Chapter 17
Emily thought she’d seen mansions before—Devil’s place definitely counted—but this was another level.
And tonight, she was working in the billionaire’s kitchen.
She’d been on her feet for twelve hours—chopping piles of herbs and vegetables, prepping the homemade pasta, boiling, sauteing, searing, and plating in the sweltering kitchen while Benny barked orders.
The dessert course was going out now, which meant her really long day was finally winding down.
“You did good today, kid.”
She turned to find Benny watching her. Ordinarily, she would have corrected him about the kid comment, but his tone was almost kind. And, more importantly, she was supposed to be passing for a college girl—or younger.
“Thanks,” she said, smoothing the hair that had escaped her ponytail and brushing at her powdered-sugar-covered apron. “Hopefully, Regina will ask me to do it again soon.”
“I’ll put in a good word with her,” he said, “but you’re probably more valuable out on the floor where you can be seen.”
He walked out without saying more, leaving her wondering if he meant as an experienced server, or as something to be sold to some sick buyer.
Regina swept in through the swinging door, heels clicking, perfume trailing behind her.
“Emily,” she said, smiling too brightly. “I need help with champagne and dessert. It’s an upscale crowd tonight.” Regina’s expression dimmed as her gaze moved from her disheveled hair down her sugar-dusted body. “You’ll need to change. The servers elevate their attire for this kind of event.”
For a second, she thought she’d misheard. She was exhausted and had already done her part, but this was exactly what the investigation needed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t bring a change of clothes. I was only expecting to be in the kitchen.”
“No worries.” Regina crossed to a supply cart they’d rolled in when they’d arrived.
She produced a hanger draped in dry-cleaning plastic.
When she ripped it away, she revealed a short skirt and a scoop-neck top in a slinky material that would cling to what curves she had.
“There are heels, too. You’re a seven, right? ”
Emily’s stomach twisted. That she had her size was too convenient, and the uniform was skimpy bordering on slutty.
“Put it on quickly. Dinner is almost over, and we need to push the champagne.”
Great. Just what she needed—drunk sex slavers sizing her up like prime meat.
In the staff bathroom, she transferred the panic button and transmitter from her chef’s uniform to the waistband of the miniskirt. “I hope you guys heard all of that,” she whispered. “I’m getting major red flags from Regina, and Benny is starting to weird me out.”
No earpiece meant no response. She could only hope—and pray—they were on top of this.
She changed quickly, tugging the skirt lower, the neckline higher, and slipping on the heels, muttering, “Where, outside of a strip club, does any waitress wear four-inch ankle breakers?”
Because she had a role to play, she ran a brush through her hair, gathered it into a high ponytail at her crown, then slicked on a coat of pink lip gloss. She’d never felt more exposed. And she’d done scenes at a sex club. Twice.
After a steadying breath, she grabbed a tray and joined the party.
Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, casting golden light across the polished travertine floors. Towering floral arrangements burst with gardenias and orange blossoms. The air was thick with citrus and salt from the ocean breeze drifting in through the open French doors.
Servers dressed just like her—all leg, tight tops, high ponytails—glided past with trays of bubbling champagne in gently clinking crystal.
The guests weren’t to be out done. Breasts swelled over low-cut designer gowns, diamonds dripped from ears and wrists, watches gleamed with gold and platinum amid a sea of black tuxedos.
Laughter rang out, the kind that came from people who’d never worried about rent, putting gas in their car, or survival.
As she circulated with her tray for the next two hours, Emily watched a pattern emerge. The hostess pulled aside the young, fresh-faced, nervous girls who disappeared for a while. They returned with dimmer smiles and confusion clouding their eyes.
Seeking answers, Emily sidled up to one of Regina’s new hires, a blue-eyed blonde, nineteen at most, named Mia.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “You disappeared, and I thought you might be sick.”
“I wasn’t when I went in,” Mia said, her voice shaking. “But I am now.”
