“I’m sick of you following me around!” She begins to shout. “I don’t care what my uncle said. If you won’t leave me alone, I’ll report you to the police!”

  I guess I have my answer.

  It’s a damn convincing display of anger, and as much as I hate it, I follow her lead. “You’ll do as I say, or–”

  Smack! She cuts off my reply with a stinging slap across my face.

  I’m stunned by the force of her blow, and rage explodes in my chest. Grabbing her upper arms, I give her a shake. “Don’t ever hit me again.”

  Our eyes meet, and while her mouth is set in defiance, her eyes glitter with confidence. I release her with a little shove, then I step in close, speaking under my breath.

  “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Her response is equally low. “Don’t believe everything you see.”

  Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she spins on her heel and storms away, leaving me on the balcony. She doesn’t make it to the oversized French doors before two girls scurry out, huddling at her side.

  “Blake! What happened? Are you okay?” The darker one holds her chest, worried eyes flitting from her to me. “Isn’t he that private investigator?”

  “Natasha, it’s nothing.” Blake takes her arm, raising her voice again. “Some people don't know when their services are no longer necessary.”

  The little one beside them, holds her dress, looking panicked. “I can call security if you want?”

  It’s my cue, and I take it. Striding towards them forcefully, I pause before passing. “That’s the last time I stick my neck out for you.”

  “Fine!” she shoots back, and it takes all my willpower to keep walking.

  This feels like a mistake, but I’ll give her what she needs–for forty-eight hours.

  “There’s one intelligent person for every five or six in these groups.” My brother talks absently as the noise of his fingers tapping the keys fills the background. “It’s why criminals always get caught. This guy is not the leader–he’s one of the weak links.”

  “We need to find the leader.”

  My chest is tight, as I wait on the line for my brother to work his magic. He verified she made the payment late last night. Now he’s waiting for it to move.

  I feel like I’ve betrayed my promise to Hugh. Blake is out there doing who knows what, and I’m allowing it. “Keep an eye on her, Dirk. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

  “From what you’ve told me, it sounds like Trip might be the skeleton key to all this. Why don’t you try and find out what he knows while you’re waiting?”

  “It’ll at least give me something to do. I’ll catch up with him tonight. For now, I want to see what Dad knows.” Glancing at my watch, it’s after noon. “He’s always easier to talk to after his two-martini lunch.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  My father’s office has a view of the Statue of Liberty. When I was younger, I thought he must have the best job ever to have such a view. As I got older, I learned more about what he did as a day trader, the lies, the women, the alcohol, and the drugs, and my opinion changed.

  “All these NFTs.” I watch Hoyt Winston slide his finger across the screen of his computer. “I can’t decide if investors are dumber now or if they simply have so much money, they don’t care what they do with it.”

  “Isn’t that the majority of your client base?” My arms are crossed, and I’m looking out his window at the ferry miles below headed out to Staten Island.

  “Competition is at an all-time high.” He grumbles like he doesn’t love his work. “It’s the eighties all over again. Greed is good.”

  Blake is on my mind, and I’m anxious to wrap this up and check in with my brother, be sure she’s okay. “What do you know about Victor Petrova?”

  Turning to face him, I see his brow is furrowed as if he’s trying to remember. “Hell, I haven't heard that name in a while. He was a regular Bernie Madoff. Last I heard, he got what was coming to him.”

  “You think he’s dead?”

  “He’s been gone so long without a word, I think we’ve all come to the same conclusion. He cheated the wrong person and got nailed for it.” Leaning back in his chair, he surveys me. “Why do you ask?”

  “Doing some work for a client. He embezzled money from their estate.”

  Dad nods, studying me. He doesn’t remark, rather he looks down at his computer, exhaling a laugh. “I never dreamed I’d have a son like you.”

  He’s slim and fair, more like Dirk than me, and I’m not sure how to take his judgment. “I guess we don’t always get what we want.”

  “Are you getting what you want?” His eyes are on me, and I meet his hazel gaze.

