It takes almost as long to drive as it did to walk with traffic, or perhaps I’m impatient. Either way, by the time I’m entering the room where Dirk is busy typing, I’m anxious that she’s been out of my sight for so long.

  “Did she make it back?” I walk over to where he has three large monitors set up like a triptych with security camera footage covering all the screens. “She entered the building about ten minutes before you walked up.”

  “I’m taking a quick shower. Don’t lose sight of her.”

  “And I thought Hutch was overprotective. You make him look like a slacker, bro.”

  “Blake was only in danger by association…” I don’t finish that sentence.

  I don’t have to. Hana has made quite a bed we’re trying to help her get out of, and Dirk knows as well as I do how dangerous the men searching for her can be.

  I step into the bathroom to take the fastest shower ever. Being in the military taught me a lot, the most important skill is efficiency. I’m back in the room with Dirk, tying back my wet hair in less than five minutes.

  Walking to the wall of monitors, I scan the six small squares on each screen, which include the street outside the gallery and their apartment building, the lobbies of both buildings, the street outside Gibson’s and various street views I don’t recognize.

  Glancing at my partner, I notice his brow is lowered, and his lips are tight.

  I’m immediately on alert. “What’s wrong?”

  His brow quirks, and he sniffs sharply, standing from the chair. “I don’t believe in coincidences, but it appears our man did not return to the city because Hana is here. He was summoned–they all were.”

  “Summoned?” I frown at the computer screen. “For what?”

  “More like by whom. It appears someone big is in town, and he wants to meet with the capos at Gibson’s.”

  “Sounds like our guy’s been promoted. Last we heard he was a wannabe gangster.”

  “It’s been hard getting information since our last visit, when Louis and the Brooklyn PD got involved. They must not have a mole there.”

  “Give ‘em time.” My tone is cynical, but I know these guys too well.

  “If there was some way we could get a device in one of those rooms to record what they’re doing…” Dirk taps on his keyboard, changing the street views on two of the cameras. “We could finally have concrete evidence to give Louis. He could secure warrants, and we could take down these assholes.”

  Sliding a hand over the back of my neck, I think about this. I don’t want to be away from Hana for a moment, but I know that club better than Dirk does.

  “Give me the recorder. I’ll get over there and place it.”

  “You’re the most conspicuous of the two of us. For starters, you’re head and shoulders above everyone else, you look like a biker–”

  “But I know my way around Gibson’s, I know all the names, and during the day, when the club is empty, I can slip in and out without anyone noticing.”

  “I doubt they’ll be that careless again, my friend.”

  “Has anyone said they saw me there last time?”

  He presses his lips together, but he doesn’t say yes. It appears, Rainey didn’t tell anyone I was snooping around the office. Possibly because she wasn’t supposed to be there either?

  I sit on the bed to lace up my boots. “Just give me the device and tell me where to put it.” Casting a glance out the window towards Hana’s building, I start for the door. “Ping me if she goes anywhere, and keep your eyes on her. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  Tying my hair back, I’m in a gray turtleneck and gloves as I step out of the cab in the Financial District. Getting all the way down here at rush hour took more than half an hour. I send Dirk a quick text that I’ve made it, and I’ll likely be longer than an hour.

  He ended up giving me two recording devices. We agreed one should go in the office where I found Rainey last time I was here. The other will go in the small back room where we believe the snuff film was shot.

  I pass the glass double doors covered by heavy, velvet curtains, and jog down the steps to the alley entrance. The same, squat Italian is sitting on a chair seeming bored as he looks at his phone and smokes a cigar.

  At the sound of my boots, he looks up, and his brow relaxes. It’s been weeks since I was here, but clearly he remembers me.

  “Thought you might be back around.” He smiles like we’re old friends. “I understand now why you were here before. Preparing for Petrovich?”

  Fuck. Cold realization filters through my bloodstream. It makes sense now–the someone big in town is Simon. He never came to New York when Victor was alive, but now with his brother and his nephew gone, he must be coming to check on things personally.

