Glancing down at my sister, she rolls her eyes before falling back on the bed. “Nooo!”

  “Come on. I don’t want to leave you here alone.”

  “Natasha is fucking annoying. She’s such a suck-up, I feel like she’s sucking my soul whenever I’m around her.”

  “So, ignore her. Have a few drinks, and I’ll tell them goodbye.”

  “I don't understand why I can’t just stay here. I could pack some more.”

  “You said you were finished packing. Now put on a dress, and come with me.”

  Thirty minutes later, we’re stepping out of a car in front of the underground cigar bar. Hana is dressed in an ivory shift dress with iridescent panels mimicking fringe all over it. I’m in a conservative, long-sleeved beige bodysuit with wide-legged black slacks.

  “Blake!” Natasha’s shrill voice cuts through the roar of old men’s voices and Rat Pack singing. “You look amazing. Very nineties DKNY.”

  A few heads turn to look at us, and I make my way to where she’s on her knees in the booth.

  “Already so fucking obnoxious.” Hana exhales heavily at my shoulder. “How long do we have to do this?”

  “Thirty minutes,” I say emphatically. “If it continues to suck, we can leave after thirty minutes.”

  “I’m setting my timer.”

  Natasha pulls me into a firm hug. “It’s so good to see you! You know you left your coat last time we were here. I know you want it back. It's Givenchy!”

  “I didn’t even miss it.” My mind returns to that night, my encounter with Greg, and Hutch saving me.

  “Still,” Natasha loops her arm through mine. “It’s a nice coat. I have it for you.”

  “Can we get some drinks over here?” Hana waves at the waitress in the old-school, thigh-high dress with a low-cut top. She makes her way through the smoky room to where we stand. “Martinis all around.”

  Sliding cautiously into the round, leather booth, I glance around the room, wondering if Greg is here, wondering what might happen if he does appear.

  “I heard the most ridiculous rumor after you left last time.” Nat puts her hand on my forearm, eyes wide. “You’re back with that big guy from the gala, the one you were yelling at? Is that true?”

  The waitress reappears to place three martinis on the table.

  Hana scoops hers up and quickly shoots it, motioning to the young woman. “Three more, please!”

  Arching my eyebrow, I take my glass, sipping it slowly. “My uncle hired him to protect us.”

  “Mmm, lucky you!” Natasha scoops up her martini, stirring her olive around in the glass. “He is yummy! Is his thing as big as he is?”

  Hana takes my glass, drinking it faster than me as she scans the room. Her brow is furrowed, and it reminds me of being in her bedroom at Uncle Hugh’s, the way she held her shirt like she was on the verge of remembering something.

  “I don’t like this place.” Her voice is urgent. “We need to get out of here.”

  My heart beats faster. “Why? What happened?”

  The waitress is back with three more martinis. I still haven't finished my first, but Hana has already drunk half. She switches to the fresh one as she falls silent.

  Natasha is preoccupied with the table to our right, and I’m focused on finding out what my sister knows. She’s drinking too fast, and I take the martini from her, polishing it off so she can’t.

  “This place isn’t what it seems.” Her dark blue eyes widen and meet mine, and her tone is ice filtering through my veins.

  “Tell me what you remember.”

  She frowns into her empty glass. “It was a night, a strange night, almost a year ago? I was here, but not here.” She gestures to the room where we’re sitting. “There’s another room. It’s smaller and all-black with a little slit like a window.”

  My stomach roils. The last time I was here, I was in that room with Greg. “What happened?”

  Placing her fingers on her eyes, she rubs them gently. “It could’ve been a dream. It was like I was watching an art film with old men sitting on benches. Or maybe I was in the film?”

  She blinks hard, looking in the direction of where I know the back room is located. “I was holding a torch like a statue, and one of the old men was on his knees between my legs…”

  Her eyes squeeze shut, and she wobbles to her feet. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

  I jump up to catch her arm. “I’ve got you. Let’s go.”

