Author: Faye Pierce

Chapter One

Sara

For once, nothing on my computer could distract me.

Not when right now, my best friend in the entire world, Lia Goldin, was breaking into a cop’s house across the city, fueled by the desperate that her crime could pay for her father’s debt to the Sons of Celt. The Sons were a criminal enterprise that were surprisingly wide-ranging in their pursuits—dabbling in everything from petty theft to white collar crime to enacting medieval-ass blood debts on innocent girls. How Lou Goldin had gotten into bed with them was beyond me, but the man excelled at outdoing his own stupidity. Somehow, he’d managed to convince them to give him an enormous amount of money, and then bailed. The Sons didn’t appreciate that.

Either way, now Lia had to pay—either in cash with interest, or with her life.

I swallowed hard as I pictured her, golden hair tied back, the hood of her heavy sweatshirt up, and the hazel of her eyes stern with focus. Her lithe form, too thin from not eating enough, stealing across a dimly lit street, darting around a small white house, and sneaking into a backyard.

Following her best friend’s instructions to cut the power and break in.

All while, me, her best friend, waited for her call to help her with phase two—breaking into the cop’s laptop in hopes of finding some incriminating evidence that would pay her enough to get her out of trouble with the Sons, who’d demanded a motherless art student pay back Lou Goldin’s stupidly large debt to them.

A mix of adrenaline and tedium kept me pinned to my seat, raging against the circumstances, my heart roaring at how unfair it all was. It shouldn’t be this way, the person I loved best being forced to walk the edge of a shadowed world because of circumstance and suicide.

I knew how unfair the world was. I knew that no matter how smart you were, no matter how well you prepared, the world would break you into pieces the first chance it got.

No, all I could do was sit and stare out my window, watching night fall too fast now that it was almost winter. The cold glitter of Boston filled the skyline, bright, sharp, and distant. My computer monitor, reflected in the thick glass, glowed blank and slightly blue. I could just make out my features, the slight pinch between my eyebrows, the tight press of my lips and the nervous drum of my fingers on the arm of my chair.

My other arm was clamped around knees as I burrowed back further into the chair, layered in sweatshirts and a winter hat, not so much out of cold, but to try and keep the worry from gnawing straight through my skin to my terrified, frantic, and furious heart.

Lia is out there. Alone.

Always alone.

It shouldn’t be this way.

For as long as I could remember, her father had barely been in the picture, which made Lou’s current dumbassery even more infuriating. Usually, when I thought of Lia, it was always her and her mother against the world. Until, last year, when out of nowhere, Marina “Fierce” Fioreno, badass Boston Lady Detective extraordinaire had committed suicide, and Lia’s entire world fell apart. School, money, and now this shit.

God, I hate Lou Goldin.

My fingers seized on the chair, and I was tempted to get on my keyboard, track him down, and somehow get him extradited back to the States. But he’d probably end up in jail, and with Lia’s luck, she’d still be on the hook of those awful, idiotic Boston thugs and their goofy-ass criminal name.

Why can’t she catch a break?

At that moment, my phone rang, and I fumbled for it, nearly falling out of my chair. Heart pounding, I saw the number I told Lia to call me from flashing. My hand was shaking so badly, I almost couldn’t answer, and relief made me almost woozy.

“Holy shit,” I blurted into her ear, too much air wheezing out of my lungs, as though someone were squeezing my ribs.

And Lia, lovely, irrepressible, fearless Lia—laughed her ass off at me.

Shaking my head, a rush of affection and annoyance going through me, I drawled, “Okay, yeah, sure, it’s hilarious. That’s what I get for being normal and worried.”

“Believe me, Sara,” she said, her voice warm and familiar in my ear, though with that haunting echo of strain and sadness always ringing through it, “I almost peed myself a few times.”

“But you’re in?”

“I’m in.”

The next few minutes were a blur as I walked her through next steps, the phone tucked against my shoulder as my fingers flew over the keyboard. Forward momentum kept me calm and focused, and I scoffed when I saw the cop’s cluttered desktop.

“Boomers,” I tried to joke. “Look at that mess.”

“Oh my God, you’re the best,” Lia breathed in my ear, and I suddenly wanted to tell her to stop, to just come home. To just let me pay for her life with my ridiculous tech salary. It would be even more once I graduated from school. But I could do that now, I didn’t have to keep thousands in the bank—I’d stopped looking over my shoulder.

Hell, we could have even more money if I gave up this swanky, super-protected Beacon Hill apartment. I could scale down to a regular luxury apartment instead of this uber-secure one.

“Thank you so much,” Lia was saying. “You got me in.”

“No problem,” I got out. Silence pressed at both ends and even though it was the last thing I wanted to do, I made myself ask, “Should I hang up?”

“Yeah,” Lia said softly. “I have it from here. Thank you.”

“Stop saying that,” I said, more sharply than I meant. “Anytime… Oh and, just in case, good luck.” My throat was tight, and my eyes burned as I looked up at the ceiling. “See you soon, right?”

“Of course,” Lia said softly, as though reassuring me. “See you soon.”

I went to speak but the phone slipped, and the call disconnected. The phone’s screen went black in my hand as I stared at it, picturing Lia hunched at the desk, biting her chapped lips, and staring at the cop’s desktop. Going through those folders, one by one.

What if he comes back early? What if—?

“No,” I said out loud, ignoring how my voice shook. “Lia’s got this. She’ll text me in no time at all, safe and sound at home.”

***

I jerked awake out of an old nightmare, one that I hadn’t experienced in over a year, and pressed a hand to my racing heart. You’re okay, you’re safe, I told myself, as I struggled to sit up and make sense of why I was on top of the covers.

Rubbing at my face, I blinked at the windows, and a hot whine of panic began in the back of my head. Something was wrong. Soft pink and gold light streamed through them, lighting up the room. As though daybreak had arrived—but that wasn’t possible because Lia hadn’t called.

I sat up straighter, shaking my head and patting my cheeks, trying to figure out when I’d gone to bed. My memories from the previous night were fragments of waiting and falling asleep, of aimlessly clicking around on my computer, and then sitting on my bed—just for a second…

I fell asleep. Now the panic in my head filled my entire body, a sense of being crushed on all sides, and I forced myself upright. My body seemed disconnected from my brain, movements jerky and automatic as I went to my desk, fumbling around through papers and notebooks for my phone. It wasn’t there.

Whirling around, I spotted it on the floor, and pounced. The battery was almost dead.

No text or calls.

“Lia, no—no,” I murmured. “Where are you—where are you?”

Tears blurred my vision. I had to be dreaming. The soft light filling my window could not be daybreak. It could not be the next day, with no word from my best friend. Any moment now, I would wake up and she would be okay, and my phone would fully be charged and full of messages.

Only the light got brighter, and the phone battery got weaker.

My entire arm trembled as I dialed Lia’s number.

“We’re sorry,” said the cold, automated feminine-coded voice. “Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please hang up and try again.”

“No,” I said and went to throw my phone, before grabbing my charger and plugging it in. First, I attempted to track down Lia with the apps on my phone, before rushing to my computer, and whirling through every way I knew to track her.

But it was as though her phone had been wiped off the face of the earth.

Like Lia had been wiped off the face of the earth.

Here and then suddenly gone, just like her mother.

A sob shuddered between my gritted teeth. Okay, I had to try a different approach. I knew the name of the cop she’d gone after—Mickey Weiss, and yesterday I’d managed to sneak a peek at what Lia had been tasked to investigate.

The Michaelson family, notorious gangsters that lurked in the shadows of the Northeast.

That name had made my entire body go cold, and as I began to search them, the hits made it go colder. Everything I found told me a grim, bloody story of the previous generation—the brutal and horrific exploits of the “Rhino” and the “Reaper.” But both those men were gone now, and the family was under the control of the Rhino’s son, Tyler, and his cousins. By all accounts, Tyler and his capos were just as bad, if not worse—especially since they knew how to cover their tracks.

A pit formed in my stomach as I remembered the heavy muscle outside that Sons of Celt nightclub, the gangsters in suits with tattoos, guns, and cold purpose in their eyes. They’d pulled up right after Lia had gone in, and I remembered that twist in my gut, the timing too close a call…

They have her, said the pragmatic, blunt voice in the back my head. The Michaelson family has Lia. I put my hands over my face. And I’ll never see her again.

“No,” I growled and shoved away from my desk.

I took a quick, freezing shower, then got dressed, and made myself an espresso. When, I at again at my computer, I was more awake, more determined, and caffeinated. I then sent a quick message to my work, then my professors, apologizing for being out today and possibly tomorrow.

I would not leave this desk—I would not rest until I found my friend Lia.

Chapter Two

Sara

Hours passed, a blur of black windows with white text, blinking cursors, and dead ends, until I closed my eyes and saw meaningless words imprinted on the back of my lids. Occasionally, I’d stopped to drink coffee, snack, and jot down notes. But as the afternoon began to wane, I couldn’t eat or drink or make myself to get up.

Not when I was descending into a familiar, deadly kind of panic—a kind of fear that I’d only felt a few times before and had vowed to never feel again.

Ice-cold terror snarled up my arms as I hit another dead end and a scream of frustration built in my head. What the fuck was this? Why couldn’t I find one single answer? One lead?

Did the Michaelson family employ some kind of tech god? A hacker savant? An MIT student?

My jaw set to the side. I had gotten into Harvard and not MIT, and while I loved my Ivy League school—it had been my first choice—the MIT rejection still burned. But maybe I could use that, pretend the Michaelsons did employ some MIT incel bastard who hated women and was a decent coder but would be crushed under my stiletto.

