So Brooks is still in touch with them, then?What the fuck does she need?What’s she doing that she needs backup?What is she planning, and how dangerous is it?
And why the fuck didn’t she callme?
Brooks
The party, when I enter, smells like bourbon and blood, corruption and evil, and I want nothing more than to turn and run away.
I’m tired of the doublespeak and shadows of New Orleans.The men who say one thing and mean another and the women who can’t control their own destinies.The never-ending humidity and the feeling like I can’t fucking breathe.The double-dealing and girls being kept in cages.
I miss New York, where people say what they mean and just shoot you if they decide they don’t like you.I miss car chases and gun fights and a group of friends who have my back no matter what.
I miss the Rossis.And the Brennans.And the Lanes.
And I miss Lucien, though I don’t look at that too closely, for fear of what it might say about me.
Instead, I look around the small gathering my father is hosting in his private poker room at the house, and start cataloguing faces.He said he was going to have friends and clients here and that he wanted me to attend as his heir and protege, and though both of those labels made me want to stick my thumbs in his eyeballs and push, I’m getting a whole lot better at acting these days.
Hell, I bet no one here even knows I’m packing a butterfly knife and a Glock underneath the clingy dress I donned for the night.
In New York, I’d be wearing the Glock in a shoulder holster on top of the dress, just to make sure people knew I had it.Down here, in my new life as a sometimes-under-cover gangster, I’ve opted for a leg holster, with the gun nestled between my thighs, where it’s hidden from view.Not exactly the most convenient placement if I need to get to it quickly, but what can I say?
If nothing else, New Orleans is teaching me how to hide my weapons more carefully.So I guess I’m down here getting an education, after all.
I lean back against the wall of the room and take in the sights, trying to figure out how many of the men are familiar to me.My father is in the corner, holding court with men I assume are either important or close friends, and in the other corner, I see Samantha Duhon speaking intently to a man with a dark, wicked face.I watch him for a moment, then look down at his mouth as he speaks.He’s talking quickly, though his lips are barely moving, like his mouth doesn’t have to work hard to get around the words.
Either that or he’s used to people trying to read his lips.
I smirk at that and hone in on the actions of his mouth more closely, watching carefully to try to make out words I know.When we were kids, Sloane and I were often told to go play outside when the grownups were speaking, and it pissed us off so much that we decided to figure out how to spy on them when they did that.We went to Joseph Rossi, our older and somewhat more experienced friend, and asked him if he knew anything about lip reading.
He did.
And he taught us everything he knew.
Before long we were making a game of it, trying to see who could get more out of a conversation we weren’t close enough to listen to, and though Sloane was good, I was even better.I had more patience for it than she did, and was willing to wait longer for the patterns to make sense.
We were both, of course, better at it than Joseph.As far as he was concerned, if it didn’t include guns or cars, it wasn’t worthwhile.
This man is putting my skills to the test, though, and at first I think it’s because it’s so dark and gloomy in here.The low lighting makes it harder to see his lips, and it’s taking me longer than I’d like to catch on to what he’s seeing.
After five minutes of trying, though, I realize that it’s not the low lighting, and it’s definitely not me having lost practice at this skill.Because I’m making out patterns and repetitions just fine.I can see the words he’s saying, and am even noticing when he puts particular emphasis on a word.
The problem is, those words aren’t in English.
I watch his lips form around a set of letters that don’t make any sense to me, and frown.
He’s speaking harshly, gesturing at Samantha like she’s done something to really piss him off.
But he’s not speaking English, and unless I get a lot closer, I’m not going to be able to identify what language heisspeaking.This doesn’t necessarily mean anything–New Orleans has always had more foreigners than Americans in it–but my mind cuts quickly to what Lucien said on the balcony of my father’s house.Russians.Something about Russians.Duhon’s kid had said something to Luke about Russian involvement, was that it?
No matter how I tried, though, I couldn’t quite remember the details.
I’d been slightly distracted when he was telling me, and now that I’m thinking about it, I’m even angrier at Lucien for that.What the fuck was he thinking, coming around to pass me intel and then ruining it by sliding his hand between my legs and his lips over my neck, then starting to move against me in a way that had sent me over the edge so quickly the world became blur?
I take a quick breath at the memory, my back arching against the wall, and try to pull myself back together.
Whatever he’d said, it was definitely about Russians, and now that I’m looking at the man, Russian makes sense.He’s dark to the point of being swarthy, and his brows are heavy enough he must terrify children.Everything about him is dark, in fact, and he’s got a low, hulking way of standing that makes me think of large, heavy bears.His hands are enormous, his shoulders broad, and if I can just get close enough to hear him–
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Brooks Landry.”
