2
Broadway
“C assio Barbieri.” I drop the headshot on Carter’s coffee table, then follow it with a thin file Ryder’s compiled. “That’s our guy.”
Running a hand through his thick black hair, he flicks the cover aside, a deep eleven carved into his forehead as he studies the brief bio. I sported the exact same expression an hour ago.
Given he bought Violet at an illegal, underground auction that mainly serves brothel owners, I expected Cassio to be some part of our world.
Not necessarily a boss, I’d have known him if he resided in the spotlight. There’s too much intelligence behind his eyes for a soldier, so I scratched that idea quickly. I considered him an investor, a silent partner, maybe a well-hidden assassin since they keep to themselves. The moment Ryder accentuated his name, I wondered if we’d be starting a war with the Italian mafia to get Violet back.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
Cassio isn’t an Italian boss. He’s not a soldier, not an assassin, not blood bound with any big players. Not even a third cousin twice removed, if the information Ryder gathered can be trusted.
He’s a luxury goods magnate. A stellar, law-abiding citizen—if you don’t count buying a sex slave. He owns the largest private collection of art in Italy, which struck me as odd given he lives three streets over from my place here in Columbus.
“Is that all we have on him?” Carter asks, tossing the file aside before pulling the headshot closer.
“For now. Ryder’s still digging but, so far, no ties to any bosses.”
I considered it a good thing up until now.
After all, with no immediate connections to our enemies, scaring the guy won’t be an issue. If no one’s backing him, retrieving Violet should go down without a hitch.
Now, seeing the look on Carter’s face, I’m doubting my train of thought.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, taking a seat on the sofa. “I can hear the cogs whirring inside your head.”
He smirks, tapping his index finger against Cassio’s headshot. “I want him X-rayed through and through. He might not be directly tied to any boss, but he must have contacts. How else would he get a table at Noretto’s auction? I want to know who he’s dealing with before we start poking.”
That makes sense. Knowing whether he’s lovey-dovey with Blaze, or any of our enemies, gives us an upper hand. We can plan for all eventualities much better if we know whose toys we’re breaking.
When Carter took over Ohio he made as many enemies as allies. Many of those who worked with Rhett for years and years were booted, left sulking in the shadows and waiting for Carter to make one false move.
His close-knit relationship—both professional and private—with Dante Carrow means even more people are closely watching his every move, hoping to find a weak spot and take him out.
Careful has never been so important.
If I had a say in this, I’d say Violet isn’t worth taking risks. There’s something disturbing about her. I don’t know if I’ve suddenly developed some freakish sixth sense, or if it’s simply the beginnings of paranoia, but I can feel it in my bones that Violet will bring a whole heap of fucking trouble.
My skin prickles whenever I blink and find her still waiting, imprinted on the backs of my eyelids. Whenever she enters my mind, my body’s combat-ready. My hackles shoot up instinctively, like a cornered, wounded animal.
I shudder, trying and failing to shake the cement-like stiffness off my muscles.
“What’s wrong?” Carter asks, one eyebrow raised.
“I have a bad feeling about this girl. She’s trouble. She’ll bring trouble.”
He leans back, studying me with those black, soulless eyes that only come alive when he looks at Hailey. “You know something I don’t?”
“No, I...” I pause, swallowing hard and racking my brain for the right words. Too bad they don’t come. “I can’t rationally explain it, but there’s something about her that makes me want to peel off my skin.”
The soul resurfaces in his eyes, like he’s gazing at a wounded puppy. His lips part but no words arrive. Or rather, whatever he was going to say becomes irrelevant at the sound of soft, familiar footsteps.
Hailey enters the living room with two cups of coffee, and Carter’s head snaps to the left faster than the speed of light.
She’s sporting a black hoodie, her blonde hair a mess around her face. It’s eight in the morning, but despite leaving Scarlett six hours ago, she looks surprisingly rested.
“Hey,” she chirps, setting the cups down. “Should I make myself scarce?”
