Leo Slater’s blood.
Her plan had always been to milk him dry through a series of increasingly humiliating, unsolved heists. She already had a dozen wins under her belt, never mind last night’s blunder. And now she had her eye on an even bigger prize—a combined jackpot that had been accumulating for months at Moda.
Naomi wanted to walk off with it all. She wanted Slater to be made a fool in front of his investors and high-roller clientele for his lack of security. Eventually, she wanted to destroy him.
Then, someday, once he was reduced to squalor and shame, all of his power stripped from him because of her, she wanted to confront him face-to-face and tell him it was she who took away everything he had—just as he had done to her.
Only then, after he knew what she’d done, she wanted to be the one to drive a knife into his heart.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” she insisted to Michael. “I know what I’m doing. And Iamcareful.”
“No, sweetheart. You’re not.” He shook his head soberly. “Not anymore, you aren’t. This vendetta you have against him is making you reckless. You need to quit, Nay. I mean now.”
“I can’t do that, Michael. Not until I make this last score.”
He was about to protest further, but the sound of shuffling feet on the linoleum in the hallway put an abrupt halt to their conversation. Twin boys, dark-haired and mocha-skinned, with lean bodies and rounded cherub faces that said they were barely into their teens, stepped cautiously into the kitchen. Naomi had never seen them before, and she saw their uncertainty when they caught sight of her too.
“Hi,” she said, offering a friendly smile.
Michael pivoted his wheelchair to face them. “Hey there, guys. Sleep okay?”
His irritation with her faded instantly now that the kids were in the room. The boys offered wary nods, but kept glancing at Naomi. The slightly taller one laid a protective arm around his brother. His sharp, dark eyes took in her appearance, lingering on the bruises shadowing her face and chin.
“Who’s she?”
They didn’t ask about her injuries. Most of the street kids had wounds and scars of their own, and there seemed to be an unwritten code that prohibited uncomfortable questions.
“I’m Naomi,” she said. “I hope we weren’t talking too loud out here and woke you?”
The kids gave vague shakes of their heads.
Michael touched her shoulder and smiled at the twins. “Naomi lives here too. She’s like a sister to me. Sometimes that means we argue like siblings.” That got a smile out of the shorter of the two boys. Michael glanced up at her. “Nay, this is Max and Billy. I’m hoping they’re going to stick around for some breakfast?” He raised a questioning brow toward Max, the taller one, who was clearly the boss.
The boy’s slight weight shifted from foot to foot as his brother glanced at him hopefully. “Yeah,” Max murmured. “I guess we could eat. Do you think we could take showers too? It’s been a few days and . . .”
He trailed off, looking down at his threadbare kicks, shame rolling off him in waves. Naomi wanted nothing more than to drag him into her arms and tell him he mattered. To promise him it wouldn’t always be this way. But she’d stood in those same tattered shoes and shaky trust enough times to know that nothing would send him running faster than a hug or a well-meaning lecture.
She folded her hands in front of her and gave the kids a warm, casual smile.
“You can use the shower in the master bathroom,” she told them. “End of the hall. Towels are in the linen closet, second door down on your right. Help yourselves, then when you’re done, be sure to squeegee the tile and hang your wet towels up to dry on the hook behind the door, all right?”
Strange as it seemed, while most middle-class teens rebelled against house rules and parental guidance, the kids that came through their makeshift shelter seemed to appreciate being given a few responsibilities. Maybe feeling that they were contributing something took away a bit of the embarrassment of needing—and accepting—someone’s help. It also reminded them, albeit subtly, about the importance of showing respect and having self-discipline.
They didn’t have a whole lot of rules here. Kids came and went of their own free will. And the promise not to pry or contact police, parents, or social services, kept more of them coming back—even, in some cases, staying until they were able to get on their feet.
In return, she and Michael had a strict “no violence, no drugs” rule, and each child was expected to clean up after themselves. They took anywhere from six to ten kids on a given day, which meant some nights there was a kid conked out on the sofa as well. If they had more space, they could not only provide longer term accommodations but also increase the number of kids they could help.
Which brought her thoughts right back to the huge jackpot ripe for the picking at Moda. One-point-three-million dollars and some change would not only mean land and a proper shelter for the kids, but would ensure the operation stayed viable for years to come. And besides, there was a lot of poetic justice in the notion of using Leo Slater’s money to fund a charity for orphaned and neglected children.
She watched Max and Billy leave the kitchen to make their way back down the hall in search of towels.
“Kills me every time,” she murmured softly to Michael, her heart aching in a way that she couldn’t describe to anyone who’d never felt it. “Did they tell you anything?”
He shook his head and raked a hand through his short hair. “Nope. I’m guessing it’s Dad who’s the problem. Billy has a set fingerprints on his upper arm that he kept trying to hide by pulling down his sleeves. Big hand, wrapped all the way around and then some. And when I answered the door, they both looked relieved I was in a wheelchair. Probably figured they could outrun me if they had to.”
The saddest part of it all wasn’t that they’d likely felt that way. It was the fact that their survival depended on them holding that fear close to their hearts and never forgetting it. Often, it was the people offering help who were the ones with the potential to hurt them even more than the people they were running from.
That was the reality of living in the streets. Two young, fresh boys with pretty faces could make an industrious flesh peddler a lot of money. Once they were hooked on drugs, their lives were over and they’d be begging to stay.
