Through the Fire (New York Syndicate Book 3)

by Michelle St. James

  Aria grabbed her towel and followed. “Are you saying they’re sexist?”

  Aria stepped onto the narrow street in front of the house and Nora turned to lock the door. They started down the pathway leading to the beach.

  “I don’t think sexist is the right word,” Nora said as they walked.

  “What is?” Aria asked.

  For a moment, there was only the sound of their feet crunching over pebbles, the race of waves onto the sand growing louder as they came closer to the beach.

  “Protective,” Nora said. “They’re a little old school, I’ll admit, but not because they think we’re less than they are — because they think we’re more.”

  It was an interesting theory.

  “How so?” Aria asked.

  “They think we’re better than them, more valuable,” Nora said. “I mean, I recognize the way Damian looks at you. Braden looks at me the same way. To be honest, sometimes he worships me to the point of annoyance.”

  Aria smiled. “I’d say it’s a good problem to have, but I’m not so sure.”

  Nora stopped her with a hand on her arm. “It is,” she said. “Especially in this business.”

  They started walking again.

  “Are we in the same business?” Aria asked.

  “More or less,” Nora said wryly.

  “But you’re here in Greece without Braden,” Aria said.

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “That wasn’t a problem for him?”

  “Let’s just say we’ve had enough arguments over the past year or so about boundaries that he’s learned to pick his battles,” Nora said.

  It didn’t sound promising. Aria didn’t want to fight Damian every step of the way. She didn’t want to spend the next year arguing over how involved she was allowed to be in the business that impacted both of them.

  But if they did have to argue about it, she wanted to win.

  “How did you get him there?” Aria asked.

  “A lot of fighting.” Nora looked over at her with a smile. “A lot of making up.”

  Aria laughed. “That’s not very specific.”

  “I’m sorry,” Nora said. “I don’t mean to be flip. I know it’s a serious source of contention.”

  “Did it help that you’d been with the FBI? That he knew you could handle yourself?”

  “Not really,” Nora said. “We weren’t together when we were at the Bureau. That didn’t happen until after Braden left, so he didn’t really have a right to say anything when we worked together. Back then we were still kind of dancing around our feelings for each other. When it all shook out and we both found ourselves together and working with Locke, it was like all those years at the FBI had been in my imagination. All of a sudden, Braden wanted to keep me under glass.”

  “How did you prove to him that you were competent enough to be involved?” Aria asked.

  They reached the little beach below the house and removed their shoes before stepping onto the sand.

  “I didn’t. I just told him,” Nora said.

  “I don’t think that will work with Damian,” Aria said.

  “It didn’t work with Braden at first either,” Nora said. “You just keep saying it. You keep trying. And you try to see his side of it too. He loves you. No, he reveres you. He wants to protect you, and before you talk about the fact that it’s the twenty-first century, you should know that I don’t buy into every argument of modern feminism.”

  Aria did a double take. “You’re not a feminist?”

  “I didn’t say that.” They stopped a few feet from the water and Nora paused their conversation to ask if it was a good spot to set up camp. Aria nodded and Nora continued as they lay down their towels. “I’m just saying I think you can believe men and women are equal without thinking they’re the same. These guys — Locke, Braden, Damian, all of them — are danger junkies on testosterone overload. Do you really think Damian’s going to be Mr. Mom after you have the baby while you run New York? Is that even what you want?”

  Aria sat back on her towel. It felt subversive to admit that Damian’s sheer maleness was part of his appeal, that she’d been turned on from the beginning by his take-charge demeanor, his animalistic need to protect her.

  Whatever Nora said, it was the twenty-first century. There was a lot of righteous — and usually rightful — backlash against traditional gender models.

  But was it so wrong to admit that she agreed with Nora? To want to be seen as an equal in terms of intelligence and inner strength and courage while enjoying Damian’s physical prowess? His ability and determination to keep her safe?

  Is that what critics would call trying to have it both ways?

  Nora laughed next to her. “You’re overthinking,” she said. “I can almost hear the wheels of your mind trying to reconcile all the things you’re supposed to say with the things you want to say. It’s just you and me here. Why don’t you just tell me the truth?”

  “I know Damian won’t ever be some hipster with a beard, playing guitar and staying home with the baby,” Aria said. “And no, I don’t want him to be.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Nora said. “So you like him the way he is, but you want to have a role in the business.”

  Aria nodded. “I guess so.”

  Nora sat back and closed her eyes to the sun. “That’s not so bad.”

  “It’s not?”

  Nora shook her head. “It sounds like you agree in principle. I’ve never seen Damian treat you with anything but respect; you just have to hammer out the details, and that may take time.”

  “Time and a few arguments?” Aria suggested.

  Nora turned her head, shielded her eyes against the sun. “More than a few, but won’t it be worth it?”

  “Was it worth it for you?” Aria asked.

  “Without question,” Nora said. “I work with Locke, same as Braden. Sometimes I push to get my way, sometimes he pushes back. We always work it out. Plus, he’s incredible in bed. Like, first-rate. And I’m willing to bet Damian is the same.” She closed her eyes again. “I’m telling you: it’s all that testosterone.”

