I do a double take. I cannot help myself. “I’ve heard of this website.” He ducks his head, his cheeks staining red like wine spreading through water, and mumbles something. “What did you say, little mouse? Squeak up.”
He stops gnawing on his lip long enough to say, “I said, you’re very popular among the members.”
I study him for a long moment. He is too-obvious bait, designed to appeal to my basest need. Thin and pretty, yellow-haired and young, he is a perfect replica of my usual paid choices.
I try not to hire any one of them a second time. They can fake sexual desire for me well enough once, but I know how they must talk about me afterwards, how they must whisper and shudder about my face. If I were them, I would dread my return. And so my one kindness is to never return twice to the same man.
But in doing so, I’ve announced my taste to the world.
Is this the next attempt by the FBI to break into our ranks?
“I will ask you once more, and only once more,” I say, letting my voice tremble with anger. “For whom do you work?”
Teddy grips the arms of the chair so hard that his knuckles turn white. “Itoldyou,” he says, louder now than he has been this whole time, “I run a website. And like I said back at the warehouse, I can help you—if you’ll let me, Alessandro.” He drops his head again as soon as he finishes speaking, as though astonished by his own bravery.
I must admit, I am a little surprised myself that he had it in him.
A movement at the doorway catches both our attention. Jeeves—no, Wilson, I must remember to be more respectful now that the poor old man works for me. “Good evening, sir,” he says, giving a little bow of the head. “I was told you had company. Might I be of any assistance?”
My eyes, inevitably, turn back to Teddy, wondering if he might try to ask for help that Wilson simply cannot give. But the little mouse stays silent, staring back at me resolutely.
“No,” I say, only adding, “Thank you, Wilson,” as an afterthought. My mother excoriated me for being so rude to the staff last time I was in Italy.Is this how the head of a Family speaks?she demanded.Show gratitude to those who serve you, Alessandro. They prepare your food, after all.
She made a wise point. I’m not sure if I can make up for all those years of mockery with Wilson, but I suppose I can at least try. For now, he gives another bow of the head, and leaves us.
I reach into my inner pocket, pulling out the phone I took from Teddy’s hand. “What is your password?” I have already removed the SIM card, but it doesn’t really matter if the phone is traced here. No one gets into Redwood Manor without permission—not even law enforcement.
Teddy’s pale face turns pink. “Please don’t look at my phone. It’s private.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Had I known…” I raise one eyebrow. “Your password. Now.”
“Sandro,” he whispers.
“Don’t try my patience. One way or another, I will see what is on this phone.”
He squirms in the chair, embarrassment flooding his cheeks again. “That’s—that’s my password. It’s ‘Sandro.’ 7-2-6-3-7-6.”
My temper rises again. He dares to mock me, after I’ve shown such mercy? I take a handful of his hair, tipping his head back, and lean down over him so that my ruined face is all that he can see. “If I put my own name in, and this phone doesn’t open, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”
Instead of shrinking from me, he glares right back at me. “The phone will open,” he spits out. “If you don’t believe me,try it.”
I’m only half surprised when the phone clicks open for me. All it suggests is another layer of attention paid to baiting the trap. Appealing to my ego, flattering me… These are obvious ploys. And, as I look through his phone, I think at first that I’m right. His messages, his emails, his browser history—all filled with Family names, names of men I know, names of men I have killed myself, names that only someone in law enforcement would be likely to know.
But as I read on, look deeper, the context for all these mentions seems…strange. Unless these communications are coded, on the face of them, they do all seem to match his story, that he runs theCute Crimswebsite, that he has an obsession with the underworld, that he has a particular interest in…
Me.
I look over at him again. He’s pale again, ghostly white, still holding on hard to the arms of the chair. “Topolino,” I say softly, “Don’t hope for some miraculous rescue. Even if this phone of yours sends some alert to your friends in law enforcement, you will not leave this house until I say so.”
“I’m notfriendswith LE,” he says, and in another man, I might even consider it a snarl.
“As long as we understand each other.” I go into his camera, and immediately find a video of myself, back at the warehouse, meeting with Wittemeyer, and the gunfire that followed. The perspective of the camera goes crazy, then stabilizes on Wittemeyer’s corpse.
“Not a friend of LE?” I turn the video to show him. “Then why record this?”
“I can explain—”
“Oh, I’m sure you can.” I delete the video, then turn the phone off. I’m still not certain what I think of this Teddy. He’s equal parts terrified and brave.
