I shake my head.
His cheek twitches. “Regardless, you are. You’re slick, Scarlet, and I don’t mean that in the wet pussy kind of way, although, well…” He pauses as he looks me over, like he’s lost his train of thought, before he shakes it off, letting go of my wrist. “I’m just saying sex isn’t all you’re good for. You don’t want to fuck me? That’s fine. Under no circumstances is fucking me a requirement. But I’ve seen what you’re capable of. So maybe you’re right, about being a woman. I don’t know, because I’m not one. Maybe, to make it on these streets, you need someone in your corner. In that case, you need to reassess who that someone is, because if they’re not taking you seriously, Scarlet? If they don’t see you for the threat you are? They’re doing you no goddamn good, because when trouble comes, they buckle, baby. They’re the ones who aren’t strong.”
He stares at me, like he’s awaiting some reaction, some sort of intelligent response to that declaration, but he’s kind of rendered me speechless, so I just offer him his own words. “I haven’t the faintest fucking idea what to say to that, Lorenzo.”
A smile cracks his face as he grasps my chin, tilting my face up further, and holding me there. His touch sends sparks through my body, my heart racing in my chest. Working for him would be dangerous, very dangerous, in every conceivable way, and I’m just not sure if that’s a risk I can take.
“You just think about it,” he says. “Jamaica Estates over in Queens… it’s a white house on Midland, not far from Grand Central Parkway. You want me, that’s where you’ll find me. My door’s always open. Literally. I don’t lock my doors, either.”
His thumb lightly swipes across my bottom lip before he pulls away, letting go, his hand leaving my skin.
I just stand here as he leaves, waiting until he’s gone before returning to my apartment. I shower and change clothes, grabbing my oversized black hoodie, tugging it on before leaving, too.
I need to clear my head. I need to make sense of this mess.
I need to make another trek to Brooklyn.
Dry heat billows from the vent in the ceiling right above me, ruffling my frizzy hair, blowing wayward strands into my face.
I don’t bother pushing them away.
It feels like Death Valley in this glass cube they call an office, the fluorescent lights too bright and the air too warm. My palms are sweaty, hands shoved in the pocket of my hoodie. Every breath makes my lungs burn, stiff and achy in my chest, like smoke inhalation got the best of me this morning.
I’m still high.
I can feel it.
The blinds are up and the door is propped open, giving a clear view inside the office, so anyone walking past can see me sitting here. It’s unnerving, but I’m grateful for the openness. It means the detective is too busy to think about hanky-panky right now.
He’s been in and out of the office for the past thirty minutes, barely acknowledging my presence, shuffling through paperwork and muttering under his breath. I’m curious what he’s working on, but if I ask he’ll just say it isn’t any of my business, even if it is... he doesn’t tell me anything.
I stare past him, beyond him, out of the office window of the precinct, a stream of sunlight reflecting off the glass, reminding me of the orange glow this morning. “Two hundred and eighty sunrises.”
Gabe shuffles through a few files as he says, “You shouldn’t be here, Morgan.”
That’s what he always says.
You’d think he’d be tired of repeating himself.
“Yeah, well, here I am,” I mumble as I toy with the edge of the sleeves of my hoodie. “Always exactly where I don’t belong.”
He lets out a deep, exaggerated sigh as he sits back in his chair. “The guys over at the seventh precinct are gonna want to interview you.”
I nod, not surprised.
The police would be crawling all over Mystic. I’m not on record as working there, officially, but my name is bound to come up. The security monitors are nothing more than live feeds, so there won’t be any recordings, which means they’re going to be desperate for witnesses.
They’ll find none.
Nobody’s going to talk.
Certainly not me.
“Was it him?” Gabe asks.
“What do you think?”
“I think it certainly sounds like something he’d do.”
“Well, there you go,” I say.
“So you saw him?” Gabe asks. “Kassian?”
Kassian.
My gaze shifts to my lap at the sound of that name. Sweat rolls down my back. It feels even harder to breathe in here now. Why the hell is it so hot?
“I heard him talking,” I say. “He was looking for me.”
“Did he see you?”
“Would I be sitting here if he did?”
“No,” he mutters. “Probably wouldn’t.”
I can’t even begin to imagine what Kassian might’ve done had he found me hiding behind that bar, how he would’ve reacted to the sight of me cowering there without a top on. Probably would’ve killed everyone. We’ve been doing this dance for a long, long time, but these past nine months have been the worst. I’m exhausted. Most intense game of Hide & Seek ever played, except it’s not a game. Not really. There’s nothing fun about what we’re doing. I want to quit, forfeit, call it a tie and walk away with my head held high, but Kassian Aristov plays to win.
There’s no negotiating with that man.
It’s his way or no way.
And I can’t let him win this one. I can’t. And he knows that. Him winning means the rest of us lose.
“Do you ever watch the sunrise, detective?”
Gabe sighs dramatically, ignoring my question, like maybe he thinks I’m being stupid. “Go home, Morgan. It’s not safe for you here.”