  “I’m on the right track. How about you?”

  “I don’t know.” He rises out of his chair, rounding his desk and leaning on the edge. “Still searching for that magic pill, I guess. Lord knows I’ve made enough money to buy it.”

  “Good luck with that.” I don’t shake his hand. I’m not even sure why I came here. I could verify Victor’s status without his help. “See you later, Dad.”

  Descending in the elevator, something Hugh told me crosses my mind, Money doesn’t buy happiness. It only reveals your true character.

  I’d add the way a person makes his or her money is another indicator–if anyone’s paying attention.

  I’m paying attention, and I quickly text my brother. Headed out to find Trip. Got a 20?

  Gray dots float, and his reply appears. Found him. Dropping a pin.

  I open the maps app before tapping my next question. Everything good with Blake?

  More dots, only this time, I don’t like what I see. She’s on the move.

  Concrete is in my gut, and I decide Trip can wait. I need to keep my promise. Send me hers as well.

  In less than a second, I’ve got both pins, and I know where I’m going next.

  21

  Blake

  My apartment doesn't feel safe anymore.

  The city doesn’t feel safe.

  After what Trip told me and the clear signs I’m being watched, I want to finish this as quickly as possible and get back to Hamiltown, back to Hana. Walking around my empty apartment, I shake my hands, doing my best to remind myself Scar is there. Dirk is there. They’ll keep an eye on her, and they have more muscle than I do.

  Last night, after our little drama on the balcony, Natasha and Rainey accompanied me home. They’re more Hana’s friends, having come on the scene while I was in Connecticut with the nuns, and I’ve never been fully comfortable with them.

  Still, I have to play the part for now. I endured Natasha stroking my hair and commiserating how men can be so insensitive. She asked me how I’m feeling since Debbie. It all sounded caring, but I felt an undercurrent of fishing.

  Rainey is simply young and clueless. She’s eighteen, old enough to be in the group, get in the bars owned or influenced by the guys, but she’s not very sophisticated. She follows Natasha around like a puppy trying to make Fetch happen.

  I pretended to be sad. I pretended to be frustrated with Hana’s antics. When the clock struck two, I pretended to be tired, and they finally went home.

  Once I was alone, I transferred the money to the fucking account of that idiot Papi-O. It burned in my chest to send that money. My conversation with Trip made me realize I’m a mark, and these morons are convinced they can threaten me with anything if it will keep my sister out of the tabloids.

  My one consolation is Hutch’s promise Dirk can get it back. I’m counting on that.

  Today, I’ve been counting down the minutes until I can confront Greg. Natasha and Rainey are my link, as it seems the asshole is already dating Natasha. Debbie’s not even cold in the ground–or ashes in her family’s mausoleum–and he’s already moved on.

  I’m pacing my room when my phone lights up with a text from Natasha. Hanging at Gibson’s tonight. See you around seven?

  My heart beats faster, and I quickly reply. Who’s in the group?

  Don’t know. I’m meeting Greg. You in?

  It’s all I needed to know, and I quickly tap out a yes.

  I’m taking a big chance confronting him, but I’ve never been one to cower in fear. He’s fucking with the wrong van Hamilton.

  Gibson’s is an old-school cigar bar, which is saying something these days. Smoking is banned in all bars and restaurants in New York City, but in Gibson’s, with it’s wine-colored leather furniture, carpeted walls, and heavy velvet curtains, the air is thick with cigar smoke. The counters are lined with whiskey and bourbon and assorted spirits, and the atmosphere is something out of a bygone era.

  Frank Sinatra’s “Summer Wind” plays softly over the speakers, and a low roar of voices comes from clusters of men of all ages dressed in suits and gathered along the brass-studded, wooden bar or sitting in round, leather booths.

  Women in high-fashion, skimpy cocktail dresses drift through the room carrying glasses of champagne. Their hair is perfect, their makeup on point, and they’re clearly escorts for hire.