Carter cuffs her wrist, pulling her down beside him. He rarely lets her out of his sight. She’s an extension of him and whenever she’s within touching distance, he’s touching. Whenever she’s not, the whole kaleidoscope of Carter’s bad temper plays out.
“Ryder found the guy your friend was with,” he says, jutting his chin at the snapshot. “We’re looking into him.”
Her eyes light up, full of hope. “Does that mean you’ll get her back?”
“I promised,” Carter says, blowing the steam from his cup. “Patience, pretty girl. We don’t know enough about him yet. It’ll take a few days before we gather enough intel to plan our next move.”
She nods, leaning out to stamp a soft kiss on his temple. “Thank you. If I can help—”
“No,” he cuts in, his jaw tensing along with his shoulder muscles. “You’re not getting involved.”
“But—”
“Don’t argue, Hailey. Once we have her, you can help her get settled, but you’re not getting involved in the rescue mission. Is that clear?”
With a little pout she nods once, perfectly aware Carter won’t willingly let her get into a risky situation. He was a shadow when she ran from Lakeside. A wreck while he fought to win her trust back. He hid it well, but I know him, and I saw how not having Hailey ate him alive.
The mere idea of her being in danger drives him to the brink of sanity and when she’s hurt...? He’s off the fucking hinges, snapping at everyone around.
It doesn’t have to be anyone’s fault. Even when she accidentally hurts herself (and boy is she good at that) or she’s simply unwell, Carter can’t cope. Something as natural as period cramps is enough to get him raging.
It’s not normal and, thankfully, he knows he’s acting bat-shit crazy, so all my digs fly right over his head.
“Tail him,” Carter tells me. “I want to know where he eats, lives, who he deals with, and where he keeps Violet.”
“Is that her name?” Hailey asks.
“No idea, but it fits, so for now, she’s Violet.” He turns back to me, smirking when he notices I’ve burned my tongue on the scorching coffee. “Keep me in the loop. And don’t move in without approval.”
“He’s hosting an art auction next weekend. Ryder got his hands on the guest list and added our names.”
Hailey shifts in her seat, probably uncomfortable with the timeline. A week is a long time. Then again, Violet’s survived six months, enduring whatever hell Cassio’s been putting her through.
She’s obviously fucking indestructible.
“Let’s hope we secure Violet before then,” Carter says, his stilted words betraying he doesn’t believe we will. He’s just trying to soothe Hailey’s agitated mind.
The look in his eyes tells me he doubts we’ll get our hands on Violet anytime soon.
◆◆◆
My head hits the backrest and the leather groans as I shift in my seat. I fill my lungs with the brand-new smell, still lingering after three months. The Chicago-to-Columbus move meant it was time for a new ride. While Carter’s taken to American Muscle, I still prefer European, and the G Wagon’s topped my wish list for years.
Koby opens the glove box, rummaging for leftover snacks, his boredom evident from the many empty, crinkled wrappers stuffed into the passenger door pocket.
He snatches a Snickers bar, chewing loudly as he stares at Cassio’s house. “You think that’s where he keeps her?” He waves the half-eaten candy bar toward the faint orange gleam in the upper window.
I wish I knew.
We’ve been tailing this guy for five days and nothing. He leaves the house every morning at seven am in the back of his limo and spends a few hours in his skyscraper office. He eats lunch in the same restaurant every day and regularly heads out of town in his private jet.
This week he visited New York twice. We couldn’t tail his plane, but Ryder traced his location via his digital footprint.
Every evening Cassio visits the place where he’s holding his auction tomorrow. I’m on this guy like flies on shit, but so far, I’ve got nothing. No shady people in his vicinity, no correlation to any bosses, no middle-of-the-night meetings.
And no trace of Violet.
“I have no idea,” I say, running a hand down my face. “I expected him to keep her closer. Why the fuck would you buy a woman and not parade her around?”
“Especially when you pay through the fucking nose for her,” Koby pipes in. “I heard some of Blaze’s girls fetch well over a hundred grand. Can you fucking imagine paying that much for a hooker?”
