Chapter 59 Kitty
FIFTY-NINE
KITTY
Playlist recommendation:
(Don’t Fear) The Reaper - Blue ?yster Cult
“Who’s that?”
Tucked behind a textbook, Neev peered over it and her glasses at the street below. Her comment had me glancing up from my own book.
We were currently sharing my reading nook as, a new and unexpected perk of almost dying, Neev was being clingy.
It came as quite a surprise that I enjoyed her hanging around me like a bad smell.
“I don’t know.”
“Fancy car.”
Understatement—the fanciest of fancy. It looked like the type of car some royal family member would use as a runaround.
“Might not even be coming to our house.”
Smirking when the intercom sounded, she took on Ma’s Irish accent like a pro: “I have the Sight, dontcha know?”
Tiredly, I clambered to my feet because my morning Pilates class had worn me out, Currau had been a pain in my ass, and ER training didn’t magically predispose me for geriatric care no matter what Stan thought.
Mid-stroll into the living room, I tugged my hair into a high ponytail, only to pause when I saw the man himself, hair askew, cowlick firmly in business, yawning as he hit the buzzer then offered our visitor dead silence.
“Um, hello?”
“What?”
“Is this Mr. Valentini’s residence?”
More silence.
“Excuse me?”
“Who wants to know?”
“My employer—”
“Who’d that be? Irish? Russian? Chinese?”
“Um, American?” The other guy cleared his throat. “Miss, you’re American, right?”
“Born and bred.”
The speaker, a woman this time, had Stan scowling. “What’s her name?”
“Ms. Brackton—”
“Anastasia or Yseult?”
“Ms.” He zuzzed the ‘s.’
“Fine. I’m coming down.”
“Ilya’s stepsister?” I inquired as he released the intercom button.
Stan frowned at me over his shoulder. “Thought you were reading?”
“Thought you were napping.” I leaned against the doorjamb. “What’s going on, Stan?”
“No idea.” He yawned again. “‘Bout to find out though.”
“Do you need a gun?”
His eyes lit up with a genuine smile. “You’re cute.”
“Shut up!”
“I mean it. You think I sleep unarmed?”
I shook my head. “Fucking crazy.”
“For you, maybe, bedda mia.”
“Where do you put the weapons when you’re naked? There’s no way you fuck me with a gun strapped to your ankle. I’d notice.”
“I’m too young for this conversation,” Neev hollered from the bedroom.
Stan ignored her. “You can strip-search me later. For now, business, duci.”
Because I was curious, and because this Yseult Brackton chick had come to my family’s building, I followed him to the top step and plunked myself down as he pulled out a gun and put his hand on the door handle.
“You should go inside.”
“Nah. I’m nosy. I don’t think women with drivers in European-imported limousines perform drive-bys.”
“It’d be one way to start a trend.” He tugged on the handle and peered between the crack he made. “Ms. Brackton?”
“That’s me.”
He opened the door wider. “Would you like to come inside?”
I took note of the woman’s pretty if expressionless face, the clothes that screamed old money, and the tasteful diamond tennis bracelet that had probably cost more than this building.
She stepped inside via a pair of gleaming nude Louboutins that had me drooling and stunned me by not turning her nose up at the less-than-elegant foyer. Instead, she glanced at the stairs, took note of me, ignored Stan’s outstretched hand, and climbed the steps.
My brows lifted as I scuttled to my feet, but I took the hand she offered me and not him and shook it. “Catriona Frasier.”
Yeah—peer pressure. I caved. There was no way I was using my diminutive name right now.
“Pleasure. Yseult Brackton.” The other woman, head tipped as she studied me, failed to relinquish my hand from her grip. “Soon-to-be Valentini?” Her finger nudged Stan’s ring. The question-unpopped ring.
“Soon,” Stan confirmed from his position at the bottom of the staircase. “There a reason you’re more interested in my future bride than in me?”
As her cuff lifted, my attention tripped over the marks of a self-harmer as well as the bottom half of a rather intricate tattoo on her wrist.
“Women are infinitely more interesting than men, Mr. Valentini. Your better half says a lot about you.”
He frowned but went to kick the door closed with his heel. A shining foot stopped it from shutting totally.
“Ma’am?”
“Come in, Clark,” Yseult stated. “My insurance company insisted I make this visit with security.”
Stan’s frown deepened, but he peered outside and the tension around his mouth lifted. Four men proceeded to stride through the front door, each with a heavy briefcase cuffed to their wrists.
They looked like respectable soldiers, except in suits and with concealed weapons rather than ACUs.
“What’s going on?”
“Go inside, Neev,” I directed.