  My anxiety level is at an all-time high. I’ve got to get this done and communicate with Dirk ASAP–then I have to stick to Hana like glue. Hell, I might ask Blake if I can sleep in their guest room. The time for pretending they’re alone is gone.

  I hold my expression steady. “Did you get an ETA on his arrival?”

  “That’s above my pay grade, pal,” he chuckles. “Figured if anybody’d have that information, it’d be you.”

  “Guess we’re on the same pay grade.” I’m doing my best to be chummy. “I’ll give the place a quick sweep.”

  “I’ve already done it, but you guys are more paranoid than anyone I ever worked with.”

  “We have reason to be.”

  He puts the cigar between his thick lips and returns to his phone. “Knock yourself out.”

  I step carefully into the wine-red establishment and quickly scan for anyone who might recognize me. A few old guys are at the bar having happy hour. Otherwise, it’s the usual set-up crew, busboys and waitresses in skimpy black dresses.

  The recording device is burning a hole in my pocket, and I make a beeline for the small office. Not planning to make the same mistake twice, I crack the door just enough before entering.

  Unlike last time, no one’s here, and I go behind the desk, dropping to one knee to affix the bug under the drawer. Just as fast, I return to the door and look out. The coast is still clear, but I’m sweating like a pig. At any moment Simon and his men could walk down the stairs.

  Going quickly to the short hall leading to the back room, I push through the leather-padded door. The entire room is black leather, with long bench seats along the walls. The door has a narrow window for observation.

  I step up on one of the seats and affix the second bug in a corner. Hopping down, I hope I’ve got enough time to cross the open bar and get out before I’m detected.

  My hand is on the door handle, when loud voices fill the space. “So I told him, suck on this, motherfucker.”

  “You’re a cold-hearted man, Rick.” A husky, smoker’s voice chuckles. “You put your piece in his mouth?”

  “And I pulled the trigger ‘til it went click.” He fakes an Italian accent, and I vaguely recognize the movie reference.

  “You guys like all that new shit. Give me Chinatown any day,” the older man growls. “That’s some classic gangster shit.”

  “My sister, my daughter?”

  “It’s more than that.”

  A female voice joins the conversation. “I told Anthony the club is closed for a private party. He’ll take his post up top. Let him know, security is in place.”

  “You know, I didn’t believe you were up for this job.” Rick’s voice is cocky, overconfident. “I guess you proved me wrong.”

  “Which isn’t very hard.”

  Their bantering fades as they continue to the bar, and I crack the door enough to see who’s standing by the bar–Ivan X, whose real name is apparently Rick, a big guy I don’t know, and Natasha.

  She leaves them at the bar, heading in the direction of the office, and I lean back out of sight. I’m fucking trapped.

  Sliding the lock on the door, I pull out my phone and send a quick text to Dirk. I’m stuck in the back room at Gibson’s. Recorders in place. Simon is coming here. Guard the girls.

  Next, I take out my gun to be sure it’s fully loaded. A bullet falls to the floor, and when I pick it up, my hand is shaking. Fuck. I’m nervous. I’m alone, I’m outnumbered, and if I don’t handle this right, we could all get killed. You’re never prepared for hell…

  I don’t know why Simon is in town, but my best guess is he’s collecting debts. Which means he’s here for Hana.

  27

  Hana

  Blake is in the kitchen with Mama, and I can hear their sharp voices muffled through my closed door. I don’t know what they’re arguing about–like it’s anything new–but it buys me time.

  Standing in front of my closet, I take down my cream sequined sheath dress and carefully fold it into a roll I can fit in my bag alongside my nude Louboutin pumps.

  I texted Trip, and he said to meet him at the back stairs. He arranged for a car to take us to Gibson’s. It’ll be a while before anyone notices we’re gone, and by then, I plan to be back with my past clean and ready for bed.

  Hell, if it goes as smoothly as I hope, maybe Blake and I can watch another Sandra Bullock movie. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Two Week’s Notice.

