Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Evelyn
"Evelyn, I need to be clear—this is the last time."
Brian's tone was nothing like our previous meeting. Last time he'd been practically thumping his chest, bragging about twenty years in the business without ever botching a single case. The confidence had been almost obnoxious.
But that confidence wasn't entirely hot air—Brian had real chops. Young as he was, he'd already made a name for himself as New York's most celebrated genius detective, thanks to his hacking skills and sharp instincts.
That's why I'd hired him. He was worth it.
But now my only lifeline was repeating himself.
"I need this to be our last meeting. I'll refund your money."
"Last time? What the hell does that mean?" I set down my drink and locked eyes with him. "Brian, if I don't flush my father out soon, I might as well throw myself off a building."
"Look, I feel for you." Brian planted both hands on the table, his expression resigned. "But Evelyn, three people got shaken down this week alone, and I—"
He paused, glancing over his shoulder, then dropped his voice to barely a whisper.
"Someone's tailing me. I ducked into the subway, switched lines three goddamn times—couldn't shake them. Last night," his Adam's apple bobbed, "someone left a bullet under my doormat."
I knew. He wasn't the only one getting threatened. If I hadn't bolted from that apartment when I did, the bullet waiting for me wouldn't have been under a mat.
"Listen, this case is way beyond what a PI can handle. My father gave me hell about getting involved, so I'm sorry, Evelyn. I can't help you."
The mention of his father triggered something. Old Clark—thirty-year veteran, police chief, my father's old friend. But he had his weaknesses. After retirement, he'd caught the gambling bug and pissed away most of his pension.
Brian ran his agency while plugging the holes his old man kept digging. Bottom line—they needed money. My only card to play.
"I understand your situation," I said, softening my voice. "Brian, I'll double it."
Brian went silent for several seconds. I could see him wavering, his mouth twitching.
"Evelyn, you know exactly what I need," he finally said, his tone weary. "But this—"
My phone exploded.
The shrill ringtone cut through the dim bar. A few people at nearby tables shot me irritated looks.
I glanced at the unknown number, hesitated half a second, then answered.
"Evelyn."
My spine went rigid.
Victor's voice slid through the receiver like a velvet-wrapped blade. Just my name, but the way he said it felt like a claim of ownership.
"Quite the nerve you've got. I believe you're the first woman to ever block my number," he said, his tone carrying an almost lazy amusement. "I have to say, that really pissed me off."
"Maybe I just hit the wrong button."
I tried to play it off as an accident, but my palms were already sweating.
"I'll let that slide," Victor said, his voice dropping half an octave, suddenly serious. "But right now you need to do something—leave the man sitting across from you. Brian Clark strikes me as an unsuitable date."
Fuck.
Victor knew I was sitting across from Brian. Right this second.
Was this bastard tracking me? How long had he been doing it?
I'd thought he'd lost interest in me by now.
Clearly not. That's the most nauseating reality about men like him—they don't need to love you.
As long as they're not bored yet, they'll control and shred every corner of your life like you're a toy, and they won't even think they owe you an explanation.
Did that mean... the threat at my apartment had come from him?
He had motive, means, and that casual cruelty that let him tear someone's life apart without feeling the need to justify himself.
My teeth clenched so hard my molars ached.
"I'm not your property, Victor," I said, each word grinding through my teeth. "I never signed up for your games."
Two seconds of silence on the other end.
I didn't give him a chance to respond. My finger hit the end button.
But the turmoil inside wasn't settling. The suffocating despair nearly drowned me.
I wanted to find that black book. I wanted evidence. Then I'd connect every thread between Victor Moretti and my father's disappearance and slam it all down on a prosecutor's desk, watch this untouchable underground tyrant get dragged into federal court.
But what was reality?
Reality was, I couldn't even keep one private detective on the case. This man's reach stretched from Wall Street to Capitol Hill and deep into every dark corner of New York, while I—
I was just a rookie lawyer. A lawyer being abandoned by everyone, who couldn't even protect her own family.
Brian had visibly tensed up several notches. He'd probably pieced together who was on the other end from my tone and increasingly grim expression during that thirty-second call.
Before either of us could speak, Brian's phone rang.
We both stared at the old flip phone vibrating on the wooden table.
Brian took a deep breath and grabbed the phone. The conversation lasted less than ten seconds before he stood up. Phone jammed in his pocket, cap pulled low—he was in full retreat mode.
"Evelyn," Brian shrugged at me. "I'm really sorry. Genuinely, sincerely sorry. I don't care how much you offer—this ends here."
He paused. Hesitated for a moment. Finally leaned in and added in a rush.
"Stay safe."
He looked at me for one second after saying that, something close to pity flickering across his face. Then he bolted from the bar.
Who'd called Brian was obvious now.
Two calls. One to me, one to Brian, less than thirty seconds apart.
Victor Moretti was proving he had enough control over me.
I'd overestimated myself. I was dead wrong. I had no way to fight this terrifying man.
My fingertips went cold. My temples throbbed. The bourbon turned bitter and harsh in my mouth.
Then a shadow fell across my table.
A bartender appeared silently, setting a dark brown paper bag on the table.
The bag gaped open. A strip of black lace peeked out, along with the sheen of silk fabric catching the dim light.
I didn't need to pull it out to know what it was.
Victor Moretti was picking out more clothes for his twisted tastes.
"Someone's waiting for you outside." The bartender's voice was flat as a weather report. He turned and walked away, leaving the bag and my widened eyes.
I stared at the bag, fingers unconsciously gripping the table edge until my knuckles went white.
Damn him. Damn Victor. He was even waiting outside to witness my failure.
Fine. He wanted a showdown?
I'd give him one.