I snorted. Like Zakary Frole at work. God, that fucking twat. At least calling out of work meant I didn’t have to see him and deal with his inability to take no for an answer.

And as though waiting for my petty grievance to pave the way, my computer chirped at me. Finally, I’d found something. Not what I was looking for, but a start—the Michaelson family’s virtual private storage, buried and locked under layers of protection. At least I had something, maybe a place to look for answers, instead of hunting for a place to even look.

You can do this, Sara Tailor. You are a badass tech whiz. Better than any gangster in Boston.

Getting into this storage, however, was presenting a real challenge. Chewing on my lip, my eyes flicked to my second monitor, where the project was that I was working on for my part-time tech job, a security-focused company called Moxi. They let me hack and chew all around their systems and client systems to find security flaws, and last month they had given us all access to a new, cutting-edge tool called Iris-X, or Iris-Beta, as it was still very much in beta.

We were not, under any circumstances, supposed to use it for anything outside of work until the product was done being developed.

But of course, I looked at Iris-X inside and out, copied it, made improvements, and had not yet deployed it. I called it my Iris-XS, my super sneaker, and excellent additions or not, it was a huge risk. I had no idea if Iris-XS could be detected—or if it even worked.

The alternative, though—brute-forcing my way in or even finding the physical server farm to try and get in that way—could take days. Weeks.

Heart pounding into my fingertips, I opened the Iris-XS application before I could stop myself and wielded it against the layers of security and firewalls around the Michaelson systems, cutting through them like a hot knife through butter. It was almost intoxicatingly easy, and a name flashed by during my furious search.

Hyperion.

That gave me pause in the tangled world of the Michaelson’s internal web that opened up to me. My lips parted as it hit me. No wonder it been so hard to hack into this—this wasn’t a typical virtual machine or series of servers. It was not like anything I’d ever seen. This was a whole world, with twists and turns, crafted by a genius who’d named it Hyperion.

“Holy shit,” I said and sat back, flicking my eyes through what I could see, trying to understand what I was looking at. It would take time to learn this, to fully appreciate this—

No. I need to find Lia.

But my hesitation cost me. Suddenly, I was kicked out of where I’d been within Hyperion, and almost locked out entirely. If my super sneaky Iris-XS tool hadn’t given me the ability to create backdoors and fake accounts, I would have been. But like a little parasite, I couldn’t be so easily removed, and I fled off to a different corner, trying to find a list of likely places they could have taken her.

What if they had hurt Lia? I swallowed as the computer screen seemed to fuzz in front of my eyes. What if they’re hurting her right now?

Hastily, I began to compile a list, addresses that I scribbled down, even as I sensed that whatever—or whoever had kicked me out before was closing in.

Sure enough, right before I was about write down the address for a place out in West Carlisle, I was locked out. A snarl tore out of me, and I slammed my hand down in frustration, then sucked in a sharp breath.

Final warning, ran the message on my screen. Your code might be lovely and your talent prodigious, Iris—but next time I won’t be so nice.

I gaped at the message, wondering how they’d done it—and even more mind-blowing, it acted like an old-school chatroom. I could type back.

Fingers shaking, I wrote out, Go to hell, Mr. Hype. Or should I say, Mr. Michaelson?

Oh, ballsy, came the response. Even though it’s pretty damn cold out today in Boston—you’re playing with fire.

“What?” I whispered.

Suddenly, another window opened, this time with a map. For a split second, it was stagnant, then it zoomed in to the Northeast, tilted over to New York, to the Midwest, and then jumped back Massachusetts.

“Shit. Shit. Shit,” I hissed as my tired, clumsy fingers attempted to stop Mr. Hyperion, to cut him off before he could find me. How was he doing this?

Yeah, I see you.

Now the map showed Boston and its environs. It hopped to Cambridge, to Harvard, and I swore, as it jumped across the river, to Boston University and Commonwealth Ave, and then moved East.

With no other choice, I killed my entire system, and my screen went black.

But not before I saw his final message.

Better run, because I’m gonna find your ass.

***

Daniel

“Dramatic,” I murmured to myself as the trail vanished, the hacker—who’d I’d dubbed Iris, after managing to glean that the program they were using to hack into Hyperion was called Iris-XS—clearly killing their entire system to prevent me from finding them. “But effective.”

Too bad it was too late—I’d narrowed their location down to a fifteen-mile radius within Boston proper. All I’d needed was a fifty-mile radius and I could hunt them down with days. As it was, by tomorrow, I should have a name, an address, blood type, star sign, favorite kind of porn, and all the other interesting vices hidden in plain sight on the internet.

Leaning back in my chair, I thought I’d sensed them panic when the map had jumped to Cambridge, to Harvard Square. I didn’t think they were there, but they must spend time there. Maybe they were even a Harvard alumnus—though how they’d wound up on Hendrix’s payroll was beyond me. Perhaps prodigious Ivy League debt made the prospect of working for a gangster palatable. Blood money could be lucrative.

Pulling up their tracks, I sighed, and began to clean up their trail, trying to lock down the intranet I’d created for the Michaelson crime family. It was meant to be a web to catch any hacker, but this haphazard, clever spy had dodged every trap. Brute force and deft elegance let them get deeper than anyone should’ve been able to. Young but brilliant, was my guess. Perhaps not a graduate—but a student. Someone who took chances, someone who was willing to piss me off.

I blew out a sigh. Not good. Iris clearly had no idea how far in over their head they were. Or worse—did he have some kid on his payroll? It shouldn’t surprise me—there was no depth to which Hendrix would not sink. His family had become weaker since Ty had taken the lead of our family, and the word on the street was that his father would only give him the official role of boss once he managed to defeat Ty.

I drummed my fingers lightly on my keyboard, debating what to do. I wished I’d known how the little spy had gotten into Hyperion in the first place. Gotten in and then managed to stay in, which should not have been possible.

Staring at my computer, my mind whirled through dozens of possible plans, sifting and sorting. The smartest, most prudent thing would be to take down the whole system, and then bring it back, piece by piece, combing it over to make sure it was locked down and safe.

But then I couldn’t be sure that I’d ever find that hacker. At least, not without my full attention, and we had too much shit going on with Hendrix, the informant cop in the hospital, and the beautiful blonde who had my cousin, the Capo, in knots.

No, I had to play the riskier hand and leave Hyperion vulnerable, open a few doors to try and trick Iris into sneaking back in. Then I could trap them somewhere and study their skills at my leisure, while also finding a physical location.

I can’t believe they’re local. How reckless can you be? I shook my head. Part of me, however, was also curious about their skills—I’d never seen shit like that. It was as infuriating as it was impressive.

No matter what the cost, I had to protect my family stuff.

I had to find that little spy.

***

An incessant chiming came from next to my ear and I groaned, wincing as I tried to lift my aching neck, the inside of my mouth tasting like an ash tray, and my glasses crooked on my face. I blinked in confusion at the screens in front of me, then jolted awake in pure panic.

“Cazzo,” I swore in Italian, as my fingers tried to find the keys, stiff and useless from disuse. I’d been looking for the little spy, Iris, for almost twenty-four hours straight, with no luck. I’d kept meaning to take a break and had fallen asleep at my desk instead.

In the meantime, Iris had pounced. My brain seemed to hum as I woke up more, trying to catch them, screens popping up and closing, their quick, darting work making my jaw clench even as admiration unfurled in my chest.

Damn, Iris had balls.

I wish I could get you on our payroll, I thought, then I barked out, “FUCK,” as they almost found Tyler’s address—again. Heart pounding, I didn’t want to admit that I’d only narrowly stopped them. What the hell were they looking for—addresses to rob, to leak to the Feds, or a hit? Was Hendrix going after the Head of the Michaelson family? Didn’t we have enough to deal with?

I rubbed at my face, glancing at my phone, wondering how things were going with the blonde, and then I reached for a cigarette. Then, I paused when a message box appeared.

That was fun, but I think you’re all talk, Mr. Hype.

“No way,” I breathed. Iris had deconstructed my messaging apparatus, copied it, and was now using it to talk to me? “That’s so fucked—but also fucking incredible.”

Maybe I can teach you a thing or two.

A laugh huffed out of me. Maybe. You seem to have a death wish. What are you after?

Information. I raised an eyebrow as they seemed to pause, weighing their options. I don’t suppose mobsters might be bribed…

The word made my heart snarl, the tension in my spine enough to make it snap, and my head too heavy with the memories of the two biggest assholes in the universe, my uncle and my sperm donor. Their sneering faces, their chest-pounding pageantry at being mobsters, and their relentless cruelty.

Go fuck yourself, I typed and sent Iris hurtling through the Hyperion stratosphere.

I couldn’t wait any longer. I’d started to lay traps for Iris, but that wasn’t cutting it. The next hours were a blur of locking down the most vulnerable and important parts of Hyperion, taking breaks to nap, and plotting where Iris might live in Boston.

The next morning, I was out the door by nine, ready to hit every coffee shop and public wi-fi area around the Common. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but I had a feeling Iris was smart enough to keep moving, and staying private in public was their best bet at continuing to hack Hyperion and avoid me finding them.

Dressed like a college kid, I’d opted for a Northeastern University sweatshirt, a Boston Red Sox hat, and my most comfortable pair of jeans. I kept my hat pulled low and glasses on, trying to keep my expression neutral as I entered the Downtown Bean. But still, I saw the curious glances from people, the mix of admiration and nervousness, and my gut twisted.

Fuck off and stop staring.

I knew, deep down, I had not received the suave, stupid-handsome Italian genes that my cousins Ty and Luca had. Instead, I had a weird mix of striking features that made people do a double take, which I fucking hated to no end. Especially since, once they got a good look at me, saw the look in my eyes—they ran for the goddamn hills. Every time.