  God, I’m so ready to move into the next phase of my life–a phase where I’m clean, free from the past, all my debts repaid. I was such a fucking stupid kid. I thought I could do all these things, and none of it mattered. Months of therapy taught me to forgive myself and learn better coping skills.

  The only problem is the people I owe don’t care about my reasons. They only care about their cash, and they want it back–or else.

  A shiver tickles over my skin, and I go to my door, opening it as quietly as possible. Neither my mother nor Blake can see what’s happening in this hall, so it’s easy to sneak out. When I got home, I said I was tired, not to hold dinner for me. It’s so usual, they didn’t question it.

  I suppose I should be disappointed we’re falling into our old habits and roles, but I don’t have time. Trip is waiting for me in the alley, and I’ve got shit to do.

  When I reach the back door, I hesitate, thinking about Scar and wondering if he’s out there somewhere, believing he’s protecting me. My heart aches at the thought of him watching over me, sadness filters through my chest, and I want to see him again. I want to explain why I have to do what I’m doing tonight.

  Shaking my head, I know I can’t, but when this night is over, I’m going to force my insides to be quiet. I’ll do meditation or breathing exercises or whatever it takes to calm the triggers. My sister is right–he and I need to talk.

  “First you hustle me like the building is on fire, then you take forever to get down here.” Trip sits in the leather backseat of his mother’s Towncar, legs crossed, sipping whiskey. “Where have you been?”

  “Blake and Mama were quarreling in the kitchen. I had to sneak out.” I hop in the car and quickly whip off my thick sweater and sweatpants and fish the sequined dress out of my bag as we head south to the Financial District. “Anyway, I’m here now, aren’t I?”

  “You’ve always had to sneak out. You’re out of practice.” Trip looks out the window, bored as I change into my evening attire. “So what’s the plan, urchin? You’re going to run in there like the fairy godmother tossing out checks like glitter?”

  “No.” I level my eyes on him. “The main person I need to see is there. The others you’ll help me locate–perhaps they’ll show up at some point. Seems like they were always together.”

  “This does not sound like a good plan at all.”

  “I’ve filled in the amounts I think I owe. If it’s not enough, they can tell me the deficits, and you’ll be there to witness everything.”

  “Again, a terrible plan.” His hazel eyes slide to the side, sarcastic as always. “And what? They’re going to fall to their knees and thank you, Saint Hana?”

  “I don’t expect anyone to fall on their knees. I expect them to acknowledge repayment, confirm we’re good, and leave me alone.” I take out my cosmetics bag and quickly get to work on my face.

  “And if they don’t?”

  Trip’s mother’s luxury car floats over a bump in the highway as I apply mascara. My mind drifts to Debbie and her tragic end. She didn’t deserve what happened to her. Was it my fault? Is that my fate?

  Then I think about Scar’s promise.

  “If they won’t, we’ll have to find some sort of compromise.” I slide tissue-thin, silk stockings up my legs. “I want to make peace. They’ll have to come to the table.”

  “You have no idea the kind of people you’re dealing with, Daisy cakes.”

  The car slows to a stop, and I glance out the window at the heavily curtained double doors covering the stairs leading down to Gibson’s.

  “I have an idea. It’s time to end this.”

  Trip holds my hand as I step out onto the sidewalk. The sign says the club is closed for a private party, but that’s nothing new. A short, stocky Italian man stands at the entrance. He’s dressed in a dark gray, pinstripe suit and holds a thick cigar in his sausage fingers.

  When he sees Trip, he doesn’t hesitate. Stepping to the side, he opens the door for us, and we step into the lobby above the wide, maroon-carpeted stairs leading down to the smoke-filled main floor. Only it’s early, so the scent of lost souls and dirty deals simply lingers in the heavy velvet.

  My heart beats faster with every step we take, and I imagine us descending to the first ring of hell. I hesitate, and Trip puts his hand over mine.

  “Having second thoughts?” For the first time in all the years I’ve known him, he actually sounds like he cares.