  “It’s like stepping back in time,” Natasha giggles, holding my arm as we descend the stairs to the basement bar.

  A velvet rope lines the entrance on street level, but the crowd is sparse. Patrons are permitted by invitation only at Gibson’s. You can wait all night in the cold winter air, but you’re not getting in unless you know someone.

  I know Greg, and my intention is to find him. I plan to tell him to back off Hana and then go home. I’m not looking for conflict. I only want him to leave us alone.

  I’ll go back to my apartment, shower the cigar smoke out of my hair, pack my things, and leave this city. With all that’s happened, New York doesn’t feel like home to me anymore.

  The doorman doesn’t even question us as we enter the smoggy, open bar area. He knows we’re Greg’s friends.

  Laughter erupts from a table in the far right corner. I can’t see who’s there, but I see a bald guy in a suit smoking a cigar with a pretty brunette draped over his shoulder. It’s impossible to know if they’re together or if she’s looking for a daddy.

  “Want a martini? I’ll order us martinis.” Natasha clasps my hand and drags me with her to the bar.

  She’s dressed up in an emerald green bustier over a wide-striped black and white, long-sleeved dress. I’m in a simple, black silk sheath with spaghetti straps. We checked our faux furs at the door, and we blend in well with this vintage venue and its patrons.

  Leaning against the bar, I scan the crowd of mostly white men for his face. They all blend together, entitled men of privilege showing off their ability to flout the rules in an environment where anything could happen.

  Natasha puts a slim cocktail glass in my hand and hisses, “There he is!” like she just spotted Elvis. Or Old Blue Eyes himself.

  Greg descends the stairs in a solid maroon suit and black shirt and tie that set off his pale features and black eyes. I shoot my martini, ready to get this done, when Natasha laces our fingers and drags me to where he takes a seat in one of the booths.

  “Hello, handsome.” She slides into his side, and he lifts an arm to allow her proximity.

  I sit, straight-backed like a soldier at the outer edge, tracing my fingers along the stem of my now empty martini glass. I’m starting to feel the effects of shooting straight gin.

  “Did you have a nice time at the gala, Blake?” His lazy voice reaches me from the bowels of the wine-colored leather.

  Blinking up, I meet his dark gaze. “I saw my mother.”

  His brow quirks, and he smirks over at Natasha. “Always a plus, I presume.”

  Natasha snorts into her glass, and I clear my throat. “Can I speak to you for a moment? In private?”

  Without missing a beat, he slides to the edge of the circular booth. “I was waiting for you to ask.”

  I’m sure you were. The thought drifts through my mind, but I follow silently as we walk to the back of the bar, through a set of wooden double doors, into a small, solid-black room with bench seats against each wall. It appears to be a peep-show room, if there are peep shows at Gibson’s, which I’ve never heard of before.

  “What’s on your mind?” He sits on the black velvet bench, spreading his arms wide like I’m about to give him a lap dance.

  “I heard you’re looking for my sister.”

  Tilting his chin, he exhales a laugh. “I already found your sister.”

  “I heard you’re after her for a crime you think she committed.”

  “My uncle is missing. I’ve searched all his records, and they all lead back to your family, specifically your sister.” I’ve never noticed the touch of an accent in Greg’s voice, but I hear it now, crisp eastern European.

  “Your uncle stole from us. He hurt her. That doesn’t mean Hana had anything to do with whatever happened to him.”

  He leans forward, resting his forearms on his legs. “I think it does. And you've come to me, knowing full well what I’m seeking.”

  “Because Trip told me.”

  Leaning back again, he exhales a laugh, revealing too many teeth. “You Americans have loose tongues and no loyalty. I follow the old ways. My people don’t allow our brothers to go down unavenged. No one gets in our way, no man… or woman.”

  His black eyes glitter, and ice shoots through my veins. Old ways? His people? What the fuck? All at once, I realize I need to get out of here. Now.

  “You're one of them.” My voice is barely a whisper. “What is this? Russian mafia?”