Sometimes, I might get a wild child of a woman to pursue me for the thrill of danger, but once she got close, once she sensed even a fraction of how broken and fucked in the head I was—she always vanished on me.

Now, I didn’t even bother beyond an occasional one-night stand, but even that had become less and less frequent. Once, I’d thought that maybe there could be at least one person who might be able to match me. Who might at least like me, who might be into the same things I was, and wouldn’t mind sharpening passion and intellect with me.

Probability-wise, on a planet with eight billion people, it seemed arrogant to assume otherwise.

These days, even that probability seemed like a fucking fairy tale.

I glanced out the window, at the busy stream of people crossing from the Theater District into Chinatown, the artsy kids from Emerson College smoking on the corner and laughing, the parents hustling kids with bouncing backpacks, and tourists ambling along.

The best you can do for Ty and the rest of the family is keep your head down, hack, and keep building Hyperion. Don’t get it twisted. You’re the monster on the Michaelson leash.

My computer let out a strange chime and I jolted, nearly upsetting my coffee. A few people looked over as it went off again and I touched my ears. I was wearing headphones. What the fuck?

Miss me? Ran a message across the screen. And it’s cute how you’re using café wi-fi. Great minds—but I prefer a different coffee shop. Also, there are a lot of public wi-fi places in this city, Mr. Hype. You’re out of your depth—and hiding something in West Carlisle.

Shaking my head, I typed, maybe that’s what I want you to think. With a few keystrokes, I made it look like I was in a different café, then a public library, and finally, an Emerson college classroom in the nearby theater. Or maybe I want you to know where I am.

I didn’t want that at all. Pressing back against the wall, I flicked my eyes over the room, but I saw no danger. Still, maybe sitting by the window wasn’t the best decision. Shattered glass and gunshots flashed through my head, and I let out an unsteady breath. I’d been witness to a drive-by once before and I never wanted to see that shit again, much less die that way.

You are pretty damn good, they wrote back, and I thought the tone was one of begrudging respect, which was kind of amusing. MIT?

Hm, well damn. I had indeed taken an accelerated program at MIT, at Ty’s insistence. Yep. Harvard?

They took a moment to respond. Maybe. And I didn’t know mobsters were so touchy about name-calling. I’ll be more sensitive to that, Mr. Hype.

A jolt went through me, a roll of surprise and excitement that had my fingers hovering over the keyboard as I almost typed out what I’d just realized.

You’re a woman, I thought, and a grin spread over my face.

I wanted to keep things interesting, Ms. Iris.

All that came back was a winky face before my computer rebooted and I yelped out, “Fuck.” The entire café went silent as heads swiveled to me and I gave a sheepish salute. “Computer died. Big paper due.”

Shoving upright, I grabbed the computer, and hustled to another café. There, it took me twenty minutes to get the computer working again. When I did, Iris was nowhere to be found, nor could I assess if she’d found anything.

And then my cousin Luca called me to set up a meeting with Boston Bratva.

Chapter Three

Daniel

After the unexpected outing with a bunch of fucking Russians, the bad news that a local Russian mob boss, Ivan Volskov had been offed, most likely by Hendrix, and having to keep Ivan’s nephew Kir and Ty from beating the hell out of each other, I hadn’t had a chance to check on Hyperion or Iris for almost a full day. For safety, I’d taken parts of Hyperion offline before the meeting with the Russians, and was now booting them back up, wondering if Ms. Iris was watching.

Ooh, did I spook you, Mr. Hype? Came the message.

Don’t flatter yourself, I wrote back, even though she had indeed spooked the fuck out of me. Maintenance.

Sure. Mid-week is a perfect time for that. By the way, those traps you laid for me were real cute. Again, offer stands to teach you a few things.

My lips twisted as I fought the urge to laugh. You’re just delaying the inevitable, brat.

I don’t think so, she wrote back. I think you like playing cat and mouse, Mr. Hype. Especially since I’ve piqued your interest by being in possession of a vagina.

At that, I did laugh outright, and Heavy, who was sitting across the room in the Crow’s Nest, the nickname of our building down the Seaport, slowly lifted his head and raised an eyebrow at me. I winked at him.

Of course, she continued. You thought I was a dude—so disappointing.

Is that why you nuked my computer? I wrote back. And I didn’t assume jack shit. If anything, though, I should’ve assumed you were a woman.

Oh, bullshit, she wrote back. But fine, humor me, why?

You’re persistent and adaptable. You think outside the box. You code with as much elegance as you do brute force.

For a moment, there was no response.

And compliments seem to be your weakness, I couldn’t help adding.

Meet me.

I stirred at that, something in my gut twisting, even as my heart beat a little faster.

Come on. I’ll make it easier. Meet me and let’s talk this out. I have money and—

I’ll stop you right there, I wrote, resentment filling me. I’m not “meeting” you, Iris. Fuck, how naïve do you think I am? I have no interest in having a bullet put in my head in a downtown café.

Perhaps I’d been a bit naïve, too, hunting Iris down with such recklessness. I’d thought her young, but maybe that had been an act. Asking me to meet, that shit was bold. A bit of an ingénue feint, too, trying to get me to let down my guard. Seemed Hendrix had sent an absolute pit bull after us.

Or—fuck. Was this a Fed? Waving money around like that? How fucking nauseating. I’d have to jump off the Tobin if I’d been bantering with a goddamn Fed.

Oh my God, that’s so dark, Iris replied. Christ, only a gangster would think that she wrote back. So, what, we go around in circles until you find me? I have a life, hello? Guess it must be nice not having a day job, being all above it as criminals, too good for the rules like the rest of us.

“Oh, Iris,” I said out loud, dazzled and delighted at her biting temper coming through the computer screen. “You just fucked up. You showed your entire ass, girl.”

I have several jobs, smartass, I wrote back. And yes, I like the chase. I also don’t believe for one second that you’d make it easier for me.

Except, I did. But it was too late to try and go that route. Plus, I couldn’t say for certain, but I suddenly suspected that Iris was a civilian, not Mafia. Day job, huh. Delicious. Especially since I was now pretty certain she wasn’t a Fed.

You won’t find me, Iris wrote. If you haven’t found me yet, you won’t, aren’t you smart enough to see that?

She was right. It had been almost four days, and I hadn’t found her. But what she probably had not anticipated was the danger of revealing anything to someone like me.

I, however, am getting lots of juicy information about Hyperion, she wrote, and I fought a grin. “Yeah, Iris, what I’m letting you find,” I said.

And I am persistent, Mr. Hype. Iris’s words were coming fast and furious now. I knew she had to be glaring at her computer somewhere. I will take all your shit down to get what I want. This is my last offer for a mutually beneficial compromise.

I appreciate that, Iris, I wrote back. But I’m not interested in compromise.

“I’m also not the one using company technology on personal time, young lady,” I said out loud.

“You good over there, cuz?” Heavy called. “’Cause you’re kinda freaking me out talkin’ to yourself and grinnin’ and shit. Look possessed.”

I grinned even wider, my demon’s grin, and I heard Heavy curse to himself. I’d ran a cross-search, and within five minutes, had pulled up the website for a company called Moxi. Located in downtown Boston, right in the Financial District, they were a world-wide expert on security technology, famous for employing hackers to test for weaknesses. And there’d been chatter about their propriety, cutting-edge security technology in beta, not even known to the market yet. A technology called Iris-Beta-22.

“Bingo,” I murmured. Louder, I said, “I’m fucking grand, Heavy.” He came over, a nervous hilarity on his face as he hovered, and I grinned wider. “Wanna take a field trip over to the Financial District with me? I’ll get you dinner.”

“Sure,” Heavy said. “Christ, you’re a scary bastard.”

“Thanks,” I said with a chuckle. Then I read the message from Iris, you’re going to regret this.

Nah, I wrote back. But I will see you real soon. And with that, I shut down most of Hyperion, save for one corner where I had Iris trapped. It would take her hours, if not days, to get out of there.

And in the meantime, I now knew where she worked. By the end of the week, Friday at the latest, I’d finally know who she was.

Looks like you’re gonna get that face-to-face after all, Iris, I thought as I stood up and grabbed my jacket. But I think I’m gonna enjoy it a hell of a lot more than you are.

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Chapter One

Massimo

Her.

I sit straight in my seat, adjusting my suit jacket as she shrinks from the too-bright spotlight on her.

I am beginning to feel bored out of my fucking mind, and two-finger taps away from bolting out of this glassed framed, semi-banquette-styled cubicle until they shove her toward and into the limelight.

I have been digging my fingers into the leather of the cushion and pushing the teak table in front of me with an untouched crystal glass of Negroni on it every single time they bring out a new girl.

I can’t do anything. It’s a fool’s errand. Besides, I am in no position to do anything to the men surrounding me when I am here for exactly the same reason as them. It doesn’t matter what my intentions are. I am here to buy, which makes all of us in our respective cubicles the same shade of twisted. The men selling, they’re on a different level of fucked up in the head. Caruso is the leader of that deranged bandwagon.

A thick bodyguard with a villain mask pushes her forward and manhandles her to stand still as her feeble legs give in, unable to hold her weight. Bruised and discolored knees knock together.

The condescending way they treat the women makes my blood boil, and my fingers ache to reach for the holster beneath my suit and open fire on them. And it is the propellant pushing me like a robot on a mission, so I just keep painfully digging my nails into the leather cushion of my seat.

I keep my eyes on her. The bonus sample, is what they call her. Item twenty-six, even though she is the eighth paraded for the exhibition today.

Alessandra.

