Chapter 36
Trinity
The kaleidoscope of shapes and colors that is New Orleans assaults me as I wipe a fresh round of tears from my eyes.
I’m out of money, plans, and my hard drive.
My biggest asset—my most dangerous weapon—sits in an enemy’s hands.
To worsen matters, I’m wearing jeans and an absurd touristy t-shirt with a crawfish on the front. Practically the image of a drunken holiday traveler.
Except I’m not drunk. Just heartbroken.
Lights and music crowd the streets. People weave around me like water around rocks, laughing, singing, and drinking.
Delicious aromas like fried dough and Cajun spices mix with body odor and urine.
Even though it feels more like a cool summer evening than December, the winter spirit is in full swing here.
For one brief, stabbing moment, I miss the cold, snowy winters of my New York childhood. The comforting embrace of a warm fire and a mug of hot cocoa overflowing with marshmallows.
My heart hurts. I need my big brother.
I called Finn from the hotel room before Brody returned with those now destroyed beignets, but he didn’t pick up. I left a message on Dad’s phone, so at least my brother will know my whereabouts. Maybe he already has men on their way to pick me up.
An intoxicated woman in her fifties with hair piled in big bright curls like a crown places a string of electric purple beads over my head. “Cheer up, honey. You’re in New Orleans!”
I thought they only did these beads for Mardi Gras. The woman turns away the moment she spots another bar, but I can’t help the slight smile that curves my lips.
When Angelica and I were in fifth grade, we crafted friendship bracelets for each other, the color very close to the beads I now wear around my neck. We never took them off, and eventually, the cotton fibers fell apart.
I wish I had that bracelet now.
I find a quiet café that looks as lonely as I feel and plop into an outdoor chair. When my weight settles on the ancient seat, the peeling paint flakes to the sidewalk.
I stare at the passing throngs of people while fighting against the raw, jagged wound in my soul.
What do I do now?
Grovel for Finn’s forgiveness, for starters. And Angelica’s.
Though I doubt either will ever forgive me considering I single-handedly blew up Finn’s entire world and sacrificed my one chance at revenge for Ange.
I’m the absolute worst.
I’m deep into my self-pity spiral when motion to my right draws my attention.
A tall, bearded man in a tailored cream suit emerges from the crowd and approaches my table. A thick head of pitch-black hair, grayed at the roots, slicks back from his forehead. His eyes, a dark, glittering gray, focus on me with an intensity I’ve become very familiar with.
They scream predator.
He sits down at my small table, crossing his legs and placing his hands over one knee.
My first thought is, I’m not in the mood to be hit on by a sugar daddy.
As soon as that calculating gaze meets mine, though, my second thought is, run as quickly as you can.
The hair on my arms stands at attention, and the air feels twenty degrees cooler.
As I rise to disappear among revelers, the mystery man lifts a hand decked in gold rings.
“Good evening, Miss Gallagher.” He utters my name in a strange accent with a rolled r at the end. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Grigori Rostov.”
My blood ices over. Grigori Rostov? Why, why, why do I know that name?
When my mind shifts to the drive in Brody’s possession back at the Ritz, everything clicks.
Rostov is one of the head guys in the Roguilin Bratva. I’ve read about him in dozens of reports over the years. He’s Andrei Kruschev’s boss. As well as his father, according to the rumors. A secret buried beneath years of resentment, like the one between Brody and Declan.
Adrenaline floods me as I pivot and step toward the street, fighting the instinct to flee immediately.
Grigori’s warm, mellow voice chases after me. “I’m not here to harm you. Please.”
I put three more paces between us—to stay out of arm’s reach—before whirling to face him. “Why should I believe you?”
“I’ve been tracking you for an hour. If I wanted to hurt you…” He shrugs and gestures at the rusty, spindly chair.
My feet remain planted. I have no interest in getting close to another mobster, thank you very much. One was more than enough for the night.
He simply smiles, the chilling gesture stealing my breath. “I believe we can help each other. What I propose will be mutually beneficial.”
I cross my arms and force myself to stay calm. “I’m sure there’s nothing you have that I want, Mr. Rostov.”
That smile widens without touching his eyes. “I know the men who took your friend. Angelica.”
My heart stops, the streetlights dim, and the music muffles.
I’m standing in the heart of New Orleans, yet somehow I’m underwater, floating beneath the surface and struggling to breathe. I no longer have any sense of my own body.
My chin quivers. “What did you say?”
“I know who took her,” he replies in a mild tone, as if discussing the weather or the results of a tennis match from a week ago. “And I will tell you in exchange for your family’s secrets. The hard drive, please.”
I return to the table on shaky legs, plopping into my previously abandoned chair. “How do you even know about the drive?”