“In where?”
She glanced over her shoulder at a side door marked PRIVATE. “They asked me to deliver champagne to a group of VIPs. It was weird.”
“How so?” she asked, keeping a casual air.
“Other than the hostess, it was a roomful of men,” Mia said, not looking at her but off, as if in a daze. “Most were old. A few were foreigners. All filthy rich from the ginormous diamonds in their rings and the gold watches they flashed.”
“Why did serving champagne take so long?”
“They all wanted to talk to me. Asked a million and one questions. They were polite enough, I guess. But the way they looked at me…”
“What, Mia?” Emily pressed.
“It made my skin crawl,” she whispered with a delicate shudder. “I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”
“If you’re uncomfortable, say no if they ask you again.”
“I don’t think I can afford to.” She dipped her fingers inside her neckline and withdrew a wad of bills.
“They tipped me $500 for a half hour of pouring champagne and chitchat. That’s pocket change for a millionaire, but it’s weird, don’t you think?
” She tucked the money between her breasts again. “Excuse me. I think I need a minute.”
Mia walked away, weaving a little, as if she didn’t know what had hit her.
“Someone needs to watch the guys in the private room to the left of the ballroom,” Emily murmured under her breath, pretending to focus on gathering empty glasses. “I haven’t seen Regina go in or out. She’s out there mingling, smiling, and chatting, like it’s just another night at work.”
Emily moved through the crowd with her tray of empty flutes, eyes and ears open. In the back hallway, she paused to adjust her grip—dropping twenty crystal glasses would get her the attention she didn’t want. That’s when a man’s low growl sliced through the air.
“This isn’t happening fast enough.” His thick New York accent wasn’t out of place in South Florida, but his pronounced lisp made it memorable.
Another man responded, “The clients are enjoying themselves. What’s the rush?”
“They’re guzzling my expensive champagne and stuffing caviar I paid for into their faces. I’m cash-poor. I need deals made now.”
“I’ll try to move things along, boss. I didn’t realize it was that bad.”
“Benny’s rat daughter cost us a fortune. If I ever find her, she’ll wish she had died in the limo along with her daddy.”
Emily’s blood turned to ice. Though her knees nearly buckled, she forced herself to keep walking—slow, steady, invisible.
He sounded straight out of a mob movie. And he had to be talking about Cari.
She slipped outside, heart pounding, and headed toward the catering van.
“I don’t know how much you heard of that conversation,” she told the team, short of breath as she fast-walked, just short of running. “I was several feet away, but I think I just overheard the trafficking boss. Boss being the pivotal word.”
Not getting a roger, a 10-4, or something that told her Devil’s team had caught the exchange was maddening. She also wanted to put distance between herself and these scumbags—pimps to the ultra-wealthy—men with no qualms about selling young women into sexual slavery.
But she couldn’t just run and hide. Bringing these bastards down was what her dad and Ethan had given their lives for, and why she was here tonight. Beth Ann, and the other girls, were counting on someone to save them.
Just like Mia, she needed a minute. She climbed into the front seat of the van, enclosing herself in silence. Then she closed her eyes, trying to collect herself, her hands clenched in tight fists to still their shaking.
In the quiet, a buzzing sounded, and something lit up at her feet. She looked down. A phone was sticking out from under the seat.
She picked it up. The screen was still lit. Texts scrolled in quick succession:
Inventory confirmed. Fresh batch ready.
Her stomach dropped.
Footsteps crunched outside. She shoved the phone under the seat and scrambled to the rear, grabbing a stack of trays just as the door yanked open.
She jumped. “Benny. You scared the life out of me.”
He frowned, eyes scanning the van. “What are you doing? I thought you were serving in the ballroom?”
“I was, but the crowd has thinned. People are heading out. I thought I’d get started packing up. I’m beat.”
He hesitated. “The others will be heading out soon.” But he didn’t move. Just kept looking around.