“Not safe in the 60th precinct?” I gasp with mock horror, clutching my chest. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“Yeah, well, if I’m not safe surrounded by police, what makes you think I’ll be safe anywhere out there?”
“He hasn’t found you yet, has he?”
“Not yet,” I say, yet being the operative word. If he figured out I was working at Mystic, it’s only a matter of time until he traces me to the apartment, considering George owns the place.
He set me up there when I hit bottom, after I threw myself at his mercy, having nowhere else to turn for help. He hates the Russians with a fiery passion, and the enemy of my enemy, well... let’s just say they’re the only ones stupid enough to jump at that chance.
“Can I ask you something else, detective?”
“If I say no, will that make you leave?”
“No.”
“Then fire away.”
“What do you know about a guy they call Scar?”
Gabe stops what he’s doing and looks at me. “I know anyone with a street name like Scar is probably going to be bad news. Other than that, nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” he says. “Why?”
“No particular reason.”
“Why, Morgan?” he asks again, voice louder. “What have you gotten yourself into now?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
Man, this conversation is going nowhere.
“Go home,” Gabe says, standing up, “and stay there. Stay off the radar. Stay out of trouble. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t jeopardize what we’re doing here.”
“What are we doing here?” I ask. “Because I’m not really seeing anything being done.”
He squeezes my shoulder. It’s meant to be affectionate, I guess, but his touch makes my skin crawl. “I’m protecting you, Morgan, just like you need me to do.”
After he walks out, I sit there, considering those words. Protecting me.
If this is how they protect people, I think I’d rather protect myself.
Chapter Thirteen
“I have s
omething for you, kitten.”
The little girl tensed at those words, at the Tin Man’s voice in the doorway behind her. It had been two weeks since that night when she’d been woken from her sleep for Hide & Seek.
When would it be over?
The little girl turned around in the wooden desk chair, where she’d been drawing with a stubby little pencil in the bedroom he called hers. The Tin Man stood there, dressed in a black suit, hands hidden behind his back. She hadn’t seen him much in days. She stayed in that room, avoiding him after he burned her favorite nightgown.
She didn’t like being there, but she liked it a tiny bit more when he wasn’t around. The Cowardly Lion watched her the nights the Tin Man didn’t come home. He wasn’t always nice, but he wasn’t as mean. Sometimes, she thought she might like him.
Her stomach gurgled and her hands shook as she fisted the pencil. “What do you have?”
The Tin Man said nothing, did nothing, just staring at her, not moving from the doorway. After a moment, he pulled something from behind his back, his hand dwarfing a stuffed bear. Threadbare in some patches, its fluff kind of matted, the tan coloring filthy brown. An eye was gone and an ear was barely hanging on, but it was the most beautiful thing the little girl had ever seen, because it was hers. Hers.
Her mother had given it to her.
She hadn’t seen it since the night she’d dropped it in the kitchen near where her mother slept. Her eyes widened, lips parting, heart beating wildly in her chest.
“For me?” she asked.
“It is yours, yes?” He looked at it, making a face. “Hideous thing. Do you even want it?”
She frantically nodded.
Of course she wanted it.
She wanted it so bad.
But she didn’t dare move from the chair, didn’t dare try to get it. Not yet.
He knelt down then, eye-level from the doorway, and held it out for her to take. The little girl was terrified it might be a trick, but she wanted it so much she had to try. Standing up, she approached him, reaching for it. He kept his grip on the bear, not yet releasing it. “Does it have a name?”
She nodded.
“Use your words.”
“His name is Buster,” she whispered.
“Buster,” he repeated before finally letting go. The little girl snatched the bear to her chest, hugging it tightly.
The Tin Man stood back up, like he was just going to leave, like it hadn’t been a trick at all. He really had something for her, something he would let her keep.
In a snap decision, the little girl flung herself at him, hugging his legs, squishing the teddy bear against his thigh. He froze, looking at her. She worried she’d made a mistake until his hand gently stroked her long brown hair and he hugged her back.
“Thank you, Daddy,” she whispered.
His finger crooked beneath her chin, making her look up at him. “I would do anything for you, kitten.”
She wasn’t sure if she believed that, but his gentle tone made her smile. For the first time in fourteen long days, she smiled at him.
The Tin Man grinned down at her, again stroking her hair, his shoulders sagging, his posture less tense, like maybe he remembered his heart again. Maybe it was in his chest, beating all weirdly just like hers, kind of scared still, but almost a little bit happy, too. It didn’t last long, though, as something happened to his smile, making it freeze on his face, like the smile her mother gave her the night when things went all wrong.
“You look like her,” he said, his tone flat. “I pray you never act like her. I would not handle that well.”
He pulled away, prying her off of him, leaving her standing there in a cloud of confusion. She shook it off, though, her smile only growing as she hugged Buster, holding him to her nose and inhaling deeply.
It was almost like hugging her mother.
Chapter Fourteen
Puzzles.