  “There’s no such thing as a Russian mafia.” He stares at me with the coldest eyes, and my stomach dips.

  He’s saying it, but I’m not stupid enough to believe it.

  A shudder moves through me, and I step backwards to the door. Rising to his feet, he holds me in a death glare as he closes the space between us. His hands rise, and I think he’ll grab me when the double doors part, and a deep voice breaks the moment.

  “I’m here to collect my client.” Hutch catches my upper arm, pulling me to his chest. “Sorry for the disruption.”

  He holds me firmly as he leads me out, wrapping his thick wool topcoat over my bare shoulders to hide my shuddering. The temperature inside Gibson’s is eighty degrees. I’m not shaking from the cold.

  My coat is forgotten as Hutch moves with purpose, sweeping me from the back room through the main bar and up the stairs to a silent, waiting black SUV.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t give you more time.” His deep voice is quiet, but I’m not worried about his interference.

  My mind is swirling, and as much as I search for a way out, I can't find one.

  This is bigger than gambling debts. It’s bigger than blackmail, and I can only think of one way it will end.

  22

  Hutch

  Blake’s gaze is fixed on the glittering night scenery flying past her window in my black SUV. She doesn’t speak, and I think she’s finally coming to terms with the danger of her situation.

  My driver stops at the entrance to her apartment building, and I wait, unsure if I should follow her out or leave her at the door.

  “You should come up,” she says softly.

  I step out of the vehicle, pausing only to tell my driver I’ll call him if I need him.

  We walk into the lobby in silence. It’s a beige circular room with a desk and a doorman who tips his hat.

  Elevators line one wall, and a small room to the right contains the mailboxes for the building. Blake goes straight to the elevators, and a short, gray-haired man in a green uniform opens the doors.

  “Miss Blake,” he greets her, and we step inside.

  We’re silent in the small box, and her eyes are downcast. Even though her confidence has taken a hit, I can see she’s doing her best to regroup, and I can’t help admiring her fortitude, even if I believe it’s misguided.

  I know from experience there’s only one way to handle men like Greg Peters, and it’s with brute force. His kind only responds to the biggest dick on the block, which he’s going to learn is mine.

  The bell dings at her floor, and she steps forward to touch the elevator operator’s arm. “Take us to the roof, Rusty.”

  The older gentleman nods, and the doors close again. He turns a key and we rise higher, stopping inside a hooded metal cage. The doors open, and he steps out, parting the shaky metal gate.

  “Just buzz when you’re ready to come down,” Rusty says, and she nods, giving him the faintest smile.

  The doors close, and we’re alone. She reaches out and takes my hand, leading me across the slab of concrete as wide as the building below.

  “You showed me your favorite part of Hamiltown.” Her voice is quiet. “I’ll show you my favorite part of New York.”

  My shoulders relax, and I let her lead me. “I’d love to see it.”

  I want her to tell me what Peters said tonight, but more than that, I want things to be the way they were between us, before the fighting.

  The roof is lined with a shoulder-high ledge of beige clay tiles. She walks to where a planter stands holding a pot with viney leaves spilling out of the top and leans her forearms against the barrier looking out.

  Glancing back at me, she motions for me to join her, and I walk to where she stands in her sexy black dress that shows off all her gorgeous curves. Her arms are crossed, and I can’t tell if she’s cold. The wind sweeps her long, dark waves away from her shoulders, and when I look out, the view of the skyline is breathtaking.

  The city streets are far below, and straight ahead, the lights of New York ripple out like a magic carpet of glittering white and neon. Skyscraper upon skyscraper is illuminated in a mosaic of gilded yellow squares. One way looks out to the Hudson, the other, to the East River. It’s a panoramic view of the city that never sleeps.

  “I used to think I was a part of it.” Her voice is resigned. “I used to think this was my town. I was Carrie Bradshaw or Gossip Girl. I was a fool. This town belongs to the men with the money and the hate to run it. I’ve only ever been one wrong step from being a victim here.”