Chapter 2
Brooks
“Does Sloane know you’re here?”
I almost punch him for even asking, but stop myself just in time.
After all, Duca de la Roca is a friend, and Joseph Rossi’s right-hand man. Not exactly someone you punch just because you’re having a hard day. A hard week.
A hard fucking month.
He’s also not the sort of person you tell about the hard month, though, so I keep my mouth shut on that score and settle for giving him the most withering glance I can manage on short notice.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just ask that, Duca. Stop fooling around. What do you have for me?”
The man has the nerve to stare at me like he actually doubts me, and I turn away from him, already tired of the game.
If he’s going to play hard to get, I’m going to take the time to make sure I wasn’t followed when I came in here.
The bar is slick and sleek, everything you’d expect from a bar on the roof of one of the swankiest buildings in Manhattan.
Chromed-out furniture with dark purple leather on the details.
Glass tables with rusted steel supporting the clear surfaces, and a floor that’s so black it looks like it must be hiding something sinister.
The crowd here is equally shiny, a mix of girls too young to be out and men too old to be looking at girls like this.
Dark suits and scowls on the men, while the girls are in candy pinks and bright oranges.
Lipstick and pigtails and high heels. Loud music and laughter, and alcohol flowing like it’s fucking water.
I don’t have to ask to know this is one of Michael Rossi’s bars. Everything about it screams money and decadence, and though he isn’t a glittery person himself–far from it–he is an awfully good businessman. And he knows what the Manhattan crowds like.
Seeing as how it’s Michael’s, I guess the security is pretty good in here, but I’m not taking any chances. I watched the road behind me like a hawk on the way here and didn’t see any cars that raised the hair on my neck. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t pick up a tail.
Hell, one of the reasons we chose the bar at all is the way it’s set up.
From where we’re sitting–a booth at the back, that gives us at least a little bit of privacy–we can see the one and only entrance to the place.
And there’s so much noise in here that any casual observer would have trouble overhearing us.
Of course, Duca hasn’t given me anything worth overhearing. Yet.
I reach for the Sazerac in front of me, hating that the New Orleans special was the first drink I thought of when I got here, and turn to Duca again.
“Are you going to give me what I asked for or not?” I ask sharply.
“Because if you just wanted to get me out on a date, there are easier ways to do it.”
That gets a smile out of the man, and I grin in response.
Duca is one of the best people I know, and would sell his soul for any of the Rossi clan–or Sloane, or Penny, or even me–but he almost never smiles.
He also doesn’t do side jobs that Joseph doesn’t know about, though, and I was surprised when he called me and said he had information for me.
Because no, Sloane doesn’t know I’m here, and neither does Joseph. At least, not technically. As the best fixer in the city, I very rarely tell my clients how I go about fixing their problems, and right now Sloane is my client, not my friend.
And I’m not sure, yet, whether I can fix the problem she presented me with.
But when she told me what happened, I knew I had to try. Partially because it dovetailed with what I was already doing.
The smile melts off Duca’s face and he finally leans in like he’s ready to get down to business. I put my drink down and lean in as well, unexpectedly nervous.
“What exactly are you hoping I’ll give you?”
This time, I have to clench my fists to keep from hitting him. “I already told you what I want.”
“But you didn’t tell me why.”
I snort. “Duca, have I ever told you why about anything I asked for?”
This is the truth, and he knows it. Duca might not be in the Rossi leadership yet, with Fat Jimmy still ruling the operation and Joseph a mere underboss, but he’s high enough that he always has access to whatever information, weapons, and money the family has.
Joseph trusts him with his life, and that means that if Joseph knows something, Duca does, too.
He’s always been my first call when I needed something no one else could get me.
Right now, that’s more information about Sloane’s missing cousin, Aislyn.
Logically, anything Duca knows will already have gone to Joseph, and from there to Sloane.
Logically, my best friend already knows everything Duca is about to tell me.
But Sloane herself–and therefore Joseph, and therefore Duca–don’t know what I do about New Orleans or the deals they do for girls down there.
And I’m not exactly going to tell them.