She pouted but glanced at Yseult, stuck herself over the bannister, and investigated the situation. “You’re right. I don’t want to know.”
My lips twitched as I heard her thudding footsteps, assuring me she’d returned to her own apartment, so I gestured at my door. “Would you like to come in, Yseult?”
“That would be very kind of you. Thank you.”
I guided her inside and asked if she wanted refreshments.
By the time I returned from the kitchen with a pot of coffee, some of Ma’s homemade chocolate digestive biscuits (not cookies as per her wishes or she’d stop baking the damn things), and a carafe of water on a tray I’d stolen from Ma’s kitchen at some point, the men had all lined up by my table and were uncuffing the briefcases from their persons.
“Wait outside,” Yseult ordered, accepting the coffee cup with a gentle smile.
The men marched out, leaving us alone.
“What’s going on, Yseult?”
“I’m here at the request of a mutual friend.”
“Levin?” Stan inserted.
She dipped her chin. “Precisely. I’m sure you can imagine what the cases contain.”
“What is it? Grab bag?” he mocked.
“If the rubies you seek are in there, you’re welcome to them.”
Her tone was prim. Pious, even. So stodgy and stilted that I didn’t know what to make of her.
She looked like her great-granddaddy had built railroads, and the steel in her spine only confirmed it, but I noticed the small holes that spoke of a multitude of piercings in one ear and the soft lines at her throat that told me she had another tattoo there.
When Stan gusted out his cheeks as he stared at the briefcases, she surprised me further—her cell rang. But rather than a standard tone or a buzzing sound, a song blared: “Don’t Fear The Reaper.”
She seemed more the Vivaldi type.
She answered with little fanfare and spoke in Russian. I left her to her call and headed over to the table. I could tell that Stan had half an ear on her conversation, but the tension in his shoulders faded shortly after I made it to his side.
“She’s on a call with Ilya Levin.”
I nodded. “Do you have a picture? Maybe I can help with the search.”
“You take one briefcase and I can take another?”
“Sounds good to me.”
He retrieved his cell from the back pocket of his slacks, found a black-and-white pic, showed me the ruby necklace that was borderline distasteful in all its dubious majesty, and let me zoom in a couple of times to get a feel for the setting.
By the time Stan opened the first briefcase, Yseult had finished with her call and retreated to the dinner table where she took a seat, sipping another cup of coffee.
With those few actions, she said she wouldn’t be helping us but that she was curious enough to watch.
My eyes widened when Stan unzipped one of the protective flaps, revealing antique velvet boxes—dozens of them. Hell, more than that. And this was just the first briefcase!
He left me to that one and then opened up another.
“Holy fuck,” I choked out when I opened the first box. “How weren’t you escorted with your own private army?”
Her coffee cup didn’t snick the saucer as she paired the two together. “Discretion is the better part of valor.”
Never, not even at a museum exhibition, had I seen this many jewels.
Rubies—every single piece, but tangled with diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, you name it. If it cost a million plus, then it was here.
That first box had revealed a gaudy ruby choker. The diamonds surrounding each princess-cut stone were as big as my pinkie nail.
I wasn’t a part-time gemologist so I had no idea how much this stuff was worth, but I knew a single one of these items would change someone’s life for a decade.
In this economy, maybe five years, but still, fuck.
More rubies came. So many rubies. Too many rubies. In all shapes and cuts and sizes. Ones I didn’t know existed.
Was this the wrong time to tell Stan that I hated rubies?
“I’m going to get a headache from all this red,” I mumbled two hours later, as we trawled through box after box after box. Pockets and drawers within the briefcases made the task take an age. I didn’t think jewelry stores contained this many pieces. “Do you even wear any of this stuff?”
Yseult shook her head. “Not my style.”
“You ever think about donating it to a museum?”
“It’s entailed. Not mine. My brother’s. Anyway, the collection belonged to him until recently. I’m not sure what you did, but he arranged matters with the insurance company and…”
“Like you don’t know, Yseult.” Stan smirked at her. “I saw your most recent blog.”
With a confused huff, I turned to the second-to-last jewelry box in my case.
Unlike the others, it showed a lot of signs of wear and tear.
Small stains in the velvet, little pockets where the fabric had rubbed away.
Marks on the gold hinges and the clasp at the front spoke of an antiquity that surpassed the others in the collection.
Yseult’s smile turned self-satisfied. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Stan.”
“Hmm, I bet.” When I dropped the case, Stan shifted. “Okay, duci?”
“Yeah, the hinge’s rusty. It won’t open.” I shoved it at him when another attempt saw the box tumbling from my grip and landing on the pile of other velvet-covered monstrosities. “Here. What blog are you talking about anyway?”