Chapter 13 #2
His brows hike up, and for the first time since I walked in, genuine emotion crosses his face—amusement. He actually chuckles. “Don’t tell me you’re here to propose an insane partnership?”
I tap my index finger on the table impatiently. “We’ve got a mutual problem, Vincenzo. We can fix it faster by working together.”
“Does Aleksei know you’re here?”
An attempt to cut me down to size? I narrow my eyes at him. Too bad I’ve got a healthy dose of confidence. It’s going to take more than some barbed little jabs to do any damage. “I’m an enforcer. I can make my own calls.”
Vincenzo smirks. “Good for you. But I’m not interested in working together. Find your men, and I’ll find mine.”
“I see. So you’re not ready to put an end to this madness. When you change your mind—after I’ve already gotten to the bottom of this—it will be too late.” I get to my feet, brushing down my jacket. “Good night, Vince.”
I leave before he can utter another word, but I can feel his stare boring into my back all the way out. Luka is still waiting in the car right in front of the social club, and he arches a brow as I slide into the passenger seat.
“Let me guess,” he says, starting the engine. “He didn’t agree.”
“He’s an arrogant fucker,” I mutter, pulling the gun from the small of my back and dropping it into the dashboard compartment.
My skin feels tight, overheated. All I want is to go home and stand under a scalding shower until the feeling passes.
Viktorovich. I’m glad I was able to hold it together long enough to get away.
“You’re all Viktorovich and Viktorovna. Mine! You’re nothing without me, and you will fall in line or die.”
The ugly words echo in my skull, spoken in a voice I’ve spent years trying to forget. Needing relief, I hit the button to roll down the window and lean my head out into the rush of downtown traffic noise.
I inhale deeply, drawing in the sharp air that carries the smell of the East River and car exhaust. It does nothing to calm the churning in my gut.
“Are you okay?”
I glance at Luka, who’s actually looking at me with concern. I manage a low chuckle. “What? Worried I’ll throw myself into traffic?”
“Hardly,” he responds stiffly. “But Marino is a bastard who knows exactly how to get under people’s skin. And you don’t look too good.”
“I’m fine. You’re not getting rid of me anytime soon.” I roll the window back up and shrug out of my jacket.
“I know. I’m not that lucky in life.” His reply is dry, but he’s still watching me with furrowed brows, unconvinced.
Before I can deliver a flippant comeback, my phone chimes with a text. I take it out to see a message from Vasily. Finally. Seeing that he has news on my little captive yanks me the rest of the way out of the past’s chokehold. I click on the folder he sent.
Inside are multiple files: Melani Monti, Luciano Monti, Linda Monti, and Notes. Her relatives? And Vasily’s observations, most likely. The man is nothing if not thorough.
I click on Melani’s file first and raise a brow at the sparse information.
Then I get distracted studying the attached photo.
She’s smiling here, so innocent and unguarded, and looks so young.
It must have been taken five years ago or more.
She doesn't look older than sixteen. My chest tightens the longer I stare at her carefree expression, so I quickly scroll past it to the relevant information.
Interesting.
Apparently, my little mouse spawned in my city a little over two years ago, mother and brother in tow. They got in through New Jersey—illegally, via one of the cargo ships at Port Newark. No surprise there. I never bought the stolen passport and visa story.
She’s worked a handful of jobs since arriving: waitressing, tutoring for pennies, dog-walking. All under-the-table work that doesn’t require identification and pays in cash. She’s had zero brushes with law enforcement and lives in a rundown apartment in Lower Manhattan.
That last detail pisses me off more than it should. The fact that she’s been living in one of the most dangerous areas of the city, vulnerable and exposed. Anything could have happened to her there. As if she isn’t already in danger. From me.
I exit her file and move to her mother’s, which is even shorter—just one page.
Linda tried to find legitimate work when they first arrived in New York, but with terrible English back then, nothing stuck.
Eventually, she turned to prostitution and now works at one of the high-end brothels on the Upper East Side.
If she’s working at one of those establishments, she must be making decent money. So why the hell are they still crammed into a dump downtown? Why not move somewhere safer?
I flick my eyes to Linda’s photo—clearly taken recently at the brothel, given her clothes and the bar visible in the background.
She’s a striking woman, a near-perfect copy of Melani.
Same dark hair and dark eyes. But there’s a hardness in Linda’s face that Melani doesn’t have yet.
The kind that comes with age, the toil of survival, and probably more than a few betrayals.
I hope Melani never reaches that point.
I move on to the next file. The brother.
I frown at the photo of the young boy staring back at me.
At first glance, there’s nothing remarkable about him except his eyes—a very light shade of brown, almost amber.
But that isn’t what keeps my attention snagged.
He looks familiar. Where have I seen him before?
I scroll down to the information about him and see why. He used to fucking work for me. He’s one of my missing foot soldiers.
The brother goes missing, and a few weeks later she’s working at my club—and wandering into my office without invitation?
It’s not a coincidence. Does she think I have something to do with her brother’s disappearance?
I click on the last file. Vasily’s notes. Melani Monti doesn’t exist. Neither do Luciano and Linda Monti.
His first line hooks me instantly, and I scan the rest. After digging into their New York records, he followed my instructions and checked the high school listed on her résumé.
The high school in a small town in Sicily called Pietrarossa.
Nobody named Melani Monti attended that school.
But there was a Melani Fontana—top student in her class.
And this Melani Fontana had a brother at the same school named Luciano Fontana.
Her parents: Linda and Dante Fontana. No doubt about it. That’s my captive’s real identity.
Vasily ends by saying he’s digging deeper into the Fontanas and will get back to me with more information.
I lean back in my seat. So her family smuggled themselves into the U.S.
and changed their last name? People don’t erase themselves unless they’re running from something. The question is—from what?
Luka slows the vehicle, and I glance up to see we’re pulling into my parking lot.
I lock my phone as something occurs to me.
Melani’s brother, Luciano, wasn’t working for Ivan Petrov, the nightclub owner.
He was working for Vanya, the Petrov enforcer.
Which means she must know who I really am.
And she still ran her mouth and tried to seduce me? Impressive.
“We’re here,” Luka announces unnecessarily. I can see we’re here.
“Good,” I answer anyway, already opening the door. Good. Because things just got a lot more interesting.
The only reason I held back with Melani this morning was the lingering suspicion that she might be an enemy spy. She’s a spy, all right—but one searching for her brother. And now that I know she wasn’t sent by my enemies, all bets are off.
Her ass is mine.