“Go big or go home, right?”
“Right,” he says. “Are you working with George Amello? Is that why you were at his club?”
I shake my head. “Someone has been robbing him. He accused me. I didn’t appreciate the insinuation, so I made an appearance to tell him how I felt about his finger pointing.”
He laughs. “I must confess—that is my fault.”
“You? Figured you were above petty larceny.”
“I am,” he says. “It was personal.”
“Personal? What did he do to you?”
“He has my girl.”
“The one you were looking for? Morgan?”
I have to force myself to use her real name.
He nods, pointing his bottle at me. “That is the one.”
“So he took a woman from you,” I say, trying to riddle it out. “Seems to me, looking at this place, you’re not exactly hurting. Is one woman really worth all that?”
He doesn’t seem to like what I’m saying. His slack expression grows hard, his shoulders squaring. Yeah, she’s worth it to him. She’s worth more than I might’ve realized.
After guzzling the last of his liquor, he shoves to his feet and strolls back over to the bar. For getting drunk so fast, his walk is awfully steady. He exchanges his empty bottle for a full one as he says, “She is different.”
Different. I can tell he means that. Hell, he almost sounds sentimental about it, like he might actually feel something for Scarlet.
“I do not like when people take what is mine,” he says, turning back around. “She is very pretty, my Morgan, and she knows it. She uses it to her advantage. It makes men want to help her, as if she needs help.” He laughs bitterly, cracking open the bottle. “She is like a siren of the sea, and the only thing that might be stronger than her call is my money. That is why I will give half a million dollars to whoever coughs her up.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“It is,” he agrees. “It is also a lot of incentive.”
That it is.
I know quite a few people who would sell out their own mother for that kind of cash. Scarlet doesn’t stand a chance. They say you can’t put a price tag on feelings, but I’m pretty fucking sure half a million is a big enough payday to wipe that away.
For most people.
“What are you going to do with her when you find her?” I ask, the irony of this whole moment not lost on me. It wasn’t long ago I was looking for the same damn woman and Seven asked me this exact question. Because men like me... men like Aristov? We react on principle. It’s ego. We’d pay half a million dollars to get our hands on someone just for the chance to watch them bleed out, and it would be worth every penny to us.
“That is my business,” he says, that answer not a surprise. Pretty sure I said something similar. He walks toward me, setting his bottle down on the table before reaching into his back pocket for a wallet. Flipping it open, he pulls out something tucked in one of the pockets, shoved in behind credit cards and who knows what else.
A photo, I realize, when he holds it out to me.
I take it carefully.
It’s worn and scratched up, the edges frayed, like he’s pulled it out and shoved it back away hundreds of times. Brown hair is pulled up, messy on top of her head, some loose strands falling down around her face. It’s Scarlet, without a doubt, but at the same time, it’s not the Scarlet I know. The girl in the picture is young—fourteen, maybe fifteen. Still a teenager, her face slightly rounded, soft with a bit of innocence. Not a hell of a lot, but some. She’s smiling her half-smile, like she’s as happy as she could possibly be, which isn’t really happy at all. More like not quite as beaten down.
“That was taken a few years ago,” he says. “She is a bit older, but she is still the same pretty girl.”
Before I can respond, there’s a knock on the door to the office. Aristov folds his wallet up, shoving it in his pocket, and snatches up his liquor bottle as he yells, “Come in!”
The door opens, a man walking in. I saw him once, at Mystic—the guy that was with Aristov, the big burly motherfucker that looks a lot like him. He hesitates when he sees me, eyes narrowing.
“What are you doing here, Markel?” Aristov asks.
“Needed to talk to you about...” Markel trails off, staring at me, before he turns to Aristov. “Am I interrupting something?”
“I was just leaving,” I say, standing up, waving my bottle of rum at Aristov. “Thanks for the drink.”
“Anytime,” he says.
I glance at the picture once more before holding it out to Aristov. He takes it back, gazing down at it in his hand as I walk away. I stroll past Markel, who watches me go.
Limerence is packed, my men nowhere in sight.
So I leave, because tonight’s not the night to start trouble, even if trouble sounds like a lot of damn fun right now. Security at the door doesn’t say a word as I leave, carrying the rum with me, because fuck it.
It’s mine now.
Seven lingers by the curb, my shadow in the darkness. He hasn’t even moved. He looks at me as I approach, assessing, like he’s figuring out what happened without asking. I get in my car, not bothering with the seatbelt, taking a swig as Seven joins me.
“Find what you were looking for?” he asks.
“Even more.”
“That’s good,” he says, hesitating before adding, “It is good, right?”
“I don’t know.” I glance at the club, my gaze skimming along the red cursive. “He wants her.”
“Who?”
“Scarlet.”
He lets out a low whistle. “What does he want with her?”
“Didn’t say, but he’s offering one hell of a reward to whoever hands her over.”
He drives away from the club, merging into traffic. Not a word is spoken, but I can see him fidgeting, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel.
He’s wondering if I’m going to take the offer.
He doesn’t ask, though.
Maybe he’s afraid of hearing my answer.
Maybe, deep down, he already knows.
Chapter Eighteen
I don’t have cable. Hell, there isn’t even a television in this rundown apartment. No Wi-Fi. No computer.
I’ve got a cell phone, of course, one of those cheap prepaid burner ones, loaded with minutes in case of an emergency, but I usually forget to charge it, so a lot of good that does.
I used to have a stereo, but not anymore. Music surrounded me too many nights as it was and reminded me that I became this woman, the one who danced until her feet had blisters, the one who wore skimpy lingerie to work.
The woman I never wanted to be.
A woman I might never get away from.
I miss it all sometimes. I miss the noise. Movies. Music. Laughter. Fun. I miss dancing for the hell of it and playing games. The only time I run anymore is when I’m being chased.
Just once, I want to throw caution to the wind again, go where my heart leads me instead of always worrying, worrying, worrying. I want to laugh, and shout, and sing at the top of my lungs, dance in the moonlight and actually feel happy about it for once. Yeah, right. I want to hear birds chirping instead of men catcalling. I want to hear music playing that makes me smile instead of—
A doorknob turning.
Shit.
My head snaps up, eyes going straight to the apartment door. Even in the darkness, I can see it slowly opening.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I move as silently as possible, running on my tiptoes, grateful the wooden floor doesn’t squeak as I dart into the kitchen. Snatching a knife from the drawer, I slide into the small space beside the fridge, pressed up against the wall, my heart frantically racing. I try to hold my breath, straining my ears, listening for footsteps, or movement, or something. Maybe heavy breathing?
I hear nothing.
It’s silent, and still, the air frigid in the apartment, so cold my teeth chatter as I shiver. Or maybe that’s from fear, dumbass. I stay in place, hiding, waiting, but nothing’s happening.
Minutes tick away.
Maybe I’m going insane.
It’s dark. I could’ve imagined it, right?