A part of me bristles at her tone. She’s so damn nonchalant, as if this is all nothing more than a game. “And then Eli will wind up dead, and I’ll be the fool who trusted the word of a penniless whore rather than his gut instinct.”
“I am no whore, soldier.” Her eyes cut to slits. I insulted her this time. “As paranoid as you are, if you should know anything about me, it’s this—I only care about myself. Sabotaging Johnathan’s plans are to my benefit, no more, no less.”
“What about your son?”
She raises an eyebrow. “And what about your Willow? She’s in the hands of a madman while you go gallivanting around the city with me. It seems we both have skewed priorities.”
Damn. I can’t argue that point.
“What is your real plan?”
“What I’ve said.” She steps from the mirror and extends her hand. “You give me your keys and your I.D. I get onto the boat; find the information we need. I’ll tell you where the explosion will be. And voila. You rescue me on your shining white horse, and all is well.”
“And you just leave potentially hundreds of people to die?”
She blinks. “If you want to waste time being a hero, by all means. I won’t stop you.”
I can’t tell if her indifference is for show. Should I be surprised if it isn’t?
Though, her apparent lack of empathy is the least of our problems.
“Let me see if I have this straight—your plan is to go prancing back, ask him nicely what his strategy is, and then escape unharmed? That’s childish.”
She chuckles. “No. It’s reckless, dear soldier. And I have found that recklessness can succeed where the best-laid plans fail. Now cough it up, please. Your keys and the I.D.”
“And I’m supposed to put my faith in you?” For whatever reason, I’m already fishing one of her requested items from my pocket—the keys. Curiosity could be the sole reason. Is she bold enough to try taking them?
“Yes,” she says simply. “Trust me, you don’t have a better option.”
But I can think of several—all of them requiring resources that would take time and energy to amass. If she’s lying, it’s no risk to better prepare.
But if she’s not…
“Keep your phone on you,” she snaps, very much like an heiress commanding a servant. “I won’t have long. An hour at most. Then I’ll need to run.”
“From a boat?”
“That’s your responsibility,” she says. “Because there’s more I haven’t told you yet. You want to know? I suggest you keep me alive.”
She saunters into the bathroom.
“I should have had you get me some makeup,” she scolds. “A natural look will have to do.”
Minutes later, she reemerges, her hair dried, flowing in waves down her shoulders, her heels in place.
She saunters past me and pauses, glancing back. “Oh damn. I think I left my panties in there. Be a doll and fetch them for me?”
I’m too lost in thought to argue. I’ve barely crossed the threshold when I hear the door to the suite open and slam shut.
“Fuck!”
I must get there not even a second later, but when I open the door, the hall is empty.
She’s already gone.
I don’t have the energy to care. I’ve probably played into her trap, but I deserve to be burned. Forget the bitch. Willow should be my main focus. She’s engaged to Donatello Vanici...
But not for long if I have any say.
I grab my phone and cycle through my contacts. No one associated with the mafiya answers. The last number I try is Mischa.
It rings, but he doesn’t answer.
For the first time, I’m more alarmed than irritated. What the hell is going on?
You must have been blacklisted, Ev, Mario claimed. Though, how can I be sure he sent that message in the first place? The technological side of the manor’s security was never my purview. Is it really so advanced as to block a single caller?
It smells fishy to me. A good way to test that theory would be to get ahold of my own burner and try calling from it—but that would take time. Considering most of the stores are closed by now, anyway, it’s time I don’t have.
Left with no choice, I’ll need to expand my horizons if I want any outside information. Briar Winthorp herself hinted at the perfect method for doing so. How did she put it? Friends in low places...
There aren’t many whose numbers I still know by heart. Figuratively, I’ll have to scrape the bottom of the barrel as far as contacts go. I almost hope the first man I settle on doesn’t answer. Unfortunately, the son of a bitch picks up on the first ring.
“If it isn’t little Evgeni! It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you.”
“Hello Louie,” I reply.
The fact that he’s shouting—and the clinking glass and murmuring voices audible in the background—suggests he’s drinking, most likely at a bar. I’m not surprised.
“Are you too drunk for information?”
“That depends.” His tone shifts, suddenly level. “How much are you offering, and what do you want to know?”
I’m not inclined to get into the full story, opting for a quick summary instead. “Stepanov. Vanici. Saleri. Harmon. You keep your ear to the streets. Tell me if any of those names have been heard floating around the usual gossip.”
He laughs. “Is this a trick question? What the hell is a Harmon, anyway?”
“This was a mistake.” I start to hang up.
“Wait! Wait! That last name I can’t help you with, but as for Stepanov… Let’s just say that people have been talking.”
“What kind of talk?”
“Before we get into specifics, let me ask you a question. Why are you calling me, anyway? Aren’t you up Mischa’s ass these days? Besides, you know my price for information. Lately, you’ve seemed too high and mighty to—”
“I’ll pay it,” I say absently. Later I’ll worry about the deal I’m making—one with the literal devil. If Mischa