  “Not if I want to end this.” My smile wobbles, but I know how to fake confidence. I’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember. “I can’t grow with this hanging over my head.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Two men are sitting at the bar, and they look up when we enter. Both know Trip, and I vaguely recognize the one in the bucket hat and puffer jacket wrapped around his arms. Wannabe gangster. It’s Rick Ivanov, and my throat goes dry.

  The last time I saw him, he spent the whole night bragging about his aspiring film career and pushing himself on me. He wanted Debbie and me to be in a documentary he was planning about heroin-chic in the Manhattan club scene. I told him I didn’t do heroin, but he insisted it would be a blockbuster. Looks like he’s back from Hollywood.

  “Yo, Trip, how’s it hanging?”

  “About mid-thigh these days.”

  The older dude I don’t know barks a laugh, and Rick lifts his chin. Trip has no problem talking shit with these guys, and even when I was drunk or high, I was impressed by his ability to play it cool when nights got ugly.

  The men return to their drinks and cigars, and Trip arches an eyebrow at me. “What are you waiting for?”

  My brow furrows, and I look up at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Hana?” We’re interrupted by Natasha’s annoying shriek. “My beesh! What are you doing here?”

  She calls out like she’s glad to see me, trotting over to give me a hug and air kisses at each cheek. Her minion Rainey hangs back near the wall.

  “You look amazing.” Natasha is such a faker, but I go along with it.

  “Thanks, babe, so do you. So elegant.” She’s dressed in a dark green sheath, and her brunette hair is styled in a French twist.

  “Pfft,” she waves a hand. “I have to look the part now that I’m manager.”

  “Yeah, I heard you’re running the club. That’s crazy!”

  “It’s a job.” Such a lie, but she carries on. “And I heard you have a big art show at the Milo next month. That is crazy! Tell me all about it.”

  Rainey doesn’t join the conversation, which is new. It’s been a year, but she’s not smiling, not fanning around jumping at Natasha’s heels. She’s dressed in a tailored, wide-legged suit, and as we chat her eyes dart from Trip to me.

  “Blake set it all up. Maybe you can come?”

  “Nothing could keep me away!”

  Our conversation starts to fade, and I inhale slowly. “So anyway, I just wanted to stop by and give you this.” Taking one of the linen, business-sized envelopes from my bag, I hand it to her.

  “What in the world?” Her brow furrows, and she flips it over, pulling the flap apart. “A check?”

  “It’s what I owe you… I think. I wanted to pay you back, say thank you for your patience, and I hope now we’re even.”

  The fake friendship in her eyes frosts over, and she glances from me to Trip. “Five hundred? You owe me way more than five hundred grand, Hana van Hamilton. That’s not even a drop in the bucket of what all I’ve done for you.”

  Rick perks up from his spot at the bar and looks over to where we’re standing. “Hana van Hamilton? I thought I recognized you.”

  The back of my neck tightens as he saunters over to where we’re standing. Rainey recedes further into the background, as if she’s trying to disappear into the curtains, but Trip stands taller at my side.

  “My buzz is fading. Can I get a whiskey, Nat?” He’s trying to cut the sudden tension with his casual tone, but it only makes me more nervous.

  Holding my smile steady, I address Natasha. “I wasn’t sure the exact amount, but if you’ll just tell me what I owe, I’m glad to–”

  “You can’t possibly repay me for what you did.” She leans closer, lowering her voice to a hiss. “You took a man’s life.”

  Blinking wider, my knees falter, and Trip’s grip on my upper arm tightens. The female voice in my dream–I know it now. Rick is standing in the corner with a camera in his hand, and Natasha is behind me in the dark room. You killed him…

  My head seems to lift off my body, and I can’t find my breath. “I didn’t.”

  Natasha’s cruel voice continues, “There’s only one way you pay for a life, Hana. Do you know what that is?”

  I’m not going to faint. I won’t faint. Still, I feel the cold waves drifting up from my toes, filtering through my bloodstream. “I didn’t do it.”

  Scar said I didn’t. Only, I didn’t believe him. I saw the man at my feet.