  We’re making our way to the door when Greg appears. He’s coming down the stairs in front of us, and when our eyes meet, terror grips my throat. Evil glitters in his grin like he’s caught us. He starts to move in our direction, but a cluster of girls pushes between us, starting up the stairs for the door.

  I hold Hana’s arm firmly and guide her into the mob, hurrying us up the stairs with them. I have to get her away from this place. When we reach the top, I look down. He’s still looking up, but his smile is gone. When I scan the room, I see Natasha is watching us as well. Her expression has changed. Her eyes are cold, and she’s staring like she knows something.

  Dread is ice in my stomach, and I guide us out into the misty rain. I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m not sticking around to find out. I only know one person who can protect my sister–maybe two, and they’re not here, which means it’s up to me.

  Back at the apartment, Hana goes straight to her bathroom and turns on the sink. I’m a little wobbly from shooting half my martini then finishing hers, but I need to know the rest of the story.

  “Hana?” I tap lightly on the door. “Are you okay?”

  She’s leaning over the lavatory, lifting handfuls of water and holding them to her face. I go to where she’s standing and switch off the tap before passing her a towel.

  Without makeup, she looks younger, but her eyes are still haunted by whatever memory we triggered. She follows me silently to the room we’re sharing, and I wait as she lets her dress fall to the floor. She’s not wearing a bra, so she pulls on a T-shirt and crawls between the sheets.

  Sitting beside her, I gently move a spiral curl out of her eye. I’ve already figured out this was the night of the porn film, and clearly she had no idea what was happening. I’m ready to kill all of them, but I need to know.

  “Hana?” My voice is quiet, gentle. “I need to ask you one more thing about that night.”

  Her shoulder rises, and she presses her cheek against the pillow. “I don’t remember any more.”

  “I know, honey, but just one more question.” My stomach is burning and tight.

  She shakes her head, scrubbing her eyes. “Nothing happened. It was a dream.”

  “Was Victor there?”

  “Victor is dead.”

  My throat closes up. I know for a fact Hana wasn’t in the room when my uncle told us Victor died of a heart attack, yet somehow she knows he’s dead?

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I saw him on the floor.” She turns away, quietly adding, “The man said he was dead.”

  “What man?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  I let it go, but her story makes my stomach churn. I don’t know what to do without Hutch here. Two things are clear–she was present when Victor died, and the sex tape Ivan X was using to blackmail us was filmed in that back room at Gibson’s.

  It’s just after midnight, and I study my phone. I haven’t heard anything from Hutch since he left, so I shoot him a quick note. Back at the apartment. Hope you’re making progress.

  Hanna is asleep, and I’m sitting in the bed in my black tank top trying to figure out what to do. The alcohol is slowly leaving my system, and I need Hutch to hold me. I’m so afraid, and I know having his arms around me would at least help me sleep.

  Taking out my phone one last time, I send a text. Wish I could kiss you goodnight. Maybe good morning?

  The apartment is so quiet, and I glance at the clock. It’s one-thirty. Hana is breathing heavily from the other side of the bed, and a little buzz indicates I have a text. My stomach relaxes, and I’m sure it’s Hutch.

  Tapping in my code, I’m all ready to see his reply when my heart stops. Cramps filter up the sides of my stomach, and I sit up fast not believing what I’m seeing.

  It’s a text from Debbie, and I swipe so fast, I almost drop my phone. I can’t breathe as I read the words. Very bad traffic in Milan. Vv bad. Grisha is here, not getting out.

  It was sent the night she died, but I’m only seeing it now. Shaking my head, I try to understand. Why am I just now getting this? Was it delayed somehow?

  The scar above my left eyebrow burns, and the fear in my chest twists into anger. I’ve never backed down from a bully, and after what I’ve learned about Hana, now this? He’s a fucking liar. He’s a devil and a killer, and if he thinks he’s getting away with it, he’s wrong.

  Tears heat my eyes, and I’m out of bed so fast, I don’t even consider the consequences. I scoop a pair of jeans off my pile of clothes, pulling them over my hips without stopping. I’m running through the house when I see the duffel bag Hutch brought sitting on the table.

