Chapter 4
SASHA
My date looks to be in his early forties; tall and slim and wearing a black suit and shirt.
His tie is wider than I’d consider fashionable, though it’s expertly knotted.
I recognize his suit’s designer. If I’m right, that’s a thirty-thousand-dollar garment he’s wearing.
My eyes dart back to his face. Slicked-back dark hair reveals ice-blue eyes set over a hawkish nose.
He could be considered handsome, but his features come together in a way that makes me shiver, and not in a good way.
He looks mean.
“I’ve heard so much about you, Sasha.”
My skin crawls at the sound of my name on his lips. How the hell does Sam know someone like this?
The fingers on the man’s extended hand are smooth and long, with a bend in his right index finger, like it was broken and set incorrectly.
All my instincts tell me to run. My muscles even tense, preparing to do so.
But Sam’s text flashes across my vision like a lonely motel sign.
Life or death. Life or death. Life or death.
“I guess you already know my name,” I say brightly, keeping my grip firm and confident, even if I feel completely the opposite. I’ll just be my bright and cheery self. Maybe this guy just comes across as creepy. Maybe he’s actually a barrel of laughs.
“I’m Vince.”
Sam hadn’t named him. He only called him “a business associate.”
I nod. Despite forcing myself to think positively a second ago, I find myself unable to say nice to meet you.
Vince arches a slick black brow and smiles widely. I catch a glint of gold at the back of his teeth.
A sick feeling coils in my stomach. This man is not a barrel of laughs.
I expect him to ask me to sit, but he doesn’t say that. Instead, he says, “You’re sharp, aren’t you, Miss Macklin? Don’t miss a thing?”
I already dislike him based on what I’ve seen, but now my hackles go way up at the way he seems surprised about me being more than an inanimate object.
Even though I’ve got a master’s degree from a London college, apparently, I still can’t shake the old chip on my shoulder, borne of being the child of the beauty queen mistress-turned-second wife who was told to be quiet and look pretty from birth to…well, now.
I force myself to at least attempt to maintain my smile, strictly for Sam’s sake. I do know how to pretend to be coy. Thanks, Mom. “I don’t think you know me well enough to assess me like that,” I say, trying for a little friendly pushback. “But I can hold my own.”
Vince’s smile glints. “You look especially charming when you’re trying to work something out.”
I ignore the deeply patronizing tone and words, but my smile can’t hold on any longer. “I think I’ve got everything sorted, thank you,” I say. “Shall we sit?”
“There’s no rush. But you should know I don’t like distractions at dinner.” He glances at my phone, still gripped tightly in my left hand.
There’s no way in hell I’m putting away my safety net. “Sorry, I never keep my phone out of sight.” I try to force another brief smile to let him know I mean what I say but I’m not being argumentative. But I can feel it coming out as a grimace. “You understand, right?”
He laughs. The sound makes my skin crawl. “Feisty, too.”
Life or death.
There are two place settings at the table on the far end of the balcony.
I move past him before he can say anything more and before my feet can take me on a U-turn out of here.
I sit stiffly in the chair closest to the exit, making a point to set my phone on the tabletop next to my hand. One wrong move, and I’m fucking out of here.
Vince lowers himself into his seat. “I knew you were a little spitfire.” He points a finger, grinning. “The moment I saw you, I knew.”
My stomach does that little drop again. “When did you see me?”
But he doesn’t answer that. He just looks over my head, tipping it slightly.
The slight man in a suit who appears next to the table holds a bottle of wine stiffly against him.
He looks like a career server. The kind of person who’d bend over backward to ensure you had the best dining experience of your life.
Only he must be forgetting his customer service training, because he doesn’t meet either of our eyes as he upturns our wine glasses and fills them, then lays the menu cards before us.
“Madam, sir. I’ll leave this with you to decide—”
“She’ll decide now,” Vincent says. “You can wait.”
My skin prickles. I smile at the server. “I’ll actually need a minute, thank you.”
The man freezes, looking between Vince and me. It’s only then I notice his forehead is beaded with sweat, the wine jiggling in the bottle.
Fuck.
I look to Vince, who’s fixing the man with a stone-cold stare.
And suddenly, my blood runs cold. The hostess wasn’t intimidated. She was nervous, like this server.
Just like Sam.
My date isn’t just a creep. He’s someone people are scared of.
“I won’t be long,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. I pick up the menu, pretending to study it.
