10. Demi #2
I make scrambled eggs with pepper and a heap of butter and eat them from the bowl sitting on the couch with my laptop open.
All I have so far is the voice I heard through the grate in the dressing room, and the car that picked up three men in suits outside the club.
The voice can wait. My subconscious needs to sit with it for a while and eventually it will attach it to a name and a face that I can pass onto the DI.
The car is something I can actively start tracking down.
I didn’t get a full number from the license plate, but I did get a couple of zeroes and what appeared to be a flag. I begin with the obvious after hearing nothing but Slavic accents since I took on this role and type Russian license plates into the search engine.
“Ha!” I allow myself a brief congratulatory pat on the back when the results resemble the plate I saw on the back of the black Mercedes.
No point trying to trace the registration details when I don’t even have a partial number, so instead, I call on the information I gleaned from Enzo when we were together and make a list of Russian bratva names.
Ivanov.
Petrov.
Safaryan.
Malevsky.
Next to the names, I make an additional list of clubs and casinos that are already on the NYPD’s database, using a VPN to log in. Even though my new employees don’t have my name or address, I’m following their example and taking no chances.
By the time I’ve finished narrowing the list down to the most lucrative and well-known bratva-owned businesses, I’ve drunk an entire pot of coffee, and the caffeine is buzzing around my veins.
I have eight hours until my shift at JADED, assuming I’m still employed by them, and there’s no time like the present.
But I’m not going as me. I’m not even going as Kate Glasgow. Because I was introduced to a whole bunch of wealthy businessmen, socialites, and celebrities when I was with Enzo, and these people make it their business to never forget a face in case it can be of use to them in the future.
I wear a black wig Enzo once bought me for a masquerade ball, and an ivory-colored vintage dress that makes me feel like I stepped straight out of a 1950s movie, demure round neckline, cinched at the waist with a black belt, the skirt flaring to my knees.
I add bold black flicks to my eyes and nude lip gloss and take a taxi to a casino resort deep in the heart of Manhattan.
Ignoring the butterflies flapping around in my chest, I smile at the doorman and concierge on my way through to the casino, but I don’t speak.
People remember voices. They remember accents and bad manners and drama, but genuine smiles often fade into oblivion, bogged down by the moments that stand out.
The bar is busy. Half the round polished tables are being used by men in immaculately pressed suits and women in outfits chosen specifically for their recognition factor.
I take a deep breath, remembering how exhausting Megan found it when she was first plunged into this world of being seen and being seen well-dressed.
I wander slowly through the casino, subtly trying to hide my limp while checking out the guests around the tables as if I’m looking for someone. Any time someone tries to catch my eye, I look away, making it less obvious that I’m here alone.
Unfortunately, there’s an abundance of black suits, thick necks, and buzzed hair, but no one I vaguely recognize from the club. I could walk straight back out and move onto the next resort, but I remember the old saying my mom always used when I was trying to keep up with my hare-brained brothers.
Softly softly catchee monkey.
I might get better results if I stay in one place and move onto somewhere else tomorrow.
So, I order a Diet Coke from the bar and find an empty table on the mezzanine level where I have an unobstructed view of the casino floor down below.
I watch men guiding women between tables with one hand on their lower backs.
Women climbing elegantly onto stools surrounding the roulette tables.
Servers carrying trays loaded with drinks on one hand above their shoulder, making it look a doddle, when I learned first-hand in the UK that it would be easier and less stressful to carry around a basket filled with writhing venomous snakes.
I drag my eyes away from a server who expertly swerves around a wide-chested gray-haired man in a silver suit who isn’t watching where he is going, and back to the bar, where two men are now seated with their backs to me.
Two men in black suits, one with a thick, tattooed neck and gold rings on his fingers, the other with a bit of a paunch from what I can see at this angle.
I rest my arms on the polished mezzanine rail and check out the rest of the floor, comparing it to the mental diagram I drew in my head when I first sat down. There don’t appear to be any other newcomers, and neither has anyone left.
Back to the men at the bar. They accept drinks from the bartender and make their way upstairs to the mezzanine.
I tug my hair around my face, and stare at a spot directly ahead while keeping them in my peripheral vision praying they won’t sit too close to me, and sigh with relief when they stop at the top of the stairs and slide into a private booth, which I guess is reserved for VIPs or the owner and his special guests.
I wait till they’re seated before I pull my phone out of my purse and raise it to my ear. “Where are you?” I keep my voice low, confidential, as I stand up and peer over the rail. “I’m upstairs waiting for you.” I turn around, my gaze skimming the private booth as I go.
My breath sticks in my throat, and I sit back down, heat rushing to my face.
The larger guy with the graying hair has his back to me, but the man sitting opposite him with a full view of the entire mezzanine is the bodyguard from JADED with the inked snake coiling around his throat.
I keep my eyes firmly fixed on the casino floor and wind a long loose strand of black hair around my index finger. There’s another staircase at the far end of the mezzanine, but when I stand up to leave, I’ll be in full view of snake-guy if he’s curious enough to look my way.
My pulse is racing when I raise my voice enough to carry to the tables closest to me and adopt an exaggerated Southern drawl. “On mah way, honey. Don’t you go anywhere, now.”
My eyes drift towards the booth as I keep my phone pressed to my ear.
Snake-guy is watching the casino floor and doesn’t appear to have noticed me.
His companion reveals his profile when he turns sideway to check out something of interest on the floor below, and I get the fleeting sensation that I know him from somewhere.
But I’m not about to introduce myself.
Snake-guy stuck his tongue down my throat the last time we met, and I’m not so vain to think I made a lasting impression, but he got beaten up for the privilege, and my guess is he won’t let that go so lightly.
I get up, clutching my phone in one hand and my purse in the other and take my time navigating the tables.
My heart is hammering when I reach the bottom of the staircase at the far end of the mezzanine; now all I need to do is cross the casino floor without drawing attention to myself.
Partly shielding my face with my cell phone, I weave my way around the areas where the largest groups are congregated, taking care to keep my face tilted away from the upper level.
I’m almost at the exit when I glance up and lock eyes with a woman I recognize instantly. I freeze. She holds my gaze for several long beats, her expression unreadable, before returning her attention to the man by her side.
He isn’t familiar, and for that I am grateful.
Megan introduced me to the woman the day she was preparing to leave town.
Her name is Bianca Sabatelli.