As a distraction, she stated the obvious. “You seem tense. Is something wrong?”
He went quiet—jittery. Then crouched, checking under the seats. She heard a faint scraping sound.
He stood, his hand slipping from his pocket. “Nope. I’m good.”
The side door slid open. Two crew members started loading up, joking and laughing. Emily forced a smile and helped as slowly more and more of the staff trickled out.
Thirty minutes later, near midnight, they were on their way back to Gold Coast, Benny, the human trafficker in the passenger seat. It was all she could do not to throw up.
***
In the surveillance van, Alec and Leland sat with their eyes locked on the monitors. The feed from Gold Coast showed Emily’s car pulling out of the lot, headlights cutting through the dark.
“She’s clear,” Leland said, voice tight.
Alec didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, fingers twitching on his thigh. He felt wired, raw, barely holding it together.
Callan had tapped into the estate’s security feeds, giving them eyes on Emily all night. Dev, Rhys, and Mateo had been outside, watching the perimeter. They had it contained. No one was coming or going without them knowing.
Still, Leland had to call Alec down more than once.
First, when Regina handed Emily the skimpy outfit. Then, after she got rattled over a conversation their equipment hadn’t picked up. And again, when Benny approached the van.
They’d had her covered and she’d made it out without a hitch. But Alec hadn’t felt it. Not really.
He watched the GPS dot blink closer. Emily was on her way.
Then his phone rang.
“You’ve got Alec.”
Her voice was high, breathless. “It’s Benny, Regina’s sous chef. He’s their inside guy. He left his phone in the van and almost caught me with it. I think I’m gonna puke.”
“Hold it together, baby. Come to me,” he urged, striving for calm when he felt anything but. “Pull into the 7-Eleven parking lot on Calusa Drive.” He rattled off the directions. “We’ll meet you there.”
“Okay,” she breathed. “Drive fast.”
Leland pulled into the parking lot behind Dev’s SUV. They arrived ahead of her. Alec paced the pavement, scanning every car that passed.
“She should’ve been here by now,” he called through the open van door. “Check her location.”
“She took a wrong turn,” Leland answered. “She’ll be here in about thirty seconds.”
Alec’s chest felt tight. His skin too hot. He needed to see her. Needed to touch her. The thought of her in danger—alone, afraid—was eating him alive.
Rhys leaned against the van, watching him. “You’re gonna have to settle, bud. She’ll need you calm.”
Alec didn’t look at him. “This is killing me. I need to keep her safe—and I hate I can’t do it the way I want.”
Dev exhaled. “She didn’t go in blind. We had her covered. Rhys is right—she’ll need you together when she gets here. That’s what matters to her right now.”
Alec nodded, but guilt was already climbing up his spine. Ethan’s face flashed through his mind—his best friend, his brother-in-arms. The day Ethan died, Alec had been too far away. Too late.
Now, Emily was in the crosshairs. The timing felt cruelly familiar.
Her car whipped into the lot, tires screeching. She threw the door open and ran.
Alec was already moving. She collided with him, arms locking around his neck.
“I’m okay,” she gasped. “I’m okay.”
He held her tighter, one hand cradling her head, the other splayed across her back. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”
They all climbed into the van. With Leland, Devil, Rhys, and Mateo crowding in, the space felt claustrophobic—too many bodies, too much tension. Emily sat curled beside Alec, his arm around her shoulders, trembling in the aftermath.
She debriefed quickly, voice shaky but clear. When she described the man with the New York accent, Dev sat forward.
“Did you catch a name?”
“No, but he had a lisp. It was very distinctive,” she said, shuddering as she leaned into Alec’s side. “I’ll never forget how he hissed—pure rattlesnake.”
Dev cursed under his breath. “Carrying on the family business.”
“Explain,” Leland barked.
“I know who it is.” His gaze snapped up, lethal sharp. “Enzo. Fucking. Denali.”
The name hung in the air like a threat, and every man in the van went still.