He nods thoughtfully. The information narrows our search down, but not by much.
“You think it’s worth tracking this Ivan fucker down and beating the details out of him?” Raoul muses. I’m pretty sure he knows it’s as unlikely as I do, but I scoff anyway.
“Fat chance of that. And we’ll just end up letting Mark know we’re onto him.” I exhale in frustration. We grow silent again for a while, both lost in thought as we put the pieces together. Men like Whitlock don’t get to where they are without being smart about shit like this. Raoul drums his fingers on the armrest, then empties the contents of his glass.
“I think I know where it is,” he says abruptly.
“You’re kidding, right?” How the hell could he have figured it out so damn fast?
“Fucking Whitlock is his own worst enemy sometimes.” He gives a dark chuckle. It’s creepy. “A while back, my property broker called me about a high-end new development overlooking the East River. Penthouse suite on the 48thfloor. Right across the road from a heliport that took regular trips to the Hamptons.”
I stare at him for a moment. Partially because this actually makes sense, but also because… What the fuck? The kid’s investing in property?
“Thing is, before I could seal the deal, someone came in and bought it out from under me. Never found out who, just that they offered ten percent over my price.” He does that creepy fucking chuckling thing again. “Now, who do you suppose might want to show me the finger like that?”
“Whitlock.” I give a sharp laugh. “Raoul, you’re smarter than you look.”
“Then I must be fucking Einstein.” He grins. “Because not only am I pretty, I give brains sex appeal.”
I scoff as I get to my feet, but before I head for the door, I reach for his shoulder.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” I say. I know that his business dealings will benefit from what we’re doing, but he hasn’t had to get so invested.
“Dude, it’s nothing.” He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Just remember, you don’t have to solve every crime in this city on your own. We’re in this together. Now, let’s get this show on the road.”
Chapter 8
Andy Carter
Isit in the middle of my bed, ignoring how the mattress sags beneath me. All I can focus on is the weight of the cold metal I’m hefting in my hand. The 9mm Glock felt alien in my grip when I first got here, but I’ve spent hours with it now. Sometimes it feels like it’s my only company as I sit here, taking it apart, reassembling it. Loading and unloading the magazine with hollow points until it feels like second nature.
I found a gun range twenty minutes away, that I visit daily. Getting in practice. A couple of crisp hundreds convinced the guy at the entrance not to look too closely at my dodgy ID when I’ve checked in. I’m no sharpshooter, but I’ve grown increasingly proficient. Confident I can handle myself.
I raise the weapon now and grasp the butt, sighting down the barrel at a spot on the wall. I’ve used a heavy black marker to trace an outline of a man there, X’s marking spots on his head, chest, and groin. I figure I’ll need some good target areas to focus on and those seem most appropriate.
Mark fucking Whitlock. The nerve he had to fuck me after he murdered Kyle all those years ago. Then make a deal with my father to marry me? And now, to crown it all, he still hasn’t confirmed a time that he’ll be available to meet with me. I practically threw myself at him and he’s making me wait. Playing a twisted game of chess that’s designed to keep me on the back foot. Just as manipulative as he always was.
“Motherfucker,” I say under my breath, lowering the muzzle of the weapon, flicking the safety, and unloading the magazine. I caress the cool metal, now made warmer by my own body heat. It’s the weapon Mateo gave me before I left. At least something good came out of that whole fucked-up situation. As the days have passed, I’ve gone from missing him to clinging to the rage that had me storming away in the first place.
Mateo betrayed me. Me and the memory of my brother, who died because he didn’t want me to fall prey to a psychopath. And he expected me to believe that Kyle was mixed up in all that shit.
“Another motherfucker,” I mutter, tucking the weapon and mag beneath my pillow. Probably not good gun safety practice, but I don’t give a shit. I’m all about breaking rules right now. What’s another to add to the pile?
Mateo Ricci’s a liar. How dare he lie to me?
“I fucking hate him!” I soak as much venom into the words as I can as I rise and get an unopened bottle of vodka from the cabinet over the kitchen counter. Okay, maybe the Glock hasn’t been my only companion in this place. I also have my old buddy Stolichnaya. I reach for my chipped mug, up-end it to toss out a dead roach, then slosh in a healthy shot of booze.
“Screw it. Alcohol sanitizes anyhow.” I eye the insect carcass on the floor where it’s landed, then take a mouthful. I need to bolster myself for my next daily ritual. Going through the box of memories that Kyle and I used to share.
I head to my seat at the coffee table and set the box on the surface, then flip the lid open. The sight of its contents always brings a lump to my throat. Even more so since I’ve added more to what’s in there. The engagement ring Mateo gave me is pressed into a corner. I have to flex my fingers into fists several times to stop myself from reaching for it.
“Stop it, Andy. Goddammit!” I should have thrown that fucking thing away. I dash away an unbidden tear and delve angrily into the box, extracting Kyle’s journal. Another tear spills and I brush it with the back of my hand before grabbing my coffee mug and taking a gulp. The burn reminds me why I’m here. Why I have to do this on my own. Mateo made me weak. His kisses. His touch. The way he held me… I shake my head. I’m never going to cry for another man again. Never!
No, Mateo has no place in my world. Him, or anyone else who makes me believe I can trust again. I learned that as a girl, and I should have remembered the lesson. He was never planning to help me with what I need to do. I was simply a handy diversion while he put his own agenda into play. Right now, I need to focus.
I flip open the battered cover of Kyle’s journal, leafing through the pages. I’ve read it a dozen times by now. The words have grown familiar to me. And still, so much of it makes no sense. Particularly since so much of it is missing.
“Who did this, Kyle?” I murmur to my long-gone brother an hour later as I run a fingertip over the section where pages have been ripped out. The vodka’s given me a comfortable buzz; when I pour another shot, I realize half the bottle is finished. Crap. I’ll probably need to replenish my stock soon.
