boss, was murdered eight years ago. Suspicion fell on a rival gang, but nothing was ever proved. The family fell apart after Lucky's death, though. Another boss swooped in and took control of their operations, a lot of key names disappeared, and when the smoke cleared, the Mancuso family had all but vanished.”
Slater whistled, leafing through the cuttings. Salacious headlines and grainy photos jumped out at him. Cosa Nostra Crack Down! Bassani Confesses All! Millions Seized in Raid!
“So this Liviana is a mob princess?” he asked Alice. She nodded.
“Lucky's daughter. She was twenty-one when he was murdered. There's not a lot out there about her, to be honest, but that's not surprising. Lucky seemed to keep his women particularly sheltered from that side of his life.”
Slater nodded. From what he knew, that was pretty standard in all organized crime, from the Irish Mob to the Bratva. Women were silent, faithful, and occasionally pawns. Arranged marriages to create alliances weren't unusual in the Cosa Nostra even now.
“Any word on Lucky's wife? Other kids, anything like that?”
“Not beyond what's on public record, and I assume you're not paying me for stuff you can find with a Google search.” Alice pushed the folder toward him. “Keep that. I'll keep digging for Liviana, but I thought you'd want to know the kind of job this is.” She pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. “I have to ask...”
“Why am I asking you to find a mob princess who's been missing and potentially dead for eight years?” Slater shook his head, a grim feeling stealing over him. “Alice, I have no fucking idea.”
****
The question tormented Slater all day. Why did Nash want to find Liviana Mancuso?
