“For drinkin’? Yeah. There’s a bottle of Bushmills in the cabinet for mixin’. I don’t partake often. When I do I want to enjoy it.” The sweet, spicy drink warms me from the inside out, and after a healthy swallow, I move to the tea. Zephyr brews a good cup, I’ll give her that. “Where are you from? You don’t have an accent. Not one I recognize.”
With a shiver, she cups the tea in both hands, and I stop her before she can answer. “Wait here.” My shoulder aches reaching into the hall closet for a thick wool blanket, but the gratitude in her eyes when I return and drape the heavy, handmade throw over both of our legs is worth it. “Zephyr, you need to tell me if you’re cold. Or tired. Or anythin’. You’re not alone anymore.”
“Do you know how long it’s been since I trusted anyone?” she asks. Gone is her biting wit, the sarcastic edge to her voice. Gone too are the walls she’s had up since we first laid eyes on one another. “A hell of a lot longer than four years.”
“Tell me.”
Zephyr lifts the mug to her nose and inhales deeply. “I’ve always loved the scent of a proper cup of tea.”
“My mum insisted tea could fix anythin’.”
“Not this.” After another sip, she sets the mug on the table and huddles deeper under the blanket. “How much do you know about the Strauss Cartel?”
“Nothin’. There was a note in your file that they were the ones to first recruit you, but that’s it.”
Zephyr pulls her bare feet up so she can wrap her arms around her knees. “I was fourteen. Living on the streets in Italy with my little brother, Oliver. I don’t remember my mama, but Papa had left us two years before. He was sick a lot, but—” she sniffles and presses the back of her hand to her nose for a brief moment, “—one day, he didn’t come back to the shelter we were staying in.”
“Shit, Zephyr. I’m sorry.” I reach for her shoulder, but she shrinks back.
“Don’t. We werefine. I kept Oliver safe. But one day, I picked the wrong pocket, and a man named Alex Strauss caught me. But instead of turning me in, he bought me hot chocolate.” She smiles, like she can still taste it. “Every day for two weeks, he bought me a hot chocolate from this little espresso stand in the piazza. I didn’t understand he was grooming me.”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Grooming her for what?
I want to ask. Ihaveto ask. But how? Thank fuck Zephyr clears her throat and continues.
“He’d seen me steal from half a dozen other people that first day, and eventually, he told me he could use my skills. He had this little ‘family.’ They were good people. They stole. But only from the rich, and only when they had to. Or when they heard about someone else in need.”
“Like fuckin’ Robin Hood?” Disbelief roughens my voice, and I stare down at this intelligent, beautiful woman, wondering how she could have believed a line like that. Until it hits me.Shedidn’t. A fourteen-year-old girl with a younger brother to take care of did.
Sitting up straighter, she narrows her eyes at me. “Yes. Like fucking Robin Hood. He wasn’t lying, either. Not…exactly. For the first time in years, Oliver and I had a roof over our heads. Hot meals. People looking out for us. Alex taught us how to fight, how to pick locks, how to blend in. But he also insisted we read the newspaper, learn history, math, science…” Zephyr sighs, a hint of longing in her green eyes. “He was like a father to us. To all of us. The others weren’t much older than I was.”
“How long did you stay?” By the affection in her voice, she cared for this man, and I’m even more baffled that he turned on her in such an extreme way.
“Too long.” At my raised brows, she continues. “Fifteen years. I’d still be there if Alex’s brother, François, hadn’t shown up one day and changed everything.” Zephyr’s stomach rumbles, and her cheeks flush bright red.
Shit. She told you she’d barely eaten. Are you completely incompetent?
“Let me make ya somethin’ to eat. I have eggs, frozen waffles, cereal, peanut butter and jelly for sandwiches, and homemade soda bread.” I’m in the kitchen before I finish talking, ready to make her anything she wants.
“You…bake?” Her brows shoot up, and she snags her mug and joins me.
“Somethin’ wrong with that? I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”
The laugh brightens her expression in a way I hadn’t expected, easing the exhaustion around her eyes and revealing a smile dangerous enough I could easily lose myself to it.
“What makes you think you’re ‘pretty’?” she asks.
“Well, my mum always said I was too pretty for football. Of course, I ignored her and played anyway. Not that I was any good at it. Dislocated my knee in the fourth match, and never stepped on the pitch again.”
Cutting two generous slices of bread, I offer Zephyr a plate, then set the kettle to boil.
She studies me—the Waterford FC t-shirt, the tattoo peeking out of my right sleeve, the scars on my forearm from an enemy’s blade years ago. “You asked where I was from.” Long, almost delicate fingers break off a piece of the soda bread, and her lips curve into a sad smile. “Truth is, I don’t know. Can’t remember my last name. Papa moved us from shelter to shelter for years. He couldn’t hold down a job for more than a few months, and we survived on what little he could save until he got fired again. We lived in France, Germany, Spain, Portugal, and Italy. I speak eight languages, and after we joined the Strauss family, Alex made sure we could pass for many different nationalities.” Zephyr huffs out a laugh. “I loved Paris the most,” she says, her accent so perfect, she could fool the French president himself.
Alarm bells go off in my head every time she talks about what Alex wanted his “family” to do, and she hasn’t even begun to tell me the worst of it. I’d pour us both more whiskey in addition to the tea, but I have a feeling I’m going to want all of my faculties until we can clear her name and take these gobshites down.
* * *
Zephyr
