Chapter 26 #2
Mateo gripped the edge of the desk, his hands shaking as he fought for control.
The walls had started to push in, and his vision grew dark at the edges as more sounds came through his earbuds.
Lewd sounds. Unmistakable sounds. The jingle of a belt buckle, the dip of a mattress.
The master bedroom must be right off the living area, and the door might have been left open.
The wire was just sensitive enough to pick up what was happening in that bedroom.
The timer on the recording swam before his eyes, the numbers hazy.
He squinted to make them out. Seven minutes left.
He remained where he sat for every second of those seven minutes, his lungs filling with fire on every breath.
Despite the rage boiling his blood in his veins, he could not move, could not tear himself away until the audio had ended.
Even as Korenic’s grunts and groans filled his ears.
Even as the slap of skin on skin echoed through him, each impact like a physical blow.
Even as he held his breath and listened for Melody, for the now-familiar sounds of her pleasure.
She was different with Korenic. Dirtier. More talkative. Like a porn star, or …
Like a fucking prostitute, he thought bitterly. Working over a john.
Mateo sat in furious silence until it ended, with Korenic muttering to himself in Serbian as his heavy footsteps took him further into the penthouse.
Melody was unnervingly silent, and if Mateo hadn’t heard for himself that she was there, he might have assumed she’d disappeared into thin air.
The recording ended after a long, airy silence, the earbuds suddenly heavy and uncomfortable.
He snatched them free and shot to his feet, overturning his chair.
He kicked it aside and paced to the other side of the room, his chest heaving with every wrathful breath he took.
Going back to the desk, he snatched up his Scotch bottle and tipped it up, gulping greedily.
He needed something to take the edge off, to temper the flames roaring in his belly.
He wanted to drive a screwdriver through his ear and dig and scrape until he had dislodged the memory of that audio from his mind, flinging it away and burning it to ashes.
He wanted to scream and howl and tear through the walls with his fist. He wanted to find Korenic and wrap both hands around the man’s throat, squeezing the life out of him slowly, methodically.
And Melody ….
He took another swig of Scotch, grunting and swiping a hand at his chin to catch a trickle.
He didn’t know what he would do about her.
There was a part of him—a calmer, gentler part—that whispered reminders of her past into his ear.
The things she had endured, the ways she had been used, were all very real.
A fifteen-year law enforcement career meant he’d been instilled with compassion for women like her who often found themselves in impossible situations.
But, his career had taught him something else—something he had forgotten right up until this moment.
Not every woman in this business was a victim.
Most of them started off that way, but becoming a part of society’s underworld meant one had to learn how to adapt and survive.
Adaptation and survival meant that a former prostitute could step into a number of positions of power and influence.
Madams, facilitators, bottom bitches, recruiters, handlers, bookkeepers, mules, mistresses.
Many of them were as dangerous—if not more so—than the men running the show.
Their experiences hardened them, the world they were forced to live in shaped them, and Stockholm Syndrome made them some of the most loyal accomplices.
He had interrogated dozens of facilitators and bottom bitches who refused to turn on their handlers, no matter what threats or incentives were offered.
He’d seen them go to extraordinary lengths to protect their men and their business: lying, cheating, stealing, killing.
I’m not working anymore, Melody had told him.
He had been curious about the reason even then, but hadn’t wanted to ask. The moment in which she’d made the confession had been fraught with tension and uncertainty as she was forced to realize he knew the truth about her.
Did he know the truth? He hadn’t circled back to ask the question that might have been the most important.
Why aren’t you working anymore?
A prostitute who was owned by her pimp never stopped working unless she was incapacitated in some way that stopped her from performing sexually. Or, unless she was dead. Neither of these applied to Melody, which meant she was a special case.
No, not a special case, he realized. There were a few more reasons she could have been released from her obligations, and Mateo was aware of them all. No matter which one his mind landed on, the truth resounded through him in a ripple too powerful to ignore.
She couldn’t be a madam, or she wouldn’t be waiting tables at Solstice.
He would have been more likely to find her at the NOLA house instead of the club if that were the case.