Alessandra was announced as if she was walking in like this is some evening reality show, and we’re a family sitting at a fucking round table to watch. She is treated like a buy-one-gets-one-cheaper packages. No, more like the, we’ve sold our best products and decided to put out an expired one for a ridiculously discounted price to sweeten the pot for our loyal customers. A fucking clearance sale.

I reach for the glass of Negroni, about to take a sip, then I remember the shark den I’m in. Alcohol on a night like this will not do me any good, especially with the irritation simmering in the pit of my stomach. Also, there’s the fact that this drink might have been poisoned. I’m on the Camorra’s side of New York City, and though we pretend to be on good terms when we talk with them, we never see eye to eye on anything, and I wouldn’t put it past them to seize the opportunity of a night like this to kill me.

I retrieve my hand. Shame. I love anything with Campari in it. I live for the bitter herb taste that lingers almost immediately after the sweet fruity taste hits. I turn my attention back to what is most important at this moment.

She will do the trick.

I place the index finger of my free hand, the one that some seconds ago had been trying to dig into the dark leather covering of the cushion, on the red button of the buzzer on the armrest of chair I’m sitting on.

The cubicle is soundproof, so you can and sample your products while waiting for the rest of the exhibition show. It is also dimly lit with violet light bulbs to aid your sexual need, with a display section for sex toys and torture weapons at your disposal but no provision for aftercare. The focus is not on taking care of the woman but rather on taking from her to care for your own needs. It can fit more than two people, even though the gold ticket admits one person per cubicle to this section of the exhibition.

The place is as sophisticated as a Royal ball party hall. The first area is the main entrance, where the partying takes place. A masquerade with adult shows, a distraction from what this night is really about. The second section is for auctioning precious stones and relics.

The last is only for the gold-ticketed people, and this is where I am. You walk in here with your mask on and get escorted to a shimmering gold cubicle with a glass front, that is dark when you look from the outside but clear as a crystal when you step inside. There’s a secret exit that leads to a car park and hangar. Anybody here for the auction leaves through the private door to their cars and private jets. Hefty-armed men in expensive suits wait strategically in place.

This section is for purchasing human goods. Women like her. Caught, groomed, and carted off to the highest bidder.

She will do the trick.

“One hundred thousand dollars,” the auctioneer in a gray two-piece suit and thick-looking goggles resting on his too-large nose hollers, like he has been doing all night, into the gold microphone wrapped in his sturdy palm.

There’s something about her. I can’t place it. Something that makes me want to leave this place with her.

I was beginning to think my listening to Claudio, my cousin and confidante, when he had suggested that this was the best way to fix my self-imposed problem, was futile. None of the girls interested me. They all looked the same to me, with hopeful eyes that they could somehow find freedom. But not her, she lacks life and the fight I’ve seen in others, although her every trait contradicts that hopelessness.

Her espresso hair mocks all the brutality she has experienced with its luster of lengthy richness and wavy strands styled upward in a pony tail draping down to her lower back. Those bottle-green eyes remind me of my first beer as an underage. The deliciousness of being lawless as I walked into bars and found no one bold enough to stop me from ordering Peroni. Then, the color of the leash she has around her neck, a color I like to see when I deal with an enemy. A color that makes the perfect bow for any present. Red. Her bare feet on cold black tiles ignite a kindred spirit in me, because sometimes it has been my only antidote for cooling off my roiling blood when triggered.

My eyes travel up to her face and down her naked, malnourished, and bruised body. The way her scar-masked skin covers her body looks like a balloon stretched over rocks. You can see every contour and feel every ridge. I scan with my eyes down below her knees, to her wobbly feet. Her bruised bluish-toes curl. She is trembling, not necessarily from fear but weakness.

Nothing my surgeon cannot fix.

My finger lingers on the red button with a paper light touch. Just a little more pressure and the buzzer will go off, allowing them to hear me when I speak and perhaps indicate where the voice is coming from. It is important to know when to make a move.

I wait.

No other buzzer goes off, nobody is rushing to buy this one like they did with the others. They were defiant and regal, regardless of the fear in their eyes, because they were yet to have masters as slaves. They feared their fate but had no idea what awaited them. The buzzers kept going off, it was like rush hour. The pricks around me wanted something whole so they could break it. The twisted psychos, who probably maimed their toys as children for no reason other than that they were theirs to toil with, kept bidding. Now they’re grown men with the same sick need to tame, break, and dispose of when bored.

But she is different. She is broken goods. She’s like a toy that has been hammered repeatedly by a temperamental kid and been disposed of.

Her trembling, propelled by her bitter past experiences from another owner, is glaring. She knows her fate. She knows what awaits her. The patches of bluish-gray on her skin are her badge of survival. That’s how I see it.

The auctioneer sighs heavily into the microphone, then sucks his teeth in a fit of irritation.

I keep my eyes on her.

The way she dips her head, the way her chin drops, and her eyes stay on the ground even though she can’t see any of us through the thick clouded frame of the cubicle. The way her fingers dig into her palms. I can feel her holding her breath from my cubicle. I can feel it because of the visible way in which her clavicle protrudes like it will break out of her skin.

Broken, that’s what she is. I am sure that when I will trace her skin, I’ll find ridges from poorly patched shards, like a broken mug glued carelessly and hastily together by a kid trying to outsmart his parent.

She is trying hard to look defiant, seeing no one is taking the bidding price for her. I’m guessing it will start dropping from one hundred thousand dollars to a number so worthless someone might take pity and take her home like she was a lost dog.

“One hundred thousand dollars for this one,” the auctioneer reminds us, just in case we might have forgotten or didn’t hear him the first time.

Now it will go down if someone doesn’t do something.

Or so I imagine. I have never been to these functions. I’m simply applying the rules of the business world. It isn’t that she is not worth more than that. If we’re being honest, no one exhibited tonight can compare to her. There is something striking about her. Like that good feeling you get about a property, even when it is nothing but debris. Even if the owner of the property sees it as having no value.

We want the gain, we have guessed the market value by just looking at it, but we will play the seller’s game till we get what we want.

I fiddle with my signet ring on my index finger with my thumb and glare at Claudio sitting across from me, in a black dress shirt and pants, with a brown leather holster strapped around his upper body. He glares back with black hooded eyes.

I should not be here. We should not be here.

If not for the godforsaken Mancusos, with their marriage proposal. Fucking crazy family, if they think I will come on board as a son-in-law. As if I would give my loyalty the same way I would to my family.

Their desperate need for heirs is about to cost me.

I didn’t think that was what the meeting would be about. I thought it would involve some underground business considering the urgency my father had attached to it, even though I knew it wasn’t anything that needed cleaning up with bullets. While I am the apex weapon for that, I will never do business the Mancusos way. They’re not to be trusted. Power drunk, recklessly disrespectful of human lives. They do not just go after their enemies but everything and everyone around them. They took innocent lives on their last operation because a partner decided it was time to end business with them. To get him through his grandchild, they’d blown up a school bus full of schoolchildren.

Assholes.

That is not the kind of family I want to marry into. We can do business, but no way in hell I’m joining our empires in marriage. A marriage between Mancuso’s only child and heiress, Vittoria Mancuso, and me, the heir to the Gaeta empire.

I can afford to get myself out of this situation because my family is heavy enough to tilt the scales . But the Mancuso family is still trouble.

The Mancuso family is undoubtedly king in the underworld, but there are people higher up than him the kingmakers. We, my family, are the Kingmakers. We have infiltrated the political system, and we twist and tweak politics to our liking. We say who gets power and how much of it. We decide who stays at the top of the food chain and for how long.

And as the underboss to the Gaeta empire, I can afford to twist and bend. But as with everything, wisdom is profitable to direct.

Everyone had already agreed that the marriage to Vittoria wasn’t a bad idea, giving their blessings before asking for my opinion. Fuck it. They invited me to tell me, Massimo Gaeta, about my wedding.

What my father wasn’t expecting, what none of them was expecting, was for me to say I had fallen in love with someone else, and that’s the person I want to be married to. That I had already given my word. In the underworld, for men of substance like us, for a man like me, our word is everything. I never take it back. I could say I have eight balls and they’d believe me immediately, no need for proof. But saying I had fallen in love was the most impossible thing they’d ever heard.

Knowing the Mancusos, I knew they’d bite. They don’t take no for an answer, but no one tells me what to do.

The silence that ensued in my father’s study when I refused was total. Eyebrows raised to question my reason for giving up such a merger, but no one dared pressure me They’ve seen how I get when I’m in love with something, anything.

It is the first lie I have ever told. I don’t talk if I can’t speak the truth. I have always felt lying is for the weak. No one intimidates me enough, and also, I don’t give a sparrow’s fuck about anyone, so I do not worry about hurting their feelings with the truth.

So I lied. Not just that, I went even further and told a second lie. That the nonexistent woman I’m so in love with, who made me turn down a business merger like the one presented to me, is engaged to me. And that lie is one-half of the reason I’m in this exhibition, surrounded by men like Louis Mancuso.

I’m no saint, but this is not my kinda place.

The other half of the reason I’m here is that I had said I would bring my fiancé to the family dinner a few weeks from now.

And as soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I was fucked. That I had to make it happen. My words hold a weight, so if I say I will do something, I will, and I never take it back. If I say I have a fiancé I’m in love with and that I will bring her to the family dinner, then I sure as hell have a fiancé that I will be bringing to the family dinner. The love part is something to worry about, but I’ll think of that after I find my fiancé.

While this might not be the most conventional way to make a marriage proposal, this appears to be the best solution right now. I will own her for as long as I want. She will do what I command her to do without questions, not to mention without drama. For my peace of mind, this is the best way out and she fits the profile. I want Vittoria as far away from me as possible. I can barely stand being around people, period, but she is a different breed of nasty.