My mind races.
Those newspaper articles they keep printing about my brother—I don’t ignore them like my parents, who act like the New York Times is some trashy tabloid.
I’ve read them all. Thinly veiled allegations that Senator Macklin doesn’t vote in an unbiased manner.
Suggestions that he’s accepting bribes. That he funded his campaign with dirty money.
I didn’t want to believe that he’s in deep with the wrong people. But how can I deny it anymore when he’s associating with people like Vince?
I grab the glass of water next to my menu and slowly sip it, stalling. Off the balcony and across the street, the sushi place sparkles just out of reach. People there eat and laugh. They’re going about their lives, having fun, unaware someone’s in trouble only a hundred feet away.
I glance briefly at the man before me, my heart beating hard in my chest. The server clutches the wine bottle next to me like it’s a life ring. He wants me to set him free.
Vince. Where do I know someone with that name? I try to run through the articles.
Vince.
Lines from the articles run across my mind like ticker tape. Preferential deals…connections to criminal organizations…a man known to police, questioned for his involvement in sex-trafficking allegations—Vincent Creelman.
Vincent.
Vince.
I choke, water threatening to slip out between my lips.
Vincent slides my napkin toward me.
Panic wraps a hand around my throat, but I take the cloth, dabbing at my mouth. “Just went down the wrong way.”
The server refills my water with a shaky hand.
My brother set me up with a criminal.
Sam knew what he was doing. Anger stokes a fire in my chest, distracting me from my breaking heart.
He knew.
I pick up the menu again, surprised it doesn’t light on fire with how hard I’m staring at it.
My only focus now has to be getting the fuck out of here.
I just need to figure out how. Do I just drop everything and run?
What if he runs after me? What if he has people downstairs? Criminals have entourages, don’t they?
Think, Sasha.
This isn’t my first encounter with a creep. Maybe never someone quite so dangerous, but I’ve slipped away from shady men before. Criminal or not, we’re in a mostly public place. My phone is a half inch away from where my hand rests on the table.
I could try to make eyes with the server, but the server will barely look at me.
And Vincent won’t look away.
A distraction. That’s what I need.
“I think that’s about enough time,” Vincent says, his words dripping with the tone of someone whose child is acting up. “She’ll have—”
“I’ll have the flank steak,” I blurt out. “And the lobster. And the pasta starter, too, please.”
Vincent’s eyebrows raise, but he doesn’t say anything, just cocks his head sideways and back again.
“Penne Vodka,” he says without taking his eyes from mine.
The waiter nods and practically sprints away from us.
Time. I need to buy time while I figure out how to distract him.
“Vincent,” I say, picking up my wineglass. But what if he’s drugged it? I set it back down, willing my hand to keep steady as I set it on the table, my pinkie brushing my phone.
Vincent’s eyes drop to where I’m casually trying to slide my whole hand over my phone.
I lower it back down next to it instead.
“So. How do you know my brother?”
What? Why would that be a good question? What can he answer to that?
We do crime together.
I grab my water, taking another gulp.
Vincent arches a brow as he sips his wine. “This is an 1842 Bordeaux. I was led to believe you enjoy Bordeaux?”
Of course he acts like I didn’t say anything at all. Anger flares—the familiarity of being ignored sits like a flame in my chest. I grasp on to it. It feels much better than being scared.
Then I register what he said. How does he know what kind of wine I drink?
It doesn’t matter. I set my water down. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Now I really do know what he’ll say about him and Sam.
Vincent’s lips quirk again, but there’s a flash of something in his eye. Irritation. He’s not used to being talked back to.
I mentally blow on the flame. Talking back to assholes hasn’t been a problem for me yet.
Finally he sets his glass down. “Your brother and I do business together.”
“Really? What kind of business? I thought he was exempt from participating in business activities as an elected official.” I’m talking out of my butt—I don’t know if that’s true, but Vincent seems to buy it, because he evades the question.
“I’m surprised to see so much fire in you, Miss Macklin. Feisty’s one thing, but this is foolish. Of course, I’m quite enjoying watching you play this little game. I knew I would.”
“How would you know that? You don’t know me.”
“Oh, but I do.”
My skin crawls. “Why did you want to go out with me? Why not any other woman in Manhattan? I imagine you have your pick.”
“You flatter me, Miss Macklin.”
“Not on purpose.”
That tick in his jaw again. “You like being dominated, don’t you?”