Each piece perfectly cut, molded to fit the ones surrounding it, unique in its own right so it can’t go anywhere else, only where it belongs. Alone, the piece means nothing, a flicker of a picture, like a story without an ending, just a random scene without any credibility. It’s like getting your dick wet but never getting off, sticking it in but not fucking.
What’s the point of that?
Puzzles demand follow-through. You can’t just dick out in the middle of one.
Or, well, I can’t.
It’s kind of a metaphor for life. Moments are pieces, formed together and built upon, creating the bigger picture within the border of your world. My puzzle is full of deformed shapes and jagged edges, but it still all fits together in its own twisted way, making a hideous fucking picture of my reality.
I like puzzles.
That’s probably not a surprise.
The library on the first floor of the house is mostly vacant, just like most of the other rooms. Only own what you can use. An oversized ebony veneer table spans the center of it, golden brown and stark black wood merging together, the kind of table you’d find in a boardroom surrounded by those expensive ass ergonomic chairs. There’s a single black leather office chair in here somewhere, shoved aside, as I stand in front of the table, gazing down at it, tapping the corner of a puzzle piece against the shiny striped wood, thinking.
I’ve been working on this puzzle for a few months now, since the day we moved into this house, the border completed, taking up half of the table, sections pierced together inside of it with others just sitting around. Eight thousand pieces. A replica of Michelangelo’s painting on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
Sounds boring, I know.
Just stick with me here.
It’ll get better.
I try the piece a few spots before snapping it into place near the border. I look around, seeking out another, when light tapping echoes through the library from the open doorway as knuckles rapt against the wooden paneling.
Seven stands there, not crossing the threshold, clutching his phone. Or well, my phone, actually. He tends to filter my calls for me whenever he’s around, like some pseudo-secretary.
He doesn’t come any closer, waiting for acknowledgment. Others move around the house, the rest of my little personal wrecking crew, seven of them in total. There used to be ten, a nice, round even number, but the other three? Well, they met unfortunate ends due to their own stupidity.
I don’t have many rules. Do what you want. Screw who you want. Steal, and lie, and cheat, if you must, but when I tell you something, you listen, and it’s in your best interest not to annoy me, because I can be a bit touchy.
Oh, and don’t step foot in my library without my permission.
“What is it, Seven? I’m busy.”
“That guy is calling again.”
“Which guy?”
“Ricardo Conti.”
“Who?”
“Amello’s guy.”
“Which guy?”
“The one we met out on the dock that night.”
“Ah, that guy,” I say, trying a piece in a few spots before discarding it, picking up another. “He doesn’t look like a Ricardo.”
“That’s his name.”
“I don’t like it.”
“I didn’t imagine you would.”
There’s nothing spiteful about those words from Seven, so I take no offense to them.
The guy knows how I tick.
I try my next piece, finding its spot, and move on to yet another when Seven clears his throat. “Boss?”
I look at him again, growing impatient. “What?”
“Ricardo,” he says, holding the phone up. “He’s calling.”
“Now?”
“Yes,” he says. “Do you want me to tell him you’re still busy?”
“Depends on what he wants.”
“To meet up with you again.”
“Oh, well, invite him over, then.”
Seven’s eyes widen. “Here?”
“Yeah, why not?” I shrug. “It’s still cold as f
uck. I’m not hanging out on some dock tonight, freezing my nuts off again. If he wants to see me, here I am.”
“Yes, boss. I’ll tell him.”
Seven retreats as I continue working on my puzzle, trying to focus, but my vision is blurring and making it hard to see, the colors all merging together. I try for a bit longer before giving up, a headache setting in. Snatching the chair closer, I drop down in it, propping my feet up on the corner of the table as I close my eyes, draping my arm over my face, trying to block out all of the light.
God knows how long I sit here, zoning out, dozing off, before a throat clears. I open my eyes, alarmed, seeing a man stepping into the library. Ricardo. Sitting straight up, feet hitting the floor with a thud, I reach for my gun. I point it before he can come any closer, aiming center mass.
“One more step and I pull the trigger,” I say as he comes to an abrupt stop, raising his hands, like surrendering might stop me from shooting. Ha. “Do you always make it a habit to enter someone’s domain without knocking?”
“I was invited,” he says. “And the door, you know, it’s open, so I thought…”
Seven appears behind the guy as he trails off. Grabbing him, Seven roughly pats him down, snatching a small gun from a holster under his clothes. Seven quickly disassembles it, taking all the bullets, before handing the gun back to him. His brow furrows as he takes it.”
“You can have the gun, but only once it’s empty,” I tell him, “Ammunition is a no-no in my house. You see, bullets don’t come with names on them, which means anyone can catch one, if you pull the trigger, and I can’t get down with that. You got me?”
He slowly nods as he eyes my gun.
I know what he’s thinking.
“Rules don’t apply to me,” I say, “so don’t get any stupid ideas. You want to kill me, Ricky, and you’re going to have to get creative, because I’ll shoot you in the fucking heart the second you start getting twitchy.”
Menace (Scarlet Scars #1) Page 14