“They’re not hookers,” I seethe, defensive for no reason whatsoever.
“They end up at brothels, right? And we both know they willingly come to America and know exactly what they’ll be doing here, so yeah, they’re hookers.”
“Whatever,” I clip, throwing the last of my Red Bull at the back of my throat. It’s almost two in the morning and it doesn’t look like Cassio’s going anywhere.
“Home time?” Koby asks, a hopeful note in his voice.
“Yeah. Get your tux pressed. We’re crashing the auction tomorrow night.”
“Already pressed. Given everything Ryder’s found out about this guy, I didn’t think we’d catch him with any big bad wolfs. He’s got too good a thing going to be getting involved in any shady business.”
“Plenty of shady motherfuckers bought art from him.”
“Business is business. He sells to those who want to buy, but he doesn’t socialize with our kind. Otherwise we would’ve caught him red-handed by now.” He whips the seatbelt around himself and cracks the window open, letting warm evening air breach the car.
Half an hour later I drop my keys onto the coffee table and unbutton my shirt. It gets tossed in the hamper and covered by my trousers thirty seconds later. Before stepping into the shower, I tap the control panel on the wall, starting my playlist. Music seeps from ceiling-mounted speakers all around the house, clearing my head and centering my thoughts.
I’ve done nothing the past week aside from obsess over the way Violet makes me feel. I had Ryder email me the security footage from Scarlett just to check whether I’d be overtaken by that weird feeling if I saw her again.
I sat on my couch with a glass of Bourbon and loaded the footage onto my TV. I was perfectly fine until her face appeared.
Well, maybe not perfectly, given the unease that’s been rolling around inside me for days now, but my muscles hadn’t turned to stone, and anxiety wasn’t spiking my heartrate into a coronary event.
But then her face popped on the screen. Her face and those unnerving violet eyes I keep seeing every time I blink.
It was as if someone flipped a switch in my head. One look at her, at Cassio holding her on a leash, and my blood turned to fucking ice.
Every muscle wound up so tight my shoulders were framing my ears. I sat there, squeezing the life out of my drink, insects crawling up my spine and into my ears once again, but I couldn’t move to shake off the imaginary crawlies. Not so much as a shudder. I couldn’t pull down one full breath, my lungs cinched around my spine.
And the violence... fuck .
It almost swept me off my feet. Pure wrath flooded my system, driving me feral in seconds. I’d have put my foot through the TV, but my useless fucking legs wouldn’t move.
Garnering all the strength I had, I flung my glass at the screen, watching a spider-web crack form in the middle. It took me three hours to fall asleep that night.
And it hasn’t been any easier since.
There’s not one rational explanation why the sight of Violet makes me feel like I’m drowning. Like I’m falling from an eighty-story building. Like my muscles are about to collapse in on themselves.
There’s no rational explanation why even now, days later, while hot water patters my back, I’m tense whenever her face hijacks my thoughts.
Flexing my fingers against the damp tiles, I hang my head, eyes closed, little waterfalls trickling down my hair, cheeks, and nose. Maybe I should ask Ryder to dig around and find out whether there’s something in Violet’s past that connects us. Something that happened years ago to explain this unease I feel just thinking about her.
Given she was born and raised in Slovakia and only arrived in America six months ago, our paths couldn’t have crossed. I’ve never ventured to Europe. Not even as a child. My parents have a vacation home in Hawaii, which is where I spent every summer till the age of sixteen.
There’s absolutely no fucking way Violet and I could ever have crossed paths, but it’ll take Ryder no time to check.
I grab the shower gel, the spicy scent centering my thoughts a little as I shampoo my hair, rinse the suds, and switch the water off.
It’s three in the morning when I collapse face first in my bed, inhaling the scent of fresh linen. My maid, Rita, must’ve changed the sheets this morning. And there’s nothing better than fresh-sheets day.
Too bad not even this crispness can help me doze off.
My mind whirring, I toss and turn until almost six in the morning and, it’s fucking obvious, I’m not catching a wink of sleep tonight.
Again.