When Claudio suggested this idea, I almost threw my whiskey glass at him. But, after sleeping on it, I find that it’s a one-size-fits-all kind of deal.

“A hundred thousand dollars,” Mr. Auctioneer groans into the microphone.

Almost time.

She’s shaking harder now, no longer hiding it or trying to. Maybe she is just too tired from standing that long on weak legs.

“A hundred and five,” I make my bid, starting slow.

“A hundred and ten thousand,” a different male voice booms, and she lets out a weak gasp, not of relief but of fright.

The voice sounds Hispanic, but everyone here knows that no voice sounds anything like the real voices. The mics are programmed to alter voices and accents, but from inside your cubicle, you can see what cubicle the voices are coming from.

I lift my eyes to look at the micro screen at the top of my cubicle showing the number twelve. That’s Camorra. The fucker is always on my trail. Now he wants what I want?

“Going for a hundred and ten thousand dollars,” Botched Nose shrieks into his mic. He looks around like he can see us.

I press my index finger on the red button.

“A hundred and fifty,” I sit back, relaxing. I don’t have the time to play around with the Camorra.

Her lips part slightly, and she gasps again, her bony ribs showing her drawing in the air.

Claudio has a smirk on his face. He reaches into the pocket of his dress pants… let him not pull out a coin. Damn it! He pulls out a coin. That shit is distracting but calms him. He starts to toss it in the air, and I fight the urge to toss him and his coin out.

“A hundred and fifty,” Botched nose lifts his hammer to slam.

“Two hundred,” from the same damn cubicle.

“Three hundred,” I ball my fist.

“Three hundred and fifty.” Caruso is having fun.

Fuck me. He told me the number of his cubicle for a reason and waited until I walked into mine. He knows it is me. He has been waiting for me to make a bid on any of the products. This long dragged-out stupid game of who is superior is getting under my skin.

I fell right into his trap when I continued with the bid. I can let her go and just wait for another one to come out. I can let him have her, let him win just this time. But I like a good challenge. She is the first product he’s making a bid on, so it will be good to beat him to it in his domain. Sick, but I like it. There’s a part of me that likes to think that what is mine came with a little bit of challenge. That I earned it, just like everything else in my life.

I want her. It’s a matter of honor now, and I’m not one to lose. There’s only one thing to do to make him stop, set the bid so high he’ll think I’m insane. That is probably what he wants. Giving him that is not as bad as losing her to him.

“One million,” I offer. Let’s end this tussle. My tolerance is low.

I do not miss how, for the first time since the spotlight came on, she lifts her eyes to look at my cubicle.

Claudio is staring at me like I’ve lost my mind. At least he is no longer tossing.

Why spend more on a property than the seller is asking for?

Because a few weeks from now, this property will carry a name that is one of the most powerful names in the whole of New York State.

This property will be my woman.

My wife.

Mine.

And that doesn’t come cheap.

I hope to hell she is worth every penny because otherwise Claudio will face my anger for this stupid stunt.

For his sake and hers, she better be.

Chapter Two

Alejandra

Please, not again.

My quaking legs knock and I almost stumble forward but find my balance by pressing my bruised toes onto the cold black tile floor beneath my feet. They still hurt from the last time Signor E had trampled on them repeatedly with his pointed shoes.

My eyes ignore the beeping green light at the top of booth number six directly in front of me and stay on the clouded glass masking the person I want so badly to see.

They have no right. No right to do this to anyone. No right to keep taking from me.

That person sitting in there just robbed me of my chance for freedom for an insanely high price. Not the type of freedom one is expected to hope for after living as I have for three years, but the kind that utterly sets free with no care or worry for healing and the future.

The future they robbed me of. I had worked and studied so hard to get a chance at the future I had dreamt of constantly as a child. I felt the universe was beginning to hear me when I got a scholarship to Naples. I felt I could finally be an architect. I could build something that would not only capture the eyes but enthrall the heart as well, like the Alhambra with its stucco walls, intricate plasters, and honeycomb patterns.

But that was long gone now.

Three years gone.

“One million for Alessandra,” the auctioneer announces like anyone would dare to bid higher than that.

I hate them all, but there is one thing we can all agree on tonight. And that is the simple fact that there is a madman in booth six.

One million for Alessandra. Not Alejandra. Not the dreamer who wanted to become an architect.

One million for the naked whore on this stage, passed down to master after master, to be used and reduced to nothing.

Not Alejandra, who enjoys sketching in the evening sun, who loves to run her fingers across the walls of grand buildings to teleport herself to another era and daydream of being there when it was being built.

That person is kept safe, locked away until there may ever be freedom for her.

I stopped trying to correct them on the first day when they asked my name and the man named Caruso, who was sampling us, said Alessandra instead of Alejandra. I had corrected him and got a fist bumped into my face. I felt the ring for days after.

He took my name away to strip me of my power and identity. But he didn’t realize he was giving me the strength to face the brutality. Knowing Alejandra is safe and away from all of this gives me something to hold on to. Something to look forward to.

One million dollars.

Why would he pay that much when he could have gotten me for way less? Why would anyone pay that much for me? What does he hope to do with me? What will he expect me to do to give him his money’s worth?

I bite down on my chattering teeth, fighting back every tear that’s prickling my eyes as I keep them on the glittering booth, breaking the rules.

How dare he? How could any of them? When does this end? Will I ever find freedom?

I was pounded, bruised, my bones broken, to stop me from meeting the eyes of Signor E when he newly got me. I started to realize that what I had been told back when I had a life I took for granted was true.

Back when I had friends I didn’t want to hang out with but pretended to like so I wouldn’t appear vulnerable. Back when I would deliberately skip meals and spend my time scrolling on social media. When I would rather stay in my bedroom reading or writing than hang out with family and friends on special holidays. I had been told then, by friends, families, and even strangers that my eyes sold me out. That they give away every secret I try to hide.

My eyes gave him everything he needed to know. They gave away my fear even when I pretended to be strong. They told him how hungry I was when I fought to stay on my feet after going days without food. My eyes gave him satisfaction and I had to remove that power from him.

I started to keep them on the ground as a form of self-preservation. I would look anywhere but in his eyes, all their eyes. Men that could reduce a human to an object. Men who overstepped boundaries and violated. Men who brought doom to women like me. Men that are predators and prey on women like me for pleasure.

I bow, dipping my head and lowering my upper body, taking back my power. I cannot see him but I know he can see me. And what I do not want is for him to see all the things I don’t want anyone to see. Those are mine. My thoughts are mine to keep and protect.

My body belongs to Alessandra and is for them to toil with. My thoughts are Alejandra’s and are hers to keep, hers to protect.

The point where my stomach meets my chest burns as my anxiety creeps through my veins, provoking another shaking fit that almost sends me falling on my face. I plant my feet on the floor with more firmness, straightening my back.

This will never end. No one is coming to save me.

When I was newly abducted, I fall asleep imagining a hero showing up to save me. I would imagine the police bursting through the place and saving me before they did any irreparable damage. But the days turned to weeks, the weeks turned to months, and the months to years. No police. No help. No hero.

Once again, I am being auctioned.

I know the fate that awaits me if no one takes me home. I have long since given up hope of being found and freed. I have forgotten what the wind feels like on my skin, what the banter of people from the neighborhood sounds like as the sun plays hide and seek behind the clouds.

I have forgotten what it feels like to be a daughter, a friend, and a sister.

I have forgotten what it feels like to be a woman with desire or a crush. What it feels like to demand respect, to not be violated or disrespected. I have forgotten what it feels like to be a human with rights and basic needs, dreams, and plans. I have forgotten what the taste of a freshly made meal feels like. I have forgotten the taste of my favorite chocolate ice cream and how I always allowed myself a sweet treat on weekends.

I have forgotten how to live or why to live.

After years of what I have been subjected to in the hands of Signor E, I want death more than water, even though I am extremely dehydrated. I have been refusing to eat or drink these past days before the auction. I needed to attract the grim reaper, for him to follow me in my wake. I need to call him with my starvation so he smells the scent of death on me and comes to take me with him.

I want death. I was so close to having it. So close. Now… I grind my teeth, stiffening my spine and holding my breath as a panic attack starts to brew, making my sight blurry. Maybe if I can avoid breathing just a bit longer, I will be able to escape this. I’ve been practicing this technique for a month now.

I chose this way to find freedom again, to give my worn soul some rest. I have come to accept my reality. No one is coming for me. No one will find me. No one will set me free but me. And if there’s a chance for Alejandra to survive, Alessandra must die. Maybe if I make that happen, she will have a chance in another lifetime.

I begin to feel dizzy and lightheaded. My lungs swell, and my stomach heats up.

When Signor E had told me he was bored of me and brought in a new girl, I thought he would do it himself. I was relieved. I went to bed on the cold floor like every other day, only this time I felt something I hadn’t in the three years. I felt warm inside, akin to happy.

I wanted nothing more from than to put me to rest. But he had other plans. He sent me to them and asked that they help him dispose of me. I had hoped they would set me free but instead, they have other plans for me. They will keep using me until I live.

Even when I don’t get bidden for, as has been my plight for the past four auctions, they still refuse to set me free. Every now and then they come with the threat of cutting me up in pieces and selling my parts to organ harvesters if I don’t get sold for at least three hundred thousand dollars. I wish for death, but not that way.

My eyes burn, my nose waters as my body shudders from the lack of oxygen. I’m close. If I keep this up, my heart might give up. It has to. Whatever fate awaits me, it might be worse than being dismembered and sold. If anyone can offer that much money, I might as well get ready to be used as the target in some horrifically perverted game.