  Aria laughed. “I guess so.”

  “You can’t change these men.” Nora spoke in a murmur, as if she were falling asleep. “This is how they come. The only question is whether you want him.”

  It wasn’t a question. Aria wanted him.

  He set her aflame every time he touched her, took her to physical heights she hadn’t known existed. He made her feel protected and loved.

  Seen.

  She rested easy in the knowledge that he had the physical ability to back up his bluster, that he would do anything to keep her safe.

  What more could she want?

  She tried to imagine their future. She would stay home with their child, working in the greenhouse and helping Damian on the back end while he stood in front of them. She would take on a role at the Cavallo Foundation, but she would also learn more about Damian’s cyber capabilities, about the financial workings of the business, which was where Damian saw the organization heading in the future.

  She didn’t have to risk her life to be useful.

  And if it ever came to that, they would have the argument when the time came.

  She lay back on the towel and put on her sunglasses, shutting her eyes with a sigh, letting the breeze off the water caress her skin.

  It would be good. Better than good; it would be perfect.

  They would be happy. They would accept each other — and challenge each other when necessary.

  But none of it could happen until Stefano Anastos and Malcolm were dead.

  She turned her thoughts to Athens, sending her love to Damian across the water, willing him all the protection he’d afforded her since the moment he’d walked into her life.

  Willing him back to her.

  Eighteen

  Damian lifted the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the front door of Skin for the tenth time that hour. It was a small flat-roof
ed building with peeling paint huddled between an empty lot and an electronics store. He’d never understood the fascination with strip clubs, but most of his men enjoyed them, which meant he spent time in them whenever a celebration was in order.

  “Anything?” Cole asked next to him.

  Damian shook his head. “Couple guys just walked in, but they look like car salesmen. Doubt they’re connected to Anastos’ operation.”

  “Locke and Derek have been in there for over two hours,” Cole said.

  “They’re okay,” Damian said. “We’d know if something went wrong.”

  They’d established signals beforehand, setting up a series of taps on the mic that would allow Damian and Cole to know what was going on — one tap if they were in trouble and needed help, two if they’d spotted Anastos and were ready for Cole and Damian.

  They could hear what was going on around Locke and Derek through the comms system, but so far it had been nothing but music and the broken English of the waitress asking them if they wanted another drink.

  “I just hope they’re going to be sober enough to pull this off when the time comes,” Cole said.

  “I don’t think we have to worry about that.”

  For all of Locke’s recklessness, Damian had never actually felt like he was in trouble in the other man’s company. Locke was unconventional, a little wilder than the people Damian liked to employ in his own organization, but he wasn’t stupid or unreliable.

  “Think he’s in there?” Cole asked. “Anastos?”

  “No way to know until we get the signal,” Damian said. He thought about the dark eyed girl in the alley in Omonia. She’d taken a chance coming to him, and while there had been money in it for her, he’d felt her urgency, had seen the flash of anger in her eyes when she’d spoken of her cousin who worked as a dancer at the club. “My gut says yes.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Cole said. “We need to get back to New York.”

  Damian put down the binoculars. “Everything is relatively stable in New York.”

  “I know,” Cole said. “But I don’t like not being there with Gatti still on the loose.”

  It wasn’t an unreasonable position. The Syndicate — via Damian’s organization — had a handle on the city’s most important assets, but none of them were foolish enough to consider the job done until Anastos and Gatti were out of the picture for good.

  A sudden commotion on the mic forced Damian’s attention away from New York. He looked at Cole who had obviously heard it too, and they listened as Derek negotiated a lap dance with a woman inside the club.

  Four seconds later two distinct taps came across the mic.

  “Let’s go.” Damian checked his weapon and reached for the door.

  They’d parked on a street that ran perpendicular to the strip club. It would mean a tougher getaway, but they hadn’t wanted to risk being made with Locke and Derek inside the building.

  “We’re on our way,” Damian said into his mic as he got out of the car.

  They walked quickly past crumbling apartments and mini-markets, an assortment of people slouching through the streets smoking cigarettes, and in two cases, taking swigs from bottles of clear liquid that was probably either ouzo or vodka.

  “Think they have cameras on the doors?” Cole asked as they approached the building.

  “I don’t know,” Damian said. “Best to assume the worst. I’ll take the front. Stay against the building while you head to the back. The overhang should hide you from any cameras mounted near the roof.”

  “Will do.”

  Damian wished there was more to talk about, that they had more of an idea what they were up against, but they’d opted to avoid dialogue from Locke and Derek on the comms system as a precaution. The muffled tapping was the best they could do without risking detection by someone inside the club.

  They would have to play it by ear.

  They reached the front of the club and Cole immediately cut to the left, staying close to the building as he disappeared around the corner.

  Damian made a show of digging in his jacket for anyone who might be watching him. To the casual observer, he might appear like a possibly intoxicated customer just off work, making sure he had enough singles and fives for the dancers.

