I ignore him, slipping into the driver’s seat and starting the engine in one fluid motion. The tires squeal as I peel out of the lot while the others stare after me.
My fingers tighten on the steering wheel until my knuckles blanch. I assumed the loft was secure. That Aurora was contained. Clearly, I underestimated her intelligence and determination. Her will to survive.
The realization summons a grudging respect, even as anger claws at my chest. She escaped. Somehow, she found a way past my security.
I crack my neck. Whether I’m impressed or not, she won’t be happy when I find her.
Chapter 13
Aurora
My bare feet slap against the sidewalk, each impact sending jolts of pain up my legs. The ridiculous maid costume clings to my sweaty skin as I push through the morning crowd, ignoring the gawking. Even though I’m countless blocks away from Alexei’s warehouse-loft-prison, I can still feel his eyes on me.
Still taste fear at the back of my throat. My fingers clench around the heels I haven’t bothered to put on. Makeshift weapons, if I need them.
Ten stories down a rusty fire escape, a terrifying dash across an open lot, and now I’m just another frantic woman in a bustling city.
Except I’m not. I witnessed a murder. Spent the night with the killer. Know things that could get my sister and me killed.
I need to think. Need to breathe. Need to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.
My mind races through the last fifteen or so hours. The gunshot in the alley. The warm spray of Benny’s blood across my face. His eyes going vacant. Alexei’s hand on my throat, and his breath against my ear. The men who showed up. The casual way they discussed disposing of a body. A cold shudder ripples through me.
A businessman gives me a wide berth, his eyes sweeping over my stained costume, my wild hair, and my bare feet.
Just another Chicago crazy. Nothing to see here.
I need to get home, change into clean clothes, and call Samantha to confirm she’s okay.
But first, I have to figure out what I know that might get me killed.
The facts tumble through my head. Alexei killed Benny while investigating the death of a person named MJ. Alexei belongs to some kind of criminal organization. Russian, based on the accents, the names, and the occasional foreign phrases.
I duck into a coffee shop, desperate to get off the street, to blend in, to think. The air-conditioning hits my sweat-dampened skin like a slap. The barista glances up, her smile faltering as she absorbs my appearance.
The image of Benny’s face flashes through my mind. Benny, who I always dismissed as just another Red Bird loser trying too hard to impress girls with his prison stories. Benny, who’s lifeless body we left in an alley.
Benny, who I know more about than I told Alexei.
As the line moves forward, I search my pockets and realize my tips from last night are missing. Great. I have no money. No phone. No ID. Just this stupid costume and a pair of heels. I step out of the queue, ignoring the barista’s suspicious glare, and find a table in the back corner, as far from the windows as possible.
I sift through everything I’ve learned about Benny over the last few months.
For starters, I knew exactly who Benny was meeting at Red Bird’s last night. Johnny, his half-brother. They meet at the bar once a week, huddled in the corner booth, with their heads bent close together. Sometimes they argue. Sometimes they’refriendly. Either way, there’s always a tension between them I try to steer clear of.
I don’t even know why I lied to Alexei about that. Some instinct to protect the living, maybe. Johnny seems like a decent guy. He doesn’t deserve to end up like his brother.
What else did I hold back? The memory swims up, clear and terrible.
A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the air-conditioning.
Benny was at Gio Falcone’s mansion.
Salvatore Giovanni Harrison Falcone. The rich, handsome, and dangerous man hosts elaborate parties at his estate, where the lines between the elite and the underworld of Chicago blur into a single glittering facade. Red Bird’s occasionally sends girls out there to serve drinks, and I’ve worked more than one of those events.
The last time was three months ago.
A party celebrating…some business deal or political win. Who knows? The rich and powerful love to flaunt themselves. Wearing a black cocktail dress, I carried trays of champagne through rooms where a single painting cost more than my yearly rent.