She was too small and lacked the intimidating aspect of a handler or enforcer, so that was out.
Bottom bitch? That would be more likely if she was fucking Suede, who was a low-level pimp but just powerful enough to command some influence.
But she was Roman Korenic’s girl; they weren’t just fucking, she had a nickname and was familiar enough with him to sooth him when he was angry.
No, a voice inside of him insisted. Not his girl. Mine … mine … mine.
He thought of her walking toward him at Solstice with a come-hither sway to her hips.
Grinding her ass against his dick on the dance floor.
Teasing him with soft smiles and fluttering eyelashes.
Reeling him in like a fish on a hook. And once she’d snared him, she had switched on the vulnerability, closing around him with a snap.
He whirled and swiped the contents of his desk to the floor, panting with rage.
The Scotch bottle overturned, but he could only stand there, watching the golden liquid pour onto the carpet.
The smell of it stung his nostrils, calling up memories of lying in the moonlight with Melody, licking Macallan off her shoulder, her neck, her thighs.
He pressed the heel of his hand to one eye and rubbed furiously, trying to stifle the images, but they kept coming.
Melody spinning in his arms on the dance floor at The Copper Rose.
Melody grinning at him over the rim of her daiquiri glass.
Melody looking at him with tears in her almond eyes, her lips trembling. Vulnerable. Sweet.
Dangerous.
Yes, Melody was dangerous, not just to him, but to his entire team.
Like an idiot, he had allowed her to learn of his identity.
He had even shared small details of the case with her.
She knew his name, she knew about Mari. Oh, God, she knew about Angelica.
How long would it be before he opened up a future recording, only to overhear Melody telling Roman everything he needed to know about the agent determined to take down his business and his cult?
With Melody whispering the right information into the right ears, he’d have both Roman and the UNSUB on his ass, and the danger to Angelica would be doubled.
Panic began to settle in as he imagined the possibilities.
It even occurred to him that Melody had been planted in his path.
If the UNSUB thought he could get to Mateo by using a pair of pretty legs …
take advantage of his loneliness and grief …
dangle a helpless damsel in front of him to stoke his protective instincts …
“Goddamn it,” he growled, turning his anger inward, at himself. “You fucking idiot! You moron!”
Fifteen years in the bureau, and he’d stepped right into a honey trap. It was the oldest trick in the book, and he’d fallen for it like some junior agent wet behind the ears.
He suddenly straightened, the flames in his gut dying down to burning embers.
Running a hand over his damp hair, he crossed the room and snatched up his shoulder holster.
Pulling it on, he glanced at the clock. The recording he’d just listened to had been taken three hours ago.
Melody ought to be at her apartment by now, getting ready for Glow Night.
Perfect.
Slipping his sidearm into the holster, he covered it with a jacket and barreled out of the room, his door slamming against the opposite wall from the force of his anger.
He kept it in check because he was going to need his wits about him to get through the rest of the night.
There would be time enough later for him to grapple with the mistakes he had made.
For him to beat himself up over betraying Mari’s memory with an illusion—a piece of bait.
That was truly the worst part of this—that he had begun to think himself falling for Melody and ready to move forward with his life.
That she had dangled hope in front of him like a lure, and he had tried to consume it only to find himself hooked and gutted.
Apparently, his self-awareness didn’t extend far enough to see when he was being led around by the balls like some spineless cuck.
Before long, he had come to Melody’s apartment building.
He didn’t bother parking across the street or circling the block or going around to her balcony.
If Melody was informing on him, then anyone watching already knew who he was.
He didn’t give a fuck anymore. He was itching for a fight, wanting them to see him coming.
He took the stairs up two at a time and pounded on the door before drawing his sidearm.
Music played from inside—a slow, mournful, country ballad.
The light over the door flickered on, and the lock clicked before the door swung open.
His eyes met her whiskey-brown ones and held, registering the flicker of recognition, attraction, and then fear in their depths.
Before he could begin to drown in them, Mateo lifted the pistol and leveled it right between her eyes.