  He turned his back to the entrance for a split second.

  “Tell me when you’re heading in,” Damian said into the mic.

  “I’m at the door,” Cole said a few seconds later.

  “Good.” Damian headed for the door. “Give me thirty seconds to get oriented.”

  “Copy.”

  Damian opened the door.

  A bouncer sat on a stool, his stomach spilling over his jeans, the buttons on his shirt straining against the pressure of too much flesh.

  Damian nodded at him and acted like he’d been there a thousand times before. It was best not to speak. English would only draw attention to him.

  Locke and Derek had taken the opposite approach, choosing obviously American apparel and making no effort to hide their nationality. They would need to make small talk with each other and the waitresses to not appear suspicious.

  The bouncer gave him a quick up and down, lingering on his face long enough that Damian casually moved his hand toward his jacket, prepared to draw his weapon.

  The man let him pass, but that didn’t mean they were home free. Damian had no idea if Anastos had distributed pictures of him to his army.

  They would have to move fast.

  He got the lay of land in less than ten seconds: Locke sitting alone next to the stage where a raven-haired dancer spun on the pole to Madonna’s Ray of Light, three more men sitting nearby — laborers from the looks of it, and very, very drunk — three waitresses in various positions around the club. the bartender, the bouncer by the front door and another one standing between the main room and a curtained doorway that Damian assumed led to the VIP room, where Derek was undoubtedly well into his lap dance. There were two doors besides the one leading to the VIP room, one that looked to be a dressing room from its position off the stage, the other behind the bar and more than likely leading to a kitchen.

  There was no sign of Anastos, but Damian knew Locke and Derek wouldn’t have sent the signal unless they’d had visual confirmation he was in the building. Damian’s money was on Anastos in the VIP room, which was probably why Derek had paid for the private lap dance.

  They would have to watch the exits.

  Damian had less than ten seconds before Cole came through the back door with guns blazing.

  He was nearing the bar, using it as an excuse to reach into his jacket — he would need a wallet to pay for a drink — when the sound of splintering wood sounded from the back of the building.

  It was followed by shattering glass and the muffled thump of Cole’s silenced gun.

  There was a split second delay as everyone in the room caught up, looking toward the VIP room like they weren’t sure they’d heard what they thought they’d heard.

  Their reflexes got faster when a round of semiautomatic gunfire rang through the building. The customers and staff dove to the floor en masse as the dancer crouched on stage, screaming as she tried to crab walk to safety in acrylic platform stilettos.

  Locke was already on his feet, weapon in hand and heading for the door behind the stage.

  Odds that Stefano was in the kitchen: slim and none.

  Damian headed for the door of the VIP room where another smattering of gunfire sounded, intercepted by the quieter shots of the guns carried by Locke and Cole.

  It was one of Damian’s protocols to outfit weapons with silencers when they were headed for a firefight. The enemy rarely used them when caught unaware, which made it easier to tell who was shooting who when they didn’t have visibility.

  “Don’t be stupid,” he said to the bartender as he passed, waving his gun in case the guy didn’t speak English.

  The man nodded frantically and held up his hands to indicate that he didn’t have a weapon.<
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  Damian reached the doorway to the VIP room and flattened himself against the wall next to the curtains, listening to the gunfire.

  “How many?” Damian said into his mic.

  “Three so far,” Cole said through Damian’s earpiece.

  With Derek and Cole already in place, plus Damian, they were evenly matched.

  Which wasn’t even at all.

  They had the element of surprise as well as the comms system to enable communication.

  And Damian had his rage.

  “I’m at the door to the VIP room,” Damian said. “Locke’s got the room off the stage.”

  As soon as there was a lull in the shooting, he stepped through the door, firing indiscriminately into the ceiling. It gave him a chance to look around while Anastos’ men figured out he wasn’t actually firing at them.

  It was all the time he needed.

  Derek was crouched behind an overturned sofa, a buxom woman with platinum hair nearby, her mascara smearing as she sobbed into her fist.

  A smaller version of the stage in the main room stood across from Derek’s position, purple and blue light still blinking around its perimeter.

  At the back of the room, a door swung on its hinges, bullet holes marking its surface. Several pieces of furniture were overturned, but it was impossible to tell if they’d been upended in the chaos of the shooting or if they were being used to provide shelter to Anastos and his men.

  He got low just before a round of bullets embedded themselves in the wall where he’d been standing. He pulled down a long table littered with drinking glasses and bottles of beer and took up residence behind the thick wood.

  He’d only been there a few seconds when another round splintered the wood as Anastos’ men marked his hiding spot.

  “You still in the back, Cole?” Damian asked.

  “Still here.”

  “Anyone have eyes on Anastos?”

  “On the other side of the room,” Derek said. “Behind the stage.”

  Anastos was his, but Damian would need cover to get to him.

  Based on the trajectory of the bullets that had rained down on the overturned table he’d been using as shelter, Damian placed one man near the door at the back of the room near Cole.