  It’s unzipped, and my eyes land on the steel-gray handle of his gun tucked in a side pocket. Grabbing my coat off the back of a chair, I take the heavy gun from his bag and shove it in the inside pocket. Then, I step into my shoes and head out into the night.

  I’ve only been to Greg’s loft in SoHo one other time, with Debbie. It’s a third-floor walk-up on Prince Street, and the rain has stopped when I step out of the cab in front of the twelve-story building.

  Hesitating on the wet concrete, I slip my hand inside my coat pocket to touch the handle of the Beretta. Doubt tried to creep in on the short ride down, but justice strengthened my resolve. This ends tonight.

  Tucking my chin, I go to the front door and press the buzzer. He doesn’t even ask. He simply presses the release button allowing me access to the building.

  Jogging up the stairs, I walk down the narrow hall to where his door isn’t even locked. When I enter, he’s standing in the kitchen with his back to the entrance, pouring a tumbler of vodka.

  “I wondered how long I’d have to wait before you came here.” Turning slowly, he gestures to me with the bottle. “Can I fix you a drink?”

  “No, thank you.” My voice is level, and he arches an eyebrow.

  “Funny, last time I checked you were a fan of Mamont.”

  “I’m not here to socialize.” The noise of my footsteps is muffled by the thin Persian rug covering the dark brown wooden floors.

  His loft is a single, long room divided into thirds by exposed brick half-walls. The front is the kitchen-dining area, and I watch as he strolls into the middle, living room. I don’t want to get too close, so I stand just inside the brick wall.

  “Why are you here? Did you come to confess what I already know, or is this something else?”

  “You killed her.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.” His thin blond hair is smoothed back from his pale face, and his black eyes show no emotion.

  Swallowing the lump in my throat, I do my best to steady my voice. “Debbie sent me a text the night she died. You were there.”

  He takes another, slow sip of alcohol. “I’ve already established I was out of town the night she died.”

  “You were there. You threw her off that balcony, and I want to know why.”

  My heart beats faster as his eyes turn deadly, and he takes a step closer. “Be careful hurling accusations, Blake. You might go too far.”

  “She was my best friend, and you were supposed to love her.”

  “Was I?” His gaze is so flat, so devoid of emotion, so terrifying.

  He takes another step closer, and I take a step to the side, putting a chair between the two of us.

  Setting aside his now-empty glass, he watches me. “There's an essential cruelty in the universe. No one expects the killer whale tossing a bloody, baby seal in the waves to be concerned with its pain. Or the cat playing with the mouse.”

  “So you’re saying you never cared about her? You were only playing with her?”

  “Debbie knew too much. She asked too many questions. I don’t like people who ask too many questions.” We’re slowly circling his narrow apartment, getting closer with each rotation.

  “You’re a psychopath.” Tremors move through my chest, but I won’t show any signs of fear. I won’t feed his hunger.

  “I’m neither of those things. Debbie got in my way.” His lips spread in a sinister, toothy grin. “Don’t get in my way, Blake.”

  Slipping my hand inside my coat pocket, I know what I have to do. My fingers close around the gun, and my voice grows stronger. “Is that a threat?”

  “It’s a warning.”

  “I have a warning for you.” Pulling the pistol out, I hold it steady. He’s close enough that I have it leveled on his heart. “Stay away from my family.”

  He takes a step back, dark eyes go from the gun to me. “Or what? You’ll shoot me? I’m not afraid of you, little girl.”

  “You’d better be afraid.” At the sound of Hutch’s deep voice, I almost collapse, but I don’t.

  My eyes stay focused on my target, as Trip enters the room followed closely by my smoldering knight.

  “Why the fuck did you bring him here?” Greg hisses.

  “I didn’t. He followed me.” Trip casually goes to the kitchen. “Why, yes, I will have a drink. Thanks for offering. What’s this I hear about you murdering Debbie?”