A ragged palm grips my bare forearm and jerks me, forcing me to gasp warm air and deactivate my self-destruct mission. I keep my eyes down, my fists balled as I suck up air, panting.

“What were you about to do?” His voice comes out distorted, like sounds from a robber behind a mask in a heist.

I don’t look, but I feel him lift his other hand, about to strike me. I know now when a strike is coming without having to look.

“Touch her,” that voice, the same one that had offered one million dollars for a worthless object, booms through the speaker and halts the man his train. The voice sounds like Skipper from The Penguin of Madagascar. Signor E had sounded like a buzzing bee on the first day. I now hate bees.

“I dare you,” he continues.

The grip around my forearm loosens. The man takes a step back, creating space between us.

After feeling like trash for as long as I can remember, I instantly feel like I have some sort of value. The feeling of worth tries to swim through the swamp of worthlessness I’ve been buried in for all this time. I feel a strange sense of safety, even though I know it’s fleeting. No one will touch me now, not in a demeaning way, not here at least. I was going to be kicked or dragged across the floor for being an obsolete object, for not making a sale for them, again.

Three years ago, I had the men calling out and the bids soaring from the moment the bid price was announced. I am sure that if my current master gets tired of me, they will jump on me and claim me again with hopes that I will keep on being a money well.

From my peripheral vision, I see the auctioneer clear his throat and adjust his goggles, loving his role of slamming hammers and reducing humans to objects all too much.

“Sold for one million dollars,” he announces the price and hits his hammer very quickly, as if he fears the bidder will revoke his bid. That clinking sound evokes a tremor in me, sealing my fate.

I have been sold, again.

My panic attack kicks in, and the red leash around my neck begins to choke me. My heartbeat starts a drumming exhibition, as my heart goes crazed looking for a way out. The inside of my stomach gurgles like hot lava and as if the universe finally listens, my breathing hiccups, and gives up.

With closed eyes, a limped body, and shallow breathing, I drop to the floor.

Finally.

Freedom.

Oblivion.

Death.
Thank you.

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Chapter One

Nora

“The Celia Young disappearance has now been declared a cold case. I’m sorry.”

I stared at detective Reed, my hands clutching the chair so hard it hurt. I’d been expecting him to ask us to identify my sister’s body, or at least for him to say that he had a lead. Having him say instead that they had given up looking was… a mind fuck, to say the least.

All we had was a pile of questions and no shovel to sort them with.

The not knowing was the worst.

“I beg your pardon?” my grandma said. I looked in her direction, seeing how she was clutching her purse, and I knew she was just as close as I was to flying off the handle.

The detective sighed. “Whatever happened to her, the trail has gone cold. I’m sorry.”

“You’re… sorry?”

The detective was looking at me with fake regret in his eyes. He was putting on a show, which was even worse than the fact that they had given up. It had only been six months since my sister’s disappearance. What did they mean, the trail had gone cold?

He shook his head. “The department has limited resources and—”

“Fuck your limited resources! This is my sister you’re—”

My grandmother clutched my hand, her nails digging into my flesh. “Leave it, Princesa. They are doing their best.” She turned to the detective. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Reed?”

He nodded, still avoiding our eyes. “Of course, we are. We understand that this is your family, but as I said, limited resources. We are doing everything we can.”

“I don’t think you are,” I blurted, my hand on my hip. I might have been petite, but I wasn’t going to let this man get away with this. There was something more at play here. Something he wasn’t telling us, and I was going to find out what.

“That British girl, the one who disappeared years ago… What was her name, Lita?” I turned to my grandmother.

“I think it was Madeleine. Madeleine McCann.”

There was no ‘I think’ about it. My grandmother and her friends happened to follow that case obsessively. Conspiracy theories abound.

“Yeah, Madeleine. Fifteen years later, they’re still looking for her, and you give up after six months? How is that fair?”

Detective Reed rolled his eyes. “I can’t speak to what the British police do, ma’am. Here in New York—”

“Don’t speak to me like I don’t understand,” I snapped sticking my finger in his face. The urge to slap him was almost overwhelming.

A flicker of annoyance flashed across his face, but he suppressed it. “Ma’am, I am going to have to ask you to leave. This conversation is no longer produc—”

“No!” I said desperately, “Wait. I’m sorry.” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “I want us to resolve this amicably. So, let’s begin again, okay? Celia was working at Club Pandemonium. Did you speak with all the workers there?”

Detective Reed gave an exaggerated sigh. “Yes, we did.”

“And what about the owner? Her boyfriend was a bouncer for the club. Did you talk to him?”

“Miss Young, you know very well that we have spoken to all those people.”

“What about her neighbors? Did you get to all of them? Someone must have seen something.”

“That neighborhood is not well known for cooperating with the police.”

“I wonder why that is.”

“Nora,” my grandmother whispered admonishingly.

I met her eyes, taking a deep breath. She was right. Snarking at the cops wouldn’t get us anywhere. “I’m sorry. Just… I don’t think you’ve run down every lead. There are still avenues to pursue.”

“Is that so?” the detective’s mouth twisted in derision. “You know better than us?”

“I know that my sister didn’t just disappear into thin air. She’s twenty-two years old, and a whole hell of a lot of things could have happened to her. We just want to know what.” I fixed him with the most pleading puppy dog eyes I could manage. “Please, Detective Reed.”

He blinked at me and then shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Young. We’ve done everything we can.”

Simply put, I did not believe that he was telling the truth. There was something shifty about him. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what… but yeah, for sure. He was hiding something. I tried to think of a way to get it out of him.

“What did Igor say? Her boyfriend? Have you informed him that you’re stopping the investigation?”

“According to him, they broke up before she disappeared.”

“And you don’t find that convenient?”

Detective Reed shrugged. “She’s not exactly a housewife. We’ve had lots of women like your sister follow the same patterns of behavior—”

I almost leapt over the table to strangle him, but my Lita held me back. “Like my sister? You mean strippers? Are you calling my sister a whore?” I yelled.

“No. Of course not. But you must have known what sort of lifestyle she lived.”

I growled and he sighed, shaking his head.

“Look, all I’m saying is that there is nothing unusual about what happened before she took off. Nothing that would indicate your sister didn’t just skip town on her own. She’s an adult and she can do as she pleases. As someone who has seen this play out over and over, I would really suggest you focus on other things. Your sister will more likely than not show up when she feels like it.”

I just stared at him, my heart pounding. Thank God my grandmother was there. Celia wouldn’t just disappear. Sure, we weren’t as close as we once were, but we were the only family each other had. She wouldn’t just leave without a word.

Something had happened to her.

Something bad.

And if this stupid detective thought I was going to just roll over and let it go, he had another thing coming.

I whirled towards the door, pulling my grandmother along with me. “Alright then, thanks,” I said brusquely as I banged the door to his office open and stormed out. We were halfway down the hall when I heard my name called, much to my surprise. I turned to see Detective Reed following us.

“What now?” I snapped.

He came to a stop in front of me. “Please…let this go. For your own sake. This is doing nothing but causing you, and your grandmother, a tremendous amount of grief.” He turned to nod at her. “Don’t you see that?”

I narrowed my eyes at him, suspicious at his insistence. I didn’t say a word, hoping he’d fill the silence and incriminate himself.

“Again, we’ve done all we can. We have no power over what comes next. Do you understand me?”

I stared mutinously at him.

“Nora?” He raised an eyebrow at me.

“When did we get on a first-name basis?”

He sighed. “Fine. Miss Young, last warning. Drop this. It isn’t going to go anywhere.”

“Thank you very much for your input, detective. Your warning has been noted.” I turned and resumed walking, my grandma by my side, watching me with her cloudy eyes. She didn’t say a word and neither did I, but I guess she knew as well as I did that I wasn’t going to drop it.

Chapter Two

Nora

It was dark and freezing. I could feel every muscle in my body shivering—shaking with both cold and fear.

“Nora?”

Her voice was so tiny in the dark as her small hands grabbed at me.

“Shh,” I whispered, more afraid than I could ever remember being. Then it hit me.

Celia, clinging to me. We were in a dark, enclosed space, claustrophobia closing in on me like an evil cloud…

This is a dream.

I tried to wake up, but all I could hear was Celia crying softly, almost soundlessly; her small body shaking at my side. We were used to that—not making a sound. Papa didn’t like it when we cried. Even when he beat us. We couldn’t stop the tears rolling from our eyes, but we could stop the sounds in our throats. Celia, in particular, learned to be very quiet.

I wanted to get away from the dream, from the shouting I could hear outside the dark space we were in, from the cold… I wanted to be back in my own bed, warm and safe and grown, but I couldn’t make myself wake up.

With a cry, I was suddenly sitting ramrod straight up in bed, my eyes wide open. I blinked a few times and wiped my wet cheeks. My shoulders dropped as I sighed, remembering.

Real life wasn’t much better than my nightmares. Not with Celia missing.

Where are you, Celly? God, I will find you.

I blushed even as I thought it, knowing how much I’d let her down. Getting up, I stomped to the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror. I couldn’t stand the girl staring back at me. That girl had sunk into complacency, being content with one phone call a week, letting her sister get further and further away from the little family she had… I shook my head, looking away, unable to face myself.

My sister was in trouble, and I hadn’t known until it was way too late to help her.

I’ll go to the ends of the earth if I have to. But I will bring you home.

I grabbed my toothbrush, aggressively brushed my teeth, then washed my face. I didn’t have to be on duty until an hour later, and the bike ride to the hospital took twenty minutes, so I had some time. I got in the shower, standing under the spray and letting the hot water dissipate the grogginess I was feeling.