“Oh, I have my ways. You’re not as sneaky as you think, Miss Detective.” His laughs scrapes across my ears like a knife on porcelain. “I’m sure I’m not the only one who noticed a curious little mouse poking her nose where it doesn’t belong over the years.”
So all of this—the construction site, the safe house, the train—is because I wasn’t careful enough? I hacked and left traces? Asked too many people the wrong questions?
No time to curse my idiocy. Not when the consequence of my stupidity lounges across from me with an expectant expression. I need to get myself out of this mess.
I swallow a mouthful of cotton. “If you’re lying about Angelica, you’ll never get your hands on the drive.”
“I’m not.”
His eyes rake over my body. Not in the sexual way Brody’s would. This man’s inspecting me for a purse, pockets, or a strange shape poking out of my clothing.
“I don’t have it with me. But if you’ve been trailing me for a while, you already know that.”
Grigori flags a server inside the little café. A man with dark blue hair pulled up in a tail comes to check on us, and Rostov orders two chicory coffees.
Not my beverage of choice, but my throat’s so dry I’ll drink anything.
We sit in silence, staring each other down, until the server returns with two steaming cups, the liquid inside a molten topaz that reminds me of Brody’s eyes. My stomach churns.
“Cheers.” Rostov raises his cup before taking a sip. His mouth purses at the taste. Must be bitter.
I pick up my own cup and sniff, my nose instantly scrunching. Marshmallows coated in cigar smoke and rolled in dirt. That’s…a bizarre scent profile. I sip the coffee anyway and nearly gag.
Nope. I’d rather die of dehydration.
I set the beverage down and slide it just far enough away that I’m not inhaling the aroma with every breath. After all, the murderous Russian across from me did buy me a drink. I’d hate to appear rude.
“I want to know who killed Angelica more than anything, but not enough to sell my family’s soul to the Russians.”
Grigori tilts his head like a puppy. “Even though they shipped you across the country? They cannot be bothered with you.” He sucks down the rest of his chicory coffee in one big gulp and gives me another smile, his bleached teeth shining unpleasantly.
“It might as well have been you who died that day. They treat you like a ghost and pretend Angelica never existed.”
My heart squeezes. “How do you know how they act?”
“Because if they really cared, the men who did that would already be dead.”
I want to argue with him…but I can’t. He’s not wrong. I’ve spent ten years trying to uncover who killed Angelica with exactly zero assistance from the Gallaghers.
Grigori folds his hands on the table before bending forward like he has a secret to share.
“This is what I can do for you, Miss Gallagher. I will give you the names of the men who took Angelica. They did a few jobs for me back in the day. I can point you to their doorstep. And you will help me take down the Kings, the family that pushed you aside. To make the trade fair, I will add five million dollars to the deal. One for each man who killed your friend. You will not want for anything for the rest of your life.”
The offer is…too good.
And five men? I only remember two.
Even if I didn’t clue in on my own, Brody taught me how mafia men behave. If I reject this Russian outright, I’m dead.
I lean back, putting more distance between us.
“And what am I supposed to do with these names? Angelica’s murder is a cold case.
Even if I hand the police the guys on a silver platter, they won’t do anything.
” In an attempt to disguise my wavering voice, I take another sip of my disgusting coffee.
I don’t want this man to view me as weak.
Grigori shrugs one silk-clad shoulder. “The police are an option. But so am I. Whatever you desire. If you want me to take care of them, it would be my pleasure. They will suffer a fate worse than death. I have done many things in my lifetime, but I draw the line at involving children.”
My eyes bounce from Grigori to the street and back, my mind spinning.
If I agree to this, I’m hopping from one mob man’s bed into another, figuratively speaking. I’ll seal my life inside a criminal organization. A different one, but still. This would be a lateral move at best.
Or I’m signing my death warrant, because he clearly intends to kill me as soon as he secures that hard drive. Just like Declan, this man sees me as a pawn. A means to an end.
Grigori Rostov rises and sets a business card on the table.
I don’t glance at the little square of paper, but I can picture his name across the top with Russian Mob Boss underneath, along with his cell phone and a fax number. I almost crack a smile. I must have watched American Psycho one too many times.
“Contact me when you decide.” Sliding his hands into his jacket pockets, he glides back a few paces.
He’s pretending to give me a choice. The same way Brody did.
Unlike with Brody, though, I recognize the trap.
I leap up, bumping the table with my hip and tipping chicory coffee all over the metal surface in the process.
Grigori pauses and tilts his head.
I suck down warm winter and exhale my fear. “Okay. I’ll get you the drive.”
He nods. “Good call. Please come with me, Miss Gallagher.”
Before I obey, I glimpse at his business card.
The damn thing’s blank.