Finding Violet (Shadows of Obsession #3)

1

Broadway

I ’ ve done it all.

During the years I spent working as Carter Willard’s right-hand man, I’ve done. It. All.

I watched countless men take their last breath. I blackmailed, kidnapped, tortured, maimed, and killed dozens, if not hundreds.

A baseball bat to the back of the knees?

Check.

Bullets between the eyes?

Check.

Severed arteries, gouged eyes, hacked off fingers?

Check, check, check.

I dug up a grave and desecrated the deceased...

For a twenty-seven-year-old, it’s one hell of a list. My sins can’t be excused. There’s no post-mortem redemption waiting for me in the afterlife. No forgiveness to be earned. I’m damned, despite only murdering those who’ve earned their deaths.

And I feel damn good about the life I lead.

A life of very particular privilege. Standing arm-in-arm with Carter Willard, the man I’ve looked up to for years, the man I call my best friend, my fucking hero, gives me power that nothing and no one else ever could. I love the adrenaline associated with pulling a trigger. The respect shining in the eyes of everyone who knows my name. The awe painting the faces of all the women as I walk past.

I have everything a man could dream of and enough money to fulfill my every whim. There’s not one thing I’d change. Not one thing I’m missing. Not one thing could shatter this bliss.

At least that’s what I thought only five fucking minutes ago.

Now, I’m not so sure.

There’s something unsettling happening in my gut... A feeling I can’t name. One I’ve never encountered before. It’s not anxiety. Not apprehension. Not agitation. Definitely not arousal, there’s nothing pleasant about this feeling.

Far from it.

It’s like facing your worst fear... something a hemophiliac would experience in a razor blade factory or an aquaphobic hopping from one damp steppingstone to the next across rising floodwaters.

Fuck. It feels... it feels like someone’s draining my blood and replacing it with quick-setting cement. Like every hair on my body is about to tear itself out of the follicle. Like death is tightening its grip around my throat.

I shift on the velvet sofa in Carter’s office at the back of Scarlett , eyes on the screens lining the wall. It’s a similar setup to Dante’s: one wall dotted with monitors streaming the live feed from inside the club.

You don’t change things that work, so Carter copied this solution from Chicago into his club in Columbus.

He didn’t move our operation from Chicago until three months ago, when Hailey’s father was discharged from the hospital to continue his rehabilitation at home.

She refused to leave him, and pussy whipped as Carter is, he continued working for Dante while reconfiguring Rhett’s empire.

A few of Carter’s late father’s business ventures survived the purge initiated the moment Rhett’s coffin was lowered into the ground. One thing I respect my boss for is how careful he is when choosing who he works with and what he dabbles in.

Our work is shady by definition. We don’t operate legally. We do bad things with bad people, but in this world, there are bad things, and then there are worse things.

Everyone draws a different line between the two, which is why there are men like Noretto who sell young girls into brothels, men like Dante who deal drugs, and men like his father-in-law—Anatolij Aristow—who started dealing guns once he moved from Moscow to Chicago.

Thankfully, Carter’s moral compass steers him clear of lucrative ventures like human trafficking.

While he’s establishing his position as boss in Ohio, Koby, Ryder, and I take care of the dirty work... hence the late night at the office.

Ryder sits behind the desk, his long fingers tapping the keyboard to fill the monitors with every angle of the scene that got Hailey so spooked. Koby’s opposite me, elbows on his knees, neat whiskey in hand.

The only one missing is the boss. He took Hailey home twenty minutes ago and left us to find some girl she met while held captive at Noretto’s mansion six months ago.

A girl with bone-white skin, violet hair and eyes to match. While her light complexion and long, dyed locks are nothing extravagant, her eyes are bizarre. Unnatural. Weird.

Fucking beautiful.

My insides twist harder the longer I stare. A mist of sweat breaks out along my hairline. Ants crawl up my spine, scalp, into my ears, nose, and down my fucking pants. My hands turn so slick my glass starts slipping.

On the screens, Violet stands by the long, wooden bar with a man taller than a tree. I don’t know if that’s her name. Neither does Carter, or even Hailey, but it fits, so that’s what she’ll be for now.

Violet.

One glance at the man with her confirms he’s never clipped our radar. I don’t know the fucker and I know everyone who’s someone in the mafia. We X-rayed and vetted them all before Carter decided who he wanted to do business with. This guy wasn’t on the list.

I have no reason to loathe him, but my head’s full of carnage. Full of his blood oozing from the cornucopia of wounds I’d love to inflict.

Save for his impressive height, everything else about him is perfectly within the realm of ordinary. Average.

Average build, average face, average dick, I bet.

Why else would he buy a woman? You don’t buy things you can get for free. I certainly don’t pay the women I fuck... though my stuffed wallet might be one of the many lures that brings them swarming en masse.

We watch the recording of our newest target, who fetches the bartender while Violet waits, head high, though body language reserved. Her hands are bound. A shimmering gold chain connects the cuffs to the crystal-studded collar around her neck. Another chain acts as a leash, the end in the man’s hand.

He yanks her closer, making her stumble and brace against his back with her dainty fingers.

She’s so thin she looks like a stick-figure.

A ball gag keeps her quiet and a short see-through dress showing off her tiny lingerie keeps her cheeks pink... beacons against her pale skin. Just like the bruises dotting her arms. My hold on the crystal glass in my hand turns unforgiving.

If he were still here, I’d plant one right hook in his head for every bruise he left on Violet.

“Either of you know the guy?” Ryder asks, zooming in on his face.

Long nose, salt-and-pepper stubble, streaks of silver in his dark hair. A few wrinkles here and there. He looks rich. Sophisticated. Sharp and well put together. His hair is styled back with just enough product, his spine rigid. An aura of importance drones around him, highlighted by his expensive suit and expensive taste in alcohol.

The bartender’s reaching for the most extravagant bottle we stock at Scarlett . A single shot of that cognac will set the fucker back three digits.

“Never seen him,” Koby says, straightening in his seat, unaffected by what he’s seeing.

“Me neither,” I grit out, slinging the rest of my drink at the back of my throat. The burn of alcohol doesn’t dissolve the tension in my cemented muscles. “Check the police database.”

“You don’t say,” Ryder muses, already tapping away.

I grab the half-empty bottle of Bourbon, the liquid sloshing side to side in time with my shaking hands. Flexing my fingers into tight fists doesn’t help.

My bones are fucking stiff.

“This might take a while.” Ryder peers at us over his laptop screen. “No reason for you to sit around and wait. I’ll call if I get a hit.”

“Good man,” Koby cheers, bolting upright.

The grin splitting his face is easy to decipher. He had plans with some long-legged beauty and finding Violet isn’t high on his list tonight. Especially given the chances of us locating the girl before dawn are slim at best.

With a spring in his step, he marches out of the office, letting the door soft-close behind him.

“You’re not going?” Ryder questions, sparing me a glance. “Nothing better to do?”

“Not tonight.”

A good night’s sleep was high on my agenda after three months of running about in a frenzy on Carter’s orders, but the monster crawling through my insides tells me I’m not getting any rest for the foreseeable future.

I might as well stay here and figure out what’s wrong with me. I’d think I was coming down with a cold, but I know what a cold feels like and this shit is not it.

“It’d go faster if we had his fingerprint,” Ryder mutters. “Facial recognition takes fucking ages.”

Yes, it does.

Three hours later, the program’s still running, Ryder’s napping with his head on the desk and I’m on my fifth drink, convinced my days are numbered.