A horrible night’s rest, no doubt brought on by too much whisky, meant I was in bad shape. I closed my eyes, trying to think about any clue I might have missed. Celia had failed to mention Igor in our weekly talks—frankly, she rarely mentioned anyone in her life—so maybe Detective Reed was right, and they weren’t important to each other. I wasn’t going to assume anything, though.

Maybe the police hadn’t known the right questions to ask, or maybe Igor wasn’t interested in talking to Five-O. He might tell me something he wouldn’t tell them. It was a start at least. Then I could approach the other strippers at the club. All I had to do was get close enough for them to start talking.

I stepped out of the shower. The difference between the warm steam and the cold air made me shiver. I took my brush, standing naked before the mirror, and combed my dark hair while giving myself a once-over.

The best way to get to speak with Igor and the girls was to get a job at Pandemonium.

My eyes raked over my body. I had an okay cleavage. My waist was fairly small, and I had ample hips—thank you, Spanish heritage. I could dance well enough and had made my way through nursing school on the pole when money was tight. I wasn’t a professional by any means, but I knew enough to fake it.

My muscles were kept tight and toned by the hours of walking in the wards that my nursing career demanded. Plus cycling everywhere of course. I wasn’t a health nut or anything. Riding a bike was just that much cheaper than driving.

My goal had been to get the three of us out of the hood one day, save some money to pay for Celia to go to designer school like she’d wanted… Basically, save my family.

Things were going well. Until they weren’t.

The ER was bedlam. I was so happy I’d had time for breakfast—coffee and avocado toast from Starbucks—before I had to deal with some guy’s gunshot wound to the chest, followed by a kid with a bean stuck up his nose. The kid was fine; his mother, on the other hand, had needed a sedative.

“Do you want to wait thirty minutes for the doctor, or would you like me to extract it?” I asked her. It was a fairly simple procedure, and I had the forceps to do it. The bean thankfully wasn’t very far in.

“You do it! Please, just do it!” she almost screamed, and I could see how freaked out she was.

“Alright. But I need you to calm down, alright? Have a seat. Everything is going to be fine.”

She nodded frantically and sat down—curled up on herself, swaying back and forth, self-soothing. I felt sorry for her, but I knew the best way to help both of them was to get the bean out of the kid’s nose.

I turned to him and smiled. “So, Julius, I’m gonna get that bean out of your nose, alright? It won’t take long, and I don’t think it’ll hurt. Will you be a brave boy for me?”

He nodded slowly, his brown bangs bouncing on his forehead. He reminded me so much of Celia at that age. So cute and responsive, and very quiet.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and picked up the forceps. I talked to him as I burrowed in his nose, clamping onto the bean and pulling it out carefully. He didn’t so much as flinch.

“What a brave boy you are!” I hummed. “There, all done.”

I sprayed some antibacterial mist up his nose just in case, cleaned up the snot, and handed him good as new to his mother. She burst into tears, clutching him close. Julius was unmoved by her hysterics, and I had a feeling she freaked out often enough that it wasn’t new to him. I waved awkwardly and left her to it.

My next patient was more… complicated.

Claudette Stevens, twenty-three years old. Her dark brown hair did nothing to hide the bruises on her neck, and her downcast eyes were tired. I could hardly bear to look at her, but I had to smile and be professional. All my patients were bringing Celia to mind that day.

I felt as if someone was trying to send me a message.

Claudette was five foot six and a hundred-and-ten pounds—way too thin. Her elbows stuck out like tiny spears, sharp enough to pierce her concave stomach. Her collarbone was stark, and her cheeks were slightly hollowed. But she stood straight and unbowed, looking at me with defiant eyes.

Just like Celia.

“So, what brings you to the ER today?”

Claudette looked away. “I fainted and my stomach aches.”

I cocked an eyebrow in disbelief, staring at that bruise around her neck. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I expelled a breath and turned away, shaking my head as I picked up the blood pressure cuff. She pulled back her sleeve so I could get an accurate reading. More bruises. To nobody’s surprise, her blood pressure was on the higher side of normal.

There were so many times I stood to the side while my mother told a nurse or a doctor about her own “accidents”: running into a door or falling down the stairs. I glanced towards the curtains separating the cubicle from the rest of the corridor and saw a man peering in. His eyes were steady on Claudette.

“You know, the hospital has certain resources that can help you in case you’re in… a tricky spot,” I whispered.

She shook her head, still not looking at me. “Thanks, but I’m not in any sort of spot.”

“Do you have kids?”

Her eyes slid along the floor and then flicked towards the curtain. She shook her head. I didn’t know if I believed her, but there was nothing in her file to indicate she was lying.

“Well… if you change your mind, you know where to start,” I whispered.

She nodded, not lifting her head at all. With an inward sigh, I walked out of the room with her file, eyeballing the man lurking in the corridor.

“Excuse me, sir. You can’t be back here unless you’re a patient.”

“It’s fine,” he said, not deigning to look at me. “I’m waiting for someone.”

I hesitated, wondering if I should insist. He was a big guy, at least six foot three, with wide shoulders. His hair was cut close to his skull as if he was in the military. He wore cargo shorts and a striped blue and white shirt. I could describe him to the cops if needed.

I walked away, perfunctorily knocking on the GP’s door before entering the room and placing the file on the desk. “Hey, doc. You need to watch out for this one. Might be some domestic abuse going on.”

The doctor sighed, shaking her head. “I’m guessing she’s not admitting it?”

“Nah. Walked into a door.”

We exchanged commiserating glances before I shook my head and left. One thing I knew for sure: nobody could help Claudette until she was ready to help herself. Being that broken, that damaged, was something I could definitely relate to, so it filled me with guilt to just have to walk away… again.

I checked my watch and saw that it was almost noon. Late enough for me to take my lunch break. I was already sick of this shift, so I alerted the front desk and took off for the taco truck across the street.

Buying two tacos and two coffees, I headed down to the morgue where my friend Jodie worked as a pathologist. I found her in her office, transcribing her notes, and held up the brown paper bag.

She immediately stopped typing and grinned at me. “My Lord and savior.” She held her hands out wide, and I stepped into them and let her hug me before she snatched the bag of food. She opened it and peered inside.

“Mmm, tacos. It’s like you read my mind.”

“Yes, I’m psychic.” I collapsed into an empty chair with a sigh.

She stared at me, her bright blue eyes taking me in. “Rough morning?”

“Ugh.” I covered my face with my hands.

“Is it the clinic or your sis?”

“Both. Got a domestic violence case just now. Chick is denying it and not even trying to do a good job of it.”

“Maybe she needs a knight in shining armor.” Jodie shrugged, taking a bite of her taco.

I snorted. “Yeah, well, best of luck getting through her meathead boyfriend.”

“Is she like… hot?”

I opened my eyes to glare at her. “Did you not hear the part where I said she’s in an abusive relationship?”

Jodie shrugged. “You know I’m a sucker for a damsel in distress.”

“You’re a sucker for any damsel.”

“Hey!”

I grinned at her, feeling a lot better. “What? You know I call them as I see them.”

She shrugged. “Fair.” She handed me a taco, “Now eat and tell me what else is bothering you. You look rough, and I know it’s not just because of this.”

“Jeez, thanks. Always good to know that I look as bad as I feel.”

“You know what I mean.”

I sighed. “Yeah. I do.” I bit into the taco.

“So, what’s up, doc? Is it your sis?”

I sighed, leaning on my hands before telling her about our visit to the detective. She was outraged on my behalf and totally agreed with me that the detective was hiding something.

“Dick. Do you think he’s on someone’s payroll?”

I stared at her. I hadn’t even thought of that. I just thought he was being a lazy son of a bitch. “You think so?”

“Hey, Jeffrey Epstein had some cops in his pockets.”

My eyes widened further. “She’s too old to be caught up in something like that.”

“Would you prefer to think that she’s dead?”

I didn’t want to think about that.

“Well… anyway, I’ll find out soon enough,” I said.

“What do you mean by that?”

I gave Jodie a side-eye. She was my best friend, and she had my back, but I didn’t feel comfortable bringing anyone else into my plan. If I told her what I intended on doing, she might have insisted on helping me… or changing my mind. If I knew one thing for sure, it was that my plan was dangerous and possibly stupid. I wasn’t going to drag anyone else into it.

“Let’s talk about something else. I need a distraction from the bad dreams and the worse thoughts. What are you up to?”

“Nothing fun. Madly swiping left on Tinder, trying to find my soulmate.” She shrugged but her blue eyes twinkled.

I had to laugh. “Maybe lower your expectations a bit?”

“Okay, fine. I just want a hot girl with a sharp mind and one hell of an ass.”

“Ah, much more attainable.” I grinned as I took another bite of my taco. I sat back and we ate in silence. I felt the peace of the morgue wash over me, the deep quiet, the sense of profundity brought about by the fact that we were surrounded by the end of life. It was impossible to think petty thoughts while I was down here.

Jodie finished her taco and wiped her hands on her tissue. She straightened up, grabbing her latte and sipping at it with a frown on her face. She flicked back her dark hair and focused on me.

“So… to return to your Detective Reed. What are you gonna do? Report him to his superiors?”

I gave her a look. “Does that ever work?”

She shrugged. “No idea.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

She lowered her head. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’ll figure it out.”

Jodie shook her head at me. “What are you planning, my dear scheming friend?”

My mouth twisted as I took a sip of my coffee. “Something stupid, obviously.”

Chapter Three

Alexei

I threw my head back, almost hitting the wall behind me, and I bit my bottom lip to suppress any sound. Jules’ mouth was a godsend, sucking the soul out of my dick like it was her job. She was nothing if not a pro—a valuable resource to have when I was feeling stressed.

