Chapter 12 Brooks
Brooks
The party, when I enter, smells like bourbon and blood, corruption and evil, and I want nothing more than to turn and run away.
I’m tired of the doublespeak and shadows of New Orleans. The men who say one thing and mean another and the women who can’t control their own destinies. The never-ending humidity and the feeling like I can’t fucking breathe. The double-dealing and girls being kept in cages.
I miss New York, where people say what they mean and just shoot you if they decide they don’t like you. I miss car chases and gun fights and a group of friends who have my back no matter what.
I miss the Rossis. And the Brennans. And the Lanes.
And I miss Lucien, though I don’t look at that too closely, for fear of what it might say about me.
Instead, I look around the small gathering my father is hosting in his private poker room at the house, and start cataloguing faces.
He said he was going to have friends and clients here and that he wanted me to attend as his heir and protege, and though both of those labels made me want to stick my thumbs in his eyeballs and push, I’m getting a whole lot better at acting these days.
Hell, I bet no one here even knows I’m packing a butterfly knife and a Glock underneath the clingy dress I donned for the night.
In New York, I’d be wearing the Glock in a shoulder holster on top of the dress, just to make sure people knew I had it.
Down here, in my new life as a sometimes-under-cover gangster, I’ve opted for a leg holster, with the gun nestled between my thighs, where it’s hidden from view.
Not exactly the most convenient placement if I need to get to it quickly, but what can I say?
If nothing else, New Orleans is teaching me how to hide my weapons more carefully. So I guess I’m down here getting an education, after all.
I lean back against the wall of the room and take in the sights, trying to figure out how many of the men are familiar to me.
My father is in the corner, holding court with men I assume are either important or close friends, and in the other corner, I see Samantha Duhon speaking intently to a man with a dark, wicked face.
I watch him for a moment, then look down at his mouth as he speaks.
He’s talking quickly, though his lips are barely moving, like his mouth doesn’t have to work hard to get around the words.
Either that or he’s used to people trying to read his lips.
I smirk at that and hone in on the actions of his mouth more closely, watching carefully to try to make out words I know.
When we were kids, Sloane and I were often told to go play outside when the grownups were speaking, and it pissed us off so much that we decided to figure out how to spy on them when they did that.
We went to Joseph Rossi, our older and somewhat more experienced friend, and asked him if he knew anything about lip reading.
He did.
And he taught us everything he knew.
Before long we were making a game of it, trying to see who could get more out of a conversation we weren’t close enough to listen to, and though Sloane was good, I was even better. I had more patience for it than she did, and was willing to wait longer for the patterns to make sense.
We were both, of course, better at it than Joseph. As far as he was concerned, if it didn’t include guns or cars, it wasn’t worthwhile.
This man is putting my skills to the test, though, and at first I think it’s because it’s so dark and gloomy in here. The low lighting makes it harder to see his lips, and it’s taking me longer than I’d like to catch on to what he’s seeing.
After five minutes of trying, though, I realize that it’s not the low lighting, and it’s definitely not me having lost practice at this skill. Because I’m making out patterns and repetitions just fine. I can see the words he’s saying, and am even noticing when he puts particular emphasis on a word.
The problem is, those words aren’t in English.
I watch his lips form around a set of letters that don’t make any sense to me, and frown.
He’s speaking harshly, gesturing at Samantha like she’s done something to really piss him off.
But he’s not speaking English, and unless I get a lot closer, I’m not going to be able to identify what language he is speaking.
This doesn’t necessarily mean anything–New Orleans has always had more foreigners than Americans in it–but my mind cuts quickly to what Lucien said on the balcony of my father’s house.
Russians. Something about Russians. Duhon’s kid had said something to Luke about Russian involvement, was that it?
No matter how I tried, though, I couldn’t quite remember the details.
I’d been slightly distracted when he was telling me, and now that I’m thinking about it, I’m even angrier at Lucien for that.
What the fuck was he thinking, coming around to pass me intel and then ruining it by sliding his hand between my legs and his lips over my neck, then starting to move against me in a way that had sent me over the edge so quickly the world became blur?
I take a quick breath at the memory, my back arching against the wall, and try to pull myself back together.
Whatever he’d said, it was definitely about Russians, and now that I’m looking at the man, Russian makes sense.
He’s dark to the point of being swarthy, and his brows are heavy enough he must terrify children.
Everything about him is dark, in fact, and he’s got a low, hulking way of standing that makes me think of large, heavy bears.
His hands are enormous, his shoulders broad, and if I can just get close enough to hear him–
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Brooks Landry.”
The voice is slimy and unwelcome, and when I turn to see who it is, I cringe.
“Simon leBanc,” I snarl. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
The man has no place in any of the families, and even less in my father’s private party.
He’s no one of account, not even attached to anyone important, and the last time I saw him, he was running small-time rackets for bounty hunters in town.
He’s no one, an outlaw and a freelancer, and I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anything good about him.
Of course, I haven’t been here in five years. I suppose things may have changed.
