12. Ares
Ares
Itune out the local politician’s screams while Wrath educates him on the cost of stalking me here at the Aurelian, asking for a campaign contribution disguised as a veiled bribe to prevent my historical zoning permit from being kicked into another ‘review.’
Video footage from the cameras around my Wall Street office shows Lourdes arrived a few minutes before eight a.m. She looks well-rested and well-dressed. She drank tea from a street vendor in a plain paper cup and ate a sad-looking muffin.
Seeing that, I immediately sent a message to the Facilities Director to rip out one of the closets near my office and build a private kitchen equipped with a stainless-steel refrigerator, microwave, a high-end coffee maker, and a tea kettle.
I also instructed Facilities to stock the refrigerator daily with fresh fruit, yogurt, sandwiches, and pastries from one of the better bakeries.
Ordinarily, I’d tell an employee to leave their desk and take a proper lunch.
Lourdes can eat wherever she pleases.
My phone rings, and my jaw tightens, seeing it’s Daria. “Do you have more details on David Sinclair?”
“He’s been patronizing a whorehouse in Queens regularly.” Her tone is flat. “That was easy to track because he uses a credit card.”
“Pig.” Apparently, I’m the one who shows emotion in this relationship with Daria now. “Track his medical records if he’s been diagnosed with anything…venereal.”
“Too late,” she scoffs. “If you already—”
“I’ve not touched his wife,” I grumble. Not yet. “Did you find out about that tattoo on his neck?”
“No. I’ll keep digging.”
“And one other thing, Daria,” I say.
“Throw all the things at me, Ares. You pay per diem.”
“I want you to look into Lourdes a little deeper. She’s from Chicago and her father was an accountant for a construction company there. She told me it was a large company.”
Daria scoffs, “The biggest construction company in Chicago is Mid-West Iron.”
“Volkov,” I mutter.
“Do you think there’s a connection there, too?” she asks.
“Give me a complete work-up on Lourdes. I need her maiden name.”
“De la Vega,” Daria deadpans.
“You already checked?”
“It’s listed on an Illinois marriage license. As soon as you said she was from Chicago, not finding any New York State records made sense, so I dug there for her. I found her birth certificate, too. She’s twenty-five.”
Her age only gives me a small pause, considering I’m forty-two.
“De la Vega,” I question. “Cartel?”
“No,” she says with no explanation why. “Her father is listed as Thomas De la Vega.”
“She said he died in a car accident.”
“I see a coroner’s report for someone with that same name who died in a car accident in Chicago around five years ago.” Something rustles in the background before Daria says, “I’ll run this down and see what else I find out.”
I don’t mention my suspicion. We both know when an accountant for the mafia dies in a car accident, it probably wasn’t an accident.
But if he was taken out, why? I resist an eyeroll, thinking it was probably something old-school and boring, like the man was stealing from Yuri. Someone taught Lourdes how to skim from money transfers and set up a shell account. I bet it was her dead father.
“I need this as soon as humanly possible,” I add to Daria and end the call.
I pay that woman a fortune. But she’s deadly, cunning, and has free access to me. Even I’m not stupid enough to really get on her bad side.
“Volkov,” I murmur to myself.
Kirill isn’t in Manhattan to plant a flag.
He’s here to make sure that when the crown passes, no one questions why it’s on his head.
And it can’t be a coincidence that David, who moved here with Lourdes from Chicago, was in Kirill’s club.
Both David and Lourdes appear to have been branded with identifying tattoos.
His is on his neck and hers is on her wrist.
Something is happening. I feel it.
When I reach my Wall Street office, Lourdes is at her desk, head bent low, working on her laptop. I imagine she’s stealing money from me. The amusement I feel is so overwhelming, I goddamn tear up over it.
And it makes me so damn hard.
The sight of her like that, powerful and sneaky, corrodes my restraint.
I circle the desk slowly instead of summoning her to my office. She feels me before she sees me. Her shoulders stiffen, then she looks up, those amber eyes lifting into mine with a mixture of curiosity and warmth she tries to suppress.
I lean against the inside edge of her desk, close enough that she has to tilt her chin slightly to hold my gaze. Close enough that her rose-scented perfume rises faintly between us.
My gaze trails down her arm. “What does the tattoo on your wrist mean?”
“It’s nothing,” she says quickly, sounding upset that I’ve even noticed. “I was on a girls’ trip. Everyone was getting a tattoo.”
“Why there?” I point.
Her breath goes shaky. “I don’t know. I was drunk. It was Spring Break in Daytona Beach.”
My jaw twitches, thinking it’s a lie. Either that or Daria is off. Daria is never off.
Lourdes is not the doe-eyed beauty that stopped my heart at Winterhall. She doesn’t try to charm me, but she will challenge me when given the chance. And I welcome it.
I welcome that I can’t control what happens between us. It’s been a long time since I’ve been surprised.
“Is your husband back in town?” I change the subject as smoothly as I can.
The faintest flicker of dread crosses her face before she smooths it away. “Yeah. Why do you ask?”
“We have several meetings coming up in the next few weeks. If it will be a problem—”
“It won’t be a problem,” she says firmly, her fingers tightening around the mouse.
I lean forward, letting her see exactly how serious I am about her. “Because if it is, he will be my problem.”