ALESSIO
Two days later…
… we came to a compromise. Of sorts. I've discovered compromise is just another word for slowly losing an argument.
The store across the street from the clubhouse sells, of all things, wine.
The owner, Petro Slovowits, specializes in high-end, hard-to-find wines and imports.
According to him, he’s had this store since before the Reapers ever showed up.
I doubt that, because as far back as I can remember, the clubhouse has been there.
It's more likely Petro bought this place because it was cheap and is now regretting that decision.
The pristine clients he's aiming for are a bit squeamish about coming here, so his business is more online nowadays.
Anyway, his discontent with the Reapers plays beautifully into my hand.
I told him I'm a PI looking to bust the entire MC.
So he lets me stay here and drink his horrible coffee.
"They're bad for business."
It's the fifth time he's told me. I don't bother looking away from the window. "You mentioned that."
"They park in front of my building."
A tragedy.
"They fight in my parking lot."
Heartbreaking.
"They scared away three customers."
Now we're getting somewhere.
The old man crosses his arms. "I hope you arrest every one of those assholes."
I take another sip of coffee. "I'm a private investigator, not a cop."
He snorts. The sound suggests he doesn't believe me. Fair. The cover story is thin. But money helps. A lot. Especially for failing gourmet wine businesses.
Across the street, the Reapers clubhouse squats beneath the afternoon sun like an infected wound. The bar sits beside it. And inside that bar is the reason I haven't slept properly in two days. Beccs.
Working. Serving drinks. Smiling at bikers. Making me prematurely gray. I pull out my phone. No alerts. No panic button. No emergencies. Not that I would have missed it had she pressed it.
The panic button had been non-negotiable.
One press. That's all she has to do. One press, and five heavily armed men come pouring around the corner.
Because despite what she thinks, I'm capable of learning.
Sometimes. Five of my soldiers are spread around the area.
One at a gas station. Two in parked vehicles.
One in a repair shop. Another sitting in a diner pretending to eat pie.
Nobody knows they're connected. Nobody knows they're watching. And most importantly, nobody knows I'm watching here too.
The compromise had nearly caused a second civil war. She wanted to keep working. I wanted to lock her inside the penthouse until this was over. Shockingly, she objected. Violently. Eventually we settled on this. I hate every second of it.
My phone vibrates, but it's not Beccs. It's Valentina. Finally. I answer immediately. "What?"
"Good afternoon to you too."
"What do you have?"
Keys clack in the background. Several. She probably has six computers open. Maybe seven. "I have approximately three thousand pages of financial records."
My excitement dies instantly. "Fantastic."
"I also found eighteen shell companies."
"Wonderful."
"Four dead accountants."
"Less wonderful."
"And two properties linked to Luciana Vitali."
That gets my attention. I straighten. "Where?"
"Right here in Vegas. Both abandoned."
The way she uses the word abandoned makes me think there's more to it. "Fronts?"
"Most likely, I'll keep digging and send you the addresses, so you can send your goons and check them out."
There's no reason to tell her that I don't have goons working for me. The woman is incapable of regular human interaction. But with a computer? She speaks their languages fluently.
I glance toward the clubhouse, toward the woman currently shortening my lifespan, and reply to Valentina, "Keep digging."
"I am digging." More clacking of keys follows. "By the way."
I sigh. Whenever Val starts a sentence like that, trouble follows. "What?"
"I checked out Charly Angel."
I freeze. The old man behind the desk notices. His eyes immediately light up. Probably hoping I'm about to arrest someone. Unfortunately for him, I'm busy. "And?"
Valentina hums. "Retired detective."
I already know that.
"Thirty years with Boise PD."
Also known.
"No disciplinary issues."
Good.
"No gambling."
Better.
"No drugs."
Expected.
"No criminal record."
Normal.
I drum my fingers against the windowsill. "Val."
"I'm getting there."
I hate when she does this. "I looked into his finances."
That surprises me. "And?"
Another pause. "He's spending his own money."
I frown. "What?"
"Travel."
More typing.
"Hotels."
Typing.
"Investigators."
Typing.
"Database access."
Typing.
"Vehicle rentals."
I stare across the street. "How much?"
Valentina whistles. "Enough that most people would've quit a long time ago."
That catches my attention. I figured he’d just been stringing her along, making inquiries here and there, and now I find out he’d been running a focused, four-year investigation—it doesn’t add up.
Beccs doesn't have money. Not real money.