But I need to know whether their information matches with my suspicions.
I need to know whether I have any shot at fulfilling Sloane’s plea that I find her cousin.
Duca watches the thoughts flick across my face, though I’m working hard to keep them hidden, and finally nods.
“Right. I’ll tell you what we know, but it’s not much.
Aislyn has been missing since the day of the battle.
She went out to walk her dog in the morning and never came home again.
No one knows what that means, of course.
She could have decided she wanted a different life.
Run off with a man. Could be playing some sort of game. ”
“But that’s not Aislyn,” I say quietly. I don’t know the girl well, as she isn’t mixed up in the mob side of Irish Brennan’s family.
She’s his sister’s daughter, and they’ve always kept her far from the blood and corruption of his life.
But I know enough about her to know she’s blond, very pretty, and very well-mannered.
She doesn’t do things she isn’t supposed to, and never talks back to her parents.
In short, she’s Sloane’s polar opposite.
And she wouldn’t disappear unless someone had taken her.
“That’s not Aislyn,” Duca agrees quietly, his eyes flitting around the bar. “Which is why everyone is worried. But there’s more.”
Of course there is. There’s always more.
“She’s not the only one who’s gone missing,” he continues. “Word is, a number of girls are suddenly disappearing. Girls who should have security around them. High-end families who can afford to keep their girls safe. Half of them are from mafia families. The other half are from society elite.”
I almost drop the glass I’d picked back up.
Mafia families. The society elite. Sure, there’ve been a couple of kidnappings lately–Sloane and Dante–but those are very specific to the war with the Poffo clan.
Normally, the unwritten code of the Costa Nostra keeps women and girls safe from the wars.
They don’t disappear unless their own family disappears them, and that happens rarely.
A rash of girls suddenly disappearing is odd.
And it raised all the hackles on my neck, because it sounds all too familiar.
What the fuck is going on here? Girls are out of bounds, particularly when they’re rich enough to have good security around them. And losing another Brennan...
We killed most of the Poffo men, and a good number of Massimos and Carusos, but the city is still in chaos as other families try to fill the power voids our war created, and now girls are being yanked off the streets.
I’m starting to wonder whether we actually won the war, or if we just made everyone less safe.
Did I go all the way to New Orleans and open up that fucking closet of horrors, just to make New York even less stable?
As if on cue, my phone buzzes, rattling the table, and I grab at it, my nerves on high alert. One glance at the screen tells me that it’s Lucien again. Like he heard me thinking about him or something.
Heard me doubting the move I made to bring him and his men up here to help me fight my battles.
You owe me, Brooklyn, the text reads.
I snarl at the phone and drop it back on the table.
He isn’t lying–I do owe him, and I made a promise–but I’m getting really tired of him rubbing my face in it.
I’ll pay up when I’m ready, and only if I decide it’s what I want to do.
I always pay my debts, and I never desert my friends.
But he’s asking the world, wanting me to move back to the Big Easy, and I’m not ready to think about it yet.
I also don’t know whether I trust him.
I don’t trust men in general. I did, after all, grow up with my father. And I saw how hard my mother fought to break free of him, packing up and leaving in the middle of the night with me in tow. Running for New York and her family here, like we had demons on our tails.
We had the devil after us. My father.
And I’ve never forgotten it. It’s why I got here and changed my life. I worked hard to make the right friends and find us the security we needed. These days, I know how to take care of myself and get shit done without anyone else’s help. Lucien’s asking me to change that.
And I don’t know if I can.
Even if seeing him again makes me feel as though my heart’s breaking into a million pieces and he’s the only one who can put it back together.
“Something wrong?” Duca asks, starting at me with suspicion all over his face.
“No,” I snap too quickly. “What else do you have?”
He presses his lips together like he doesn’t believe me–fair–but I stare at him until he keeps talking, unwilling to give up my secrets.
What would I say? My father promised me to a boy I already loved, and when I figured out it was all a scam, I ran for New York and never looked back?
And that boy is in town now trying to make me move home, and my heart is half on his side?