My hips jerked as I grunted, coming down her throat.

She pulled away with a soft moan, giving me a lustful look from beneath her lashes. She was kneeling on the floor of my office between my legs, my desk at her back. It was a great look for her, but I knew she was about to start some shit. Asking for a performance review or when we could see each other again.

I had a feeling she was starting to get the wrong idea about us.

The door opened, and Kirill, one of my Brigadiers, came in. “Papa, we have a problem in the club.”

All my brigadiers called me Papa or Pakhan to show their respect. After all, I was the boss. But Kirill and I had grown up together in this business, so it felt weird when he called me that. When we were alone, he stuck with Alexei, but as soon as anyone else was around, he shifted into formality.

I liked that about him. When people saw someone as close to me as Kirill giving me my due respect, it didn’t even occur to them not to do the same.

“What problem?” I pushed Jules off me, buttoning up my fly as I got to my feet.

“Fight broke out on the floor. One of the girls is involved. You want me to take care of it?”

I was tempted for a moment. Blowing my load always left me with a pleasant high for a few minutes. It would have been nice to bask in it.

But then conflict spurred a different but equally attractive kind of adrenaline, and I could walk and chew gum. I shook my head. “Let’s go.”

The Pandemonium was a private club. It had nothing to do with the mob business. It belonged wholly to me, all above board and legal. Almost. Aside from it being an excellent place to launder money, the club was also great for hearing things. My clientele was a mixed pot: other gangs looking to party on neutral ground; rich kids wanting to flirt with danger; Wall Street types wanting to relax somewhere they didn’t have to put up a front; politicians too, mostly those looking to make deals with criminals.

As a result, I expected a certain level of professionalism from my workers. This wasn’t some hole-in-the-wall place. It was a classy joint. I expected my employees to behave accordingly.

Pandemonium had three levels, the first being a dance floor, with a DJ booth and a bar, strobe lights, house music, the works. I had a few girls working the floor, supplying the Wall Street types with every drug they could dream of.

The second floor was the strip club—we had theme nights. Monique, my entertainment manager, set them up. There were cowboy nights on Mondays, where anyone who could stay on the mechanical bull for two minutes got a free, private, lap dance.

We had a live band that played all the country songs.

Tuesdays was BBW night where our plus sized strippers did their thing. It’s been surprising to see what a draw they were. Wednesdays was drag queens. Thursdays, college nights. And Fridays, was free for all.

The third floor was more exclusive—I call it, VIP. Admission was by appointment only. Patrons could order dinner, have their secret meetings, drink the night away, order up strippers, dancers, or drugs, a stenographer, videographer, fax machine… Whatever they wanted, the butler would supply. It was swept for bugs twice a night and no phones were allowed.

I took the elevator down to the second floor, Kirill by my side. It was still early on a Monday night, so thankfully it wasn’t packed yet. There were two men in the open space surrounding the stage, beating the shit out of each other. I sighed, squared my knuckles, and dove in. Taking each man by the scruff of their shirts like dogs, I shook them apart.

“Alright, fuckers. Either of you wanna tell me what’s going on?” I demanded.

One of the men growled, trying to break free of my hold and come at me. I didn’t spend six days a week with a trainer bench pressing three hundred pounds so that some punk in my club could attack me.

I let go of the first guy and punched the second one in the face. Then, quick as a flash, I resumed my hold on the first guy and brought him right up to my face, his feet almost hanging off the ground.

I was never one to display my physical power for fun. But now and then, just to remind the hoi polloi who the hell I was, I did let myself go.

I shook him a bit as he looked at me with wide, scared eyes. “You think this is some piss-soaked back-alley fight club, huh? Nah—here, you drink under me.”

The guy started stammering a reply. He looked to his right where one of my dancers was standing, her arms crossed, shoulders hunched over and looking stressed.

I curled my lip in disgust. “You’re fighting over a girl?”

He blubbered a little more, nothing intelligible, before I threw him on top of the other guy. I looked up at my security that was standing around, ready for anything. “Throw these shitbags out, would you?”

I stepped over the two sprawled bodies before my men picked them up and heaved them off, stalking the girl. I could see her beginning to hyperventilate, her face pale, hands trembling. I came to a stop, looming over her. “Care to explain yourself?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I told him not to come. But my boyfriend gets so jealous and—”

I snorted, lifting a hand up. “Save it. I don’t have time for this.” I raised my voice so the other dancers could hear me. “When you come here to work, you leave your domestic bullshit at the door. I don’t wanna waste my time breaking up fights. You think this is Coyote Ugly? My patrons come here to have a good time, not to be subjected to your baby daddy bullshit. Last warning.” I snapped my fingers before pointing at the stripper in front of me who was trying to sneak away. “Not you. You’re fired.”

She actually whimpered before going down on her knees. “Please, sir! It’ll never happen again. I’ll tell Rob to stay away, I promi—”

“If I had a dime for every time I heard ‘it’ll never happen again’, I’d be rich enough to retire. Go on. Get out. Tell Rob thanks from me.”

She began to cry.

Honestly… I could only roll my eyes. “Come on, stop with that. I’m not gonna hire you back. Collect your things and go.” I pointed sternly towards the door.

“Sir, please.” She came closer, looking me in the eye and trying to bat her eyelashes. “I’ll do anything,” she whispered.

“Yeah? Then leave.”

It annoyed me when girls thought that their pussies could get them out of anything. I turned my back on her as one of my security men took her by the arm, trusting that she got the message.

But something made me look up towards the bar. There was a woman there, staring at me, her dark eyes laser-focused and bright with interest. I found myself changing direction as if a literal magnet was pulling me towards her. She wasn’t the prettiest girl I’d ever seen, but something about the way she stood, the look in her eyes, set her apart from all the other girls in this place.

“Hey,” I said confidently, leaning on the bar next to her. “Sorry you had to see that.” I waved vaguely towards the middle of the now cleared room.

She shrugged. “Don’t apologize. Seeing you pick up that guy so effortlessly was something else.”

Her eyes twinkled with… something. Not really mirth, lust, or interest. More like an amalgam of all those plus some other, undefined emotion. It had me intrigued.

Who was this girl?

I held out my hand. “Alexei Levin, at your service. You have a name?”

She looked at my hand for a moment, as if making up her mind about something. Then she slid her much smaller hand into mine, looking me in the eye. “Nora Walsh—at yours.”

I shook her hand slowly, drowning in her dark eyes. Unlike most people who met me, she didn’t seem the least bit afraid. Maybe, she didn’t let her fear stop her from holding my gaze. I could see the wariness in her eyes, how watchful she was of me, which let me know she knew who I was.

“So, Nora, come here often? Haven’t seen you before.”

Her eyes slid to the place where the dancer had been standing. She looked back at me with a quirked eyebrow. “Yeah, well,” she threw me a one-shouldered shrug, “this isn’t my usual beat.”

“Oh yeah? And what is?” I clicked my fingers at the bartender, indicating that they should replenish Nora’s drink. They did so and brought me my usual—a white Russian. Puns be damned.

“I thought I was out of the business.” Her mouth twisted, “Been out of town, doing the domestic thing. But that didn’t work out.”

My mouth turned down. I gave her a disappointed look. “Damn, don’t tell me. Crazy ex?”

She laughed and then leaned in, beckoning me to do the same. I gave her my ear, eager to hear what she had to say. “The gag is, I’m the crazy ex,” she whispered, her warm breath ghosting against my skin.

I actually laughed out loud. I was not expecting that. I leaned back, seeing that she was smiling up at me. And she had dimples… kissable dimples.

This might be a problem.

“Do tell,” I said.

She inclined her head, mouth turning down. “He made me quit my job all of a sudden… which means no references, right? Took me to this town in the middle of nowhere and substituted my birth control with sugar pills. Blew through my savings while he was ‘looking for a job’, all the while selling me this line about happily ever after. My sister just died, so I wanted to believe him so bad.” Her voice broke and she swallowed hard but didn’t burst into tears or anything. I reached out and squeezed her hand. It would work in my favor to console her.

She gave me a quick, humorless smile. “Finally woke up. Skipped out of town with the one thing he loved. A Harley-Davidson. Mint condition. Sold it when I got back into the city, but I kinda need to get some work… fast.” She looked at me and smirked. “You know what I mean?”

I couldn’t help raking over her body from head to toe. She wore a white chiffon blouse which was practically transparent in the neon lights. I could see the twin peaks of her breasts pushing into a black lacy bra. There was nothing extraordinary about them and yet my palm itched to curve beneath the swell of them and squeeze. My mouth watered at the thought of suckling her nipple through her shirt, wetting the material so it clung to her skin and rendered her practically naked.

I could feel my body react to my fantasies. I wasn’t used to feeling so out of control.

What hoodoo even is this?

“You want to work for me?” My voice was fairly level, which was gratifying.

“I wanna work in your club, if you’ll have me.”

The way she said it… I was ready to plow her right there.

I cleared my throat. “Let’s talk in my office.”

She nodded, following me as I made my way to the elevator, parting the crowds like Moses did the Red Sea.

I know this is stupid. I know it.

I hardly knew anything about this girl—she was an unknown quantity. For all I knew, she could have been a Fed. Yet there I was, letting my dick lead me into trouble for the first time in my life. She stood in front of me in the lift, turning her back on me. I could smell her. She smelled of mint and strawberry. It was a pleasant scent. Not intoxicating. And yet I wanted to lean forward and bury my face in her neck.
There was another smell. One I knew well. One that fascinated me more than the rest.
It was the smell of fear.

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