Not enough to reimburse those kinds of expenses. Charly has to know that, so… Why?
"Maybe he likes her," Valentina supplies in a rare moment of social awareness.
I blink. "Did you just make an observation about human emotions?"
"I read books."
"Voluntarily?"
"Go fuck yourself, Alessio."
I chuckle.
She continues, "He's clean, Alessio." The teasing disappears. "Everything I've found says he's exactly what he appears to be."
That surprises me. Because people usually aren't. Not in my world. Not in hers. Not anywhere. A retired detective spending his own money helping a girl search for her missing sister. No angle. No scam. No hidden agenda. Just helping. I don't know what to do with that.
"Keep looking anyway."
Valentina sighs dramatically. "Of course."
The line disconnects. On the other side of the street, the bar door opens.
Beccs steps outside carrying a crate of empty bottles.
The afternoon sun catches the blonde highlights in her otherwise dark hair, framing her face.
For a second, everything else fades away.
The Reapers. The trafficking. My mother. The Collector. All of it.
She looks straight at my window. Smiles. And very subtly raises her middle finger. I grin despite myself. My phone buzzes. Speak of the devil. I glance down. And immediately narrow my eyes. Grease Monkey, the name I put in as her contact, is gone. In its place: Definitely Not Your Girlfriend
I stare at the screen. Then at the bar. Then back at the screen. The little menace hacked my phone. Again. The halo emoji is what really pisses me off.
Definitely Not Your Girlfriend :
Just doing my ten-minute check-in. No murders. No kidnappings. No brawls. One guy grabbed my ass. I stabbed him.
Sidetracked from her obvious hacking skills, I stare at the text and immediately type back.
Me:
What?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
Definitely Not Your Girlfriend :
Relax. I stabbed him with sarcasm.
Me:
Shame. And who was it? I'll run him over with the Shelby later.
Definitely Not Your Girlfriend :
Don't you dare. Not the Shelby
Me:
Fine! I'll find another way.
Definitely Not Your Girlfriend :
I miss you too.
A smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it. Dangerous woman. The kind who sneaks past defenses before you realize they're there.
Me:
How's the bar?
Definitely Not Your Girlfriend :
Boring. Nobody has threatened my life in twenty-three minutes. I'm starting to feel unwanted.
I shake my head.
Then another message arrives.
Definitely Not Your Girlfriend :
By the way. Razor is getting impatient.
There it is. The reason for the check-in.
Me:
What's he saying?
Definitely Not Your Girlfriend :
That his precious shipment should've arrived by now.
My expression darkens. Of course it should have. Because technically I'm supposed to be running a pickup for him. Technically. In reality? I'm not driving halfway across Nevada to collect drugs for a washed-up biker asshole.
I have standards. Low standards. But standards.
Instead, I sent one of my soldiers. The same shipment arrives.
The same result. The only difference is I'm not the one wasting six hours of my life doing it.
Unfortunately, my guy should've been back by now.
Which means either something went wrong, or Razor is becoming suspicious. Neither option appeals to me.
Me:
What exactly did he say?
Definitely Not Your Girlfriend :
Tell that loser boyfriend of yours if he don't show up soon, I’m sending somebody else.
Me:
Just stay away from him. I'll handle it.
Definitely Not Your Girlfriend :
Bossy.
Me:
I'm literally your boss.
Definitely Not Your Girlfriend :
No, you're not.
A grin runs over my face. I'm starting to like this.
Me:
Keep talking like that, and I'm confiscating another pair of panties.
The response is immediate.
Definitely Not Your Girlfriend :
They're freely given, not taken.
My grin widens.
Me:
Try me.
No response. Just a photograph. I open it. Then immediately regret every decision I've ever made. Because it's clearly taken inside the bar bathroom. And all it shows is a glimpse of smooth thigh. Black skirt. Bare skin. And absolutely no sign of underwear. Jesus Christ.
My blood pressure spikes. My self-control evaporates. The little menace knows exactly what she's doing. A second message follows.
Definitely Not Your Girlfriend :
For morale.
Choosing to ignore her for now, I change her name back to Grease Monkey. My phone rings, Valentina, again.
"How do I deserve the honor of talking to you twice in an hour?"
"Your guy? The one you sent for Razor's shipment?"
Every muscle in my body tightens. "What about him?"
Valentina's voice is dark. "He never made it to the pickup."
And suddenly the day becomes a whole lot more interesting.