I don’t think so.
“We’re wondering,” he finally continued, “if the Poffo and Massimo clans are running a new racket.”
I pause for a beat. “But we killed them all.”
He gives me a long look that says more than his words. “Did we?”
Shit.
“A kidnapping racket,” I say. It’s not a question. It’s a statement.
Because I already know what those look like. I’ve been in the middle of one. And I was beaten nearly to death for discovering it.
“A kidnapping racket,” he agrees quickly.
“And not only here. My contacts tell me girls are disappearing in other cities as well. Las Vegas. Atlanta. Boston. New Orleans. Aislyn, if she’s a victim, isn’t the first. They’re pulling from some of the biggest families.
Even the Landry and Boudreaux clans down in New Orleans, and we all know how crazy you’d have to be to mess with them.
But this time, they’ve pulled someone from one of the biggest families in New York.
No one wants to let it stand. But no one knows where to start. ”
I’m up and moving before he finishes speaking, because my nerves won’t let me sit there any longer.
I toss a thanks over my shoulder to a confused Duca and then wind my way quickly through the crowded bar.
Girls see me coming and get out of the way, their high heels slipping on the deep black floor.
Men in suits take one look at me and scowl like they want to say something, but then decide it’s not worth it.
Smart, I think.
Because the Glock in my shoulder holster and the blade in my pocket are the only answers they’d get.
I was hoping Duca had the information I need, but I hadn’t realized how much he was going to give me. It’s not just New York. It’s every city where the mafia has a foothold.
Including New Orleans.
And they’re taking girls who should be safe, from families who should be able to protect them.
Including my family.
I almost laugh at how Duca said it. The Landry and Boudreaux clans, like they’re people I’ve never heard of.
Names I might not even know. He doesn’t realize who I am.
No one here knows that I’m the Landry heiress, hiding in plain sight on the streets of New York and masquerading as nothing more than Brooks Peterson.
We hid up here so my father couldn’t find us, and changed our name so no one would turn us in.
But now that I know pieces of what’s going on–now that I know Aislyn isn’t the only girl who disappeared–I feel my Landry blood rising to the surface once again.
That deep, dark rebel who never really died down.
The girl who, at thirteen, tried to save a group of victims before she knew what she was doing.
I couldn’t save them then. But if that shit is still going on, I’m not going to stay in New York and hide from it.
This time, I’m going to stop it.
I just need to see proof that it is what I think it is.
I storm into the elevator and shoot a venomous look at the other inhabitants.
They scatter through the doors like I’ve just held a gun to their head, and I grin to myself.
Then I get to thinking about my next step.
I told Sloane I’d find her cousin, and if Aislyn has fallen into the hands of traffickers, I’m pretty sure I know exactly where to start.
New Orleans has been a port rife with human trafficking since before the Civil War. If I was going to start smuggling people, that’s the first place I’d go.
Which means I am going home. Just not for the reason Lucien Boudreaux wants.
I leave the elevator when it hits the ground floor and make my way quickly through the dark lobby toward the main doors, my mind flying ahead of me to make travel arrangements and figure out who I can count on in my old hometown.
I’m no longer thinking about New York, or anyone here.
I’m already in the dark, humid air of New Orleans, searching for a group of girls that needs saving.
Which is why I almost run into Lucien Boudreaux before I see him, leaning against the door of a black sedan in a suit nearly as black as his fucking soul.
He’s all tousled brown hair and face as handsome as the devil, a cane at his side and his men surrounding the car behind him.
He looks smooth and suave, as ever, and my first thought is that he should have been a pirate.
Swashbuckling good looks that make you want to crawl into bed with him and do whatever he asks you to.
.. and a tendency to sell anyone who gets too close.
My second thought is that he must be able to hear when I’m thinking about him and fly right to me. Maybe he’s a fucking vampire rather than a pirate, with the ability to read minds and fly.
“Speak of the Devil, and he will appear,” I breathe.
“Are you talking about me, love?” he drawls. “Because I was under the impression you were avoiding me, not summoning me. And I’m getting tired of waiting.”