Chapter 3 #3
My family had walked a thin line for decades.
The only reason my name was not tied to criminal justice was because witnesses disappeared, money changed hands, and evidence had a strange habit of becoming inadmissible before it ever reached a courtroom.
My father had his methods, and a long list of contacts who owed him favors, especially in law enforcement.
The Ashfords had been funding the right charities, foundations, and departments since my grandfather’s time, and it never ceased to amaze me how thin the line was between justice and corruption.
How easily a file could be misplaced. How quietly a charge could die.
Some lines had to be crossed somewhere, but I had spent my life in the gray, shaping justice and using it when necessary.
As long as I dealt with other twisted men who willingly dipped their hands into the dark waters of our underground world, the police looked away.
But the moment the Vodianovs turned their violence toward civilians and innocent women, the rules changed.
Our world was made for mad souls—men like me, men who knew exactly what could happen to them.
Innocent people had no place in it. I would make sure of that.
“Is there something I should know, sir?”
“Only that I expect you to find out what those numbers open, and keep tracking every family member’s movements.
” I will focus on their business mergers and acquisitions until all my assets encircle theirs and they end up choking to death, penniless.
Brenton’s questioning gaze lands on me, studying me like a rare animal, wounded and still fighting the good war.
I can almost see the questions waiting on the edge of his tongue.
Why bother? What did they do that could provoke generations of wrath against a single family that commands the Russian mafia?
Only I am not an open book, and Brenton will have to dig through archives, swamps, sealed agreements, old police reports, and all the lies this city has dressed up as history if he wants the answers.
He will have to separate truth from legend, memory from fantasy, and blood from the values people pretend their families were built upon.
I know why I fight. I know why I am still standing.
Two generations ago, they aimed at the heart of my family.
When the time comes, I will aim at theirs.
“Of course, sir,” Brenton says. A red light glows on my desk phone, indicating Kathy’s line. I answer the old-fashioned way, receiver to my ear, jaw clenching to dissipate any visible eagerness.
“The young lady is here for you, sir,” Kathy says in one breath, then pauses. “She’s…um…”
“Send her in,” I order, sharp as a blade. I replace the receiver and turn to Brenton. “That will be all.”
“Sure, I’ll keep you updated.” We shake hands firmly, and I watch him leave. He opens the door, then pauses for a second, his gaze shifting toward his left.
Her.
A man like Brenton is as curious as a lion that has found an oasis where prey comes to drink.
There is only so much one can hide from people like him.
My hand closes into a fist. I move beside my desk, arms crossed, and ignore the quickening beat of the organ beneath my ribs.
I hear the low murmur of Kathy’s voice, “Go ahead.” Sounds multiply.
The elevator doors closing at the opposite end of the floor, the clipped steps of an employee crossing the sleek wood in heels, the distant typing of keyboards falling like rain beyond my walls.
It all stops as she appears. Her small silhouette in the doorway, just as I remember it, the shape of a young woman I would almost qualify as a girl if not for the wary exhaustion already living in her posture.
The apples of her cheeks betray her youth, soft and round in a way that does not belong in my office.
Dark black hair falls in loose waves around her petite frame, cascading over the shoulders and her waist over a light blue sweater.
Short collar, modest, round. She’s wearing a simple pair of dark blue jeans, with damaged hems, along with white lace sneakers that are impeccably clean.
Her small hands fidget in front of her before one rises to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
In the morning light, I can fully appreciate the shape of her eyes, the obvious trace of Asian heritage in their delicate cut, the soft color of her skin, pale but betrayed by the blush blooming across her cheeks the second she steps into my office.
I expect a greeting. Any word remotely civil from a well-raised young woman.
All I get is a nod, followed by her lower lip being caught between her teeth.
She stops one meter past the door, as if the mere force of my presence has petrified her in place.
“Close the door,” I order. My tone is hard and cold, and the room loses air all at once. She obeys without a feather of argument. Blood boils under my suit. Why is it so hot in here? The door clicks shut behind her.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come.” My voice shakes something in her.
Her gaze drops immediately to the floor, and I have the distinct impression that if she could dig a hole and hide inside it, she would.
“How is your hand?” She opens her palm, revealing a clean white bandage wrapped neatly around the cut.
“You left before I could help you.” Why isn’t she responding?
She looks down, as if I am somehow capable of scolding her without raising my voice, as if the weight of my attention alone has the authority to press shame into her shoulders.
My tongue twists against the roof of my mouth, and I clear my throat, waiting for the sound of her voice.
“What is your name?” I ask, harder than necessary.
Ever so lovely, she lifts her face, and instead of answering, her hand moves through the air in a small writing motion.
My lungs constrict. For one suspended second, I realize I have been behaving like an even greater asshole than usual to a mute woman.
Instinct kicks in before embarrassment can settle properly, and I repeat the question with my hands.
Palm lifting in a small question before I point to her, then form both hands with index and middle fingers extended together, tapping them lightly against each other. “What’s your name?” Her full lips part.
Of course I can sign, princess.
Nate’s daughter, Maddie, was born mute, which meant I had to come up to speed with ASL quickly, especially after Elise died and the world my brother had built around his daughter nearly collapsed under the weight of grief.
It was out of the question for my niece to grow up surrounded by people who loved her but could not understand her.
Nate and I sign exclusively when we are with her, so she never feels left out of the conversation.
His housekeeper signs. Her care team signs.
Her teachers sign since we’re lucky enough to have a small deaf school in the area.
She receives the highest level of support available because she is not a problem to be solved.
Just a kid who deserves all the care and attention any other kids should have.
I may not sign every day, but I see Maddie at least once a week at Nate’s Sunday roast, and that little girl would skin me alive with disappointment if I dared forget how to speak to her with my hands.
“E-L-L-A,” the brunette signs, separating each letter with precise, trembling fingers.
Ella.
Her fingers keep moving for half a second, then stop, as if she wanted to ask how I knew ASL but thought better of it.
“Can you hear me?” I sign.
She answers, making a double spin in front of her chin. Yes, she does.
“Nice to meet you, Ella,” I say aloud, relishing the way my voice seems to collide with her skin like a ripple.
Her blush deepens. “I will give you your bag,” I say, “if you tell me what you were doing in my office yesterday.” We remain locked in a silent standoff, her small frame near the door, my body beside the desk, the morning light lying between us like a blade.
I may not know her, but she already feels like the erosion of my control given flesh.
“I am a cleaner, sir,” she signs quickly, then keeps going at a pace I cannot follow. Damn, she is fast. I swallow my pride and, for some reason, decide my ego is not as important as understanding her.
“Could you sign that again, please? I didn’t catch it all.
” A shadow of a satisfied smile tugs at her lips.
Interesting. Could there be a hint of mischief beneath that facade of innocence?
And how would such a combination react in the hands of a man like me?
Dangerous thoughts plague my mind, but I shove them away and focus on her hands as she repeats herself.
“I was assigned to this floor yesterday. Please accept my apologies for the frame, and add the cost to be deducted from my wages. I am sorry for the disturbance. It was not my intention to break anything,” she signs slowly again.
Her honesty is strangely refreshing. For one absurd second, I have the urge to take her into my arms and tell her I could not care less about a frame, but I hold back, waiting for her true intentions to be revealed.
“Why were you looking at the photo?” I sign.
She’s a stranger after all. And a stranger cannot be trusted.
Especially not pretty ones who pretend to be maids and could be working for my enemies.
The Vodianovs are capable of anything, and there is no doubt in my mind that a sweet little brunette wrapped in innocent perfume could be sent here to find an Achilles’ heel.