But judging by the way his eyes are dipping down over my breasts and belly, I’m guessing they haven’t.
“I could ask the same of you,” he says quietly. “The last I heard, you and your father were on the outs.” He looks out over the room, then glances back at me, his eyes full of meaning. “What could he have done, I wonder, to tempt you back into his sphere?”
I don’t have to ask to hear what he’s saying. He knows my father is up to no good, and thinks that me being here means I’m in the same boat. Hell, maybe he thinks I even approve of what Dominick Landry is doing.
The thought makes me want to throw up all over him, but I stop myself, considering. Because how would Simon leBanc know anything about anything? He’s not well-connected. Just a low-level contractor. A gun for hire, and nothing more.
“What are you doing here, Simon?” I ask quietly.
He shrugs and turns again to the room. “Came up for a break. I’ve been downstairs with the merchandise. Deciding what’s worth keeping and what’s worth selling. If you catch my drift.”
Drift?
Catch his drift?
What the fuck is the man even talking about?
Then I start to parse through his words and find the meaning in them. He’s been with the merchandise. The girls. And he’s been downstairs. The basement.
There are girls in the basement, and he’s been in charge of figuring out which ones to send to shipment, and which to keep.
I don’t understand that part, because why would they ‘keep’ any of them when they could sell them, but I remember the shipment that’s happening tonight and realize that Simon is giving me information I didn’t have before.
I’d guessed that there were girls in the basement, but I didn’t know for sure.
And now I do.
Is Simon... on my side? Lucien said he’d been working with the man while I was being held prisoner, but I’d written that off as unimportant. Now I realize that I might not be the only one Lucien has on the inside of my father’s operation.
Only one way to find out.
“And did you find much merchandise to sell?” I asked, fighting to keep my voice casual.
He chuckles like he’s impressed that I caught on to his code, and my fingers itch to strangle him.
“About fifty pieces,” he says. “Though there were one hundred to choose from.”
My blood freezes. One hundred. There are one hundred girls in the basement, and they’ve chosen fifty of them to send out. Which means fifty are staying, though I don’t know what will happen to them after tonight.
One hundred girls downstairs.
Girls I could save.
“There’s one piece in particular,” he says.
“That one’s not here, but it’s close. Awfully interesting.
More valuable than the others. I don’t think we’ll sell it, though.
” When he turns to me, his face is more serious than I’ve ever seen it.
“That one’s not for collectors. Your father is hoping to sell it back to the person he stole it from. ”
He disappears before I can ask for anything else, melting away like smoke in the fucking wind, and I stare at where he was standing, my mind caught between wanting to rush after him and trying to figure out what he just told me.
One hundred girls. Fifty are shipping out tonight.
And one piece is so valuable my father is hoping to sell it back to whoever he stole it from.
What in the eternal baby Jesus does that mean?
My father materializes in Simon’s place so quickly that I wonder for a moment if they fucking planned it, his face crafty and his eyes glittering.
“Having a good time?” he asks. “I’ve noticed you aren’t mingling with my guests.”
“I just arrived, Father,” I say sharply. “And I’m not in any hurry to mingle with these men.”
He stares at me for a beat too long–long enough for me to realize he expected me to be more polite to him–and then turns back to the crowd.
“Control that tongue, Brooklyn, or you’ll find it cut out of your mouth,” he says, delivering the words like they don’t mean anything.
“You’ll shadow Samantha tomorrow. Go on a few collection runs.
I want you to see how they work. And the next day, I’ll introduce you to the sorts of men who buy pretty girls. ”
Then he’s gone, leaving a chill in his wake, and I’m left shaking with fury at his words.
Collection runs. The men who buy pretty girls.
He’s trying to get me involved in the day-to-day operations, and expecting me to just accept that sort of role.
My skin crawls at the thought of it, though, and the idea of being there when his collectors grab a girl, pulling her away from her family and friends and into the grip of a smuggling ring that will sell her to the highest bidder. ..
Some twisted old man who likes to buy pretty girls...
God, I’m going to have to kill someone.
Preferably my father.
But first, I have a rescue operation to run–and then a cover story to concoct. Because we might be able to get the girls out of the basement before they ship, but the minute the men go to try to take them to the dock, they’re going to notice that they’re missing.
And my father is going to expect answers.
I’m going to need a rock-solid alibi to convince him that I wasn’t involved, or I’m cooked.
Though I’ll worry about that later. Right now...
I pull my phone from its resting spot in my bra and glance at it, wondering if Camille and Kate are in position yet. Because I might not know for sure what Simon was talking about, but I do know now how many girls are downstairs. I know how many lives we’ll be saving tonight.
And I know that my father is going to be pissed as hell when they disappear from under his nose.
I grin at the thought, slip back out of the party, and reach for the butterfly knife I also slipped into my bra when I got dressed.
When I walk back up the stairs, my mind full of plans and my heart full of excitement, I’m twirling the knife in my hand, and a part of my brain is dreaming of the moment when I can sink it right into my father’s neck... and twist.