  “Idiot. I told you I was at Gibson’s with Ivanov.” Greg’s black eyes flash from Hutch to Trip and back to me, and for the first time, I see him flinch.

  It renews my strength. “You’re losing track of your story. You said you were out of town that night.”

  “Perhaps he went out of town after going to Gibson’s.” Hutch’s smooth voice takes on an edge, and my confidence strengthens.

  “Blake’s guard dog. Always a few steps behind.” Greg is slowly backing towards the wall, and I notice a hollow in the bookcase–a perfect hiding place for a weapon. “Please know I say this with the deepest respect. I’m not afraid of you.”

  I haven’t taken my gaze off his dead, shark-eyes, and I’m closing the space between us, ready to cut him off if he pulls out a gun.

  Hutch remains calm, even cracking a grin. “You know, Grish, the thing about being licensed to kill is I don’t need a reason to take you out. All I need is probable cause.”

  “So many threats and so few brains.” Greg slides his hand into the books. “I’ll take you out.”

  “Not so fast.” My finger curls on the trigger, but Greg lunges at me.

  “Get back, bitch.”

  He slaps me so hard, I’m off my feet. My hand holding the gun flies to the side and goes off with a loud BLAST! Light flashes behind my eyes as my head hits the center column, and I’m on the floor.

  “Stay down,” Hutch orders.

  I’m vaguely aware of yelling and the shuffling of bodies. Lying on the floor, I see Greg’s feet kicking as Hutch holds him off the ground, punching him repeatedly in the face. Trip is collapsed against the wall, and his chin is on his chest. Blood covers the front of his white shirt.

  Oh, God… Did I shoot Trip?

  A dull thud sounds above my head, and I try to get my bearings. I try to lift my head to see what’s happening, to help, but I’m so dizzy.

  I try to understand what’s going on as Hutch tucks the gun I fired into my coat pocket again before lifting me easily in his arms. “You still with me?”

  Worried green eyes meet mine, and I’m doing my best to fight through the pain in my temple. “I’m okay. I’ll be okay now.”

  Now that you’re here, I think.

  “Yes, you will.” He pauses, and I look around the room to see Greg out cold against the wall beside Trip, who also appears to be mumbling something.

  “We’re all finished here.” Hutch’s voice is level, and he carries me out of the apartment, down the stairs, and into the rain.

  Tucking my face into his neck, I grip his shoulder as he holds me in his arms, carrying me across the street to a waiting SUV.

  30

  Hutch

  I’m completely soaked, riding in the back seat of the black SUV with Blake’s head tucked into my shoulder. She got a pretty bad hit, but her pupils aren’t dilated, and she hasn’t vomited. I don’t think it’s a concussion.

  Pulling out my phone, I dial the number of the Brooklyn police department. “Hey, Louie? Hutch.”

  “Hey, man. Long time no see.” Louie Jackson is a police detective who taught the six-week course I needed after retiring from the military to get my PI’s license. We’ve kept in touch ever since. “If you’re calling me at this hour, it can’t be good.”

  “I’ve been working a case in Manhattan. What’s the status of that socialite who wound up on the pavement outside the Andover earlier this month?”

  I hear the low drone of the office behind him and the tapping of computer keys. “Case closed. Suicide.”

  “Better reopen it and head over to Prince Street in SoHo. I’ve got a couple of warm bodies laid out for you. One of them is the killer.”

  “I’m sending a unit over now. What’s the number?”

  As I fill him in on the details, we pull up to Blake’s building. She lifts her head and opens the door slowly. “The one with the bullet hole will verify his verbal confession. Let me know how it goes. I’m available tomorrow to make a statement.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  We disconnect, and I pay the driver before stepping out and sliding my arm around Blake’s waist. “How’s the head?”

  “How does it look?” She pauses inside the door, and I tilt her chin gently, holding her face to the light.

  Her hair is wet from the rain, and her pretty eyes are tired with little flecks of black in the corners. The start of a lump is on her temple, but she’s still the prettiest thing I’ve seen. “He barely laid a glove on you.”