“I got in late and needed a place to crash.”

  Glancing down at my body, I’m relieved my black tank top, underwear, and shorts are securely in place. I was pretty drunk last night, but I see no signs I was coerced into making an extremely bad decision with this jacked up, wannabe gangster.

  “You can crash in your car. How the hell did you get a key to my apartment anyway?”

  “Natasha has keys to all our shit, girl.” He sits up, lifting a gold ring with a single key dangling on it from the nightstand. “You just gotta know where to look.”

  My eyes narrow. Natasha Petrovna has appointed herself leader of our small band of outlaws since her uncle Simon was killed four years ago. Still, I don’t like her having keys to my place without my knowledge.

  I snatch the ring from his hand. “You do not have permission to sleep in my bed. Ever.”

  He snorts a laugh as he pushes off the floor, sauntering to the kitchen in only his boxer briefs. “You’ll feel better after some coffee.”

  Staggering to the bathroom, I grimace at the mascara smeared under my eyes. I didn’t wash my face before I went to bed, so I turn on the water, drowning out the noise of Rick digging in my cabinets.

  He thinks he can do whatever he wants now that only four of us are left. I never believed I’d miss the days when Greg or Trip were around to keep his ass in line.

  After Simon’s brother Victor was killed and Greg was killed and Trip disappeared and finally Simon was killed (I know, Jesus Christ), Natasha took over their criminal enterprise. The problem is we’re the only ones left in the city, and the big guys in Europe won’t even acknowledge her existence. Misogynist pigs.

  Rick sticks around, I’m sure, because he’s looking for a way to make bank out of what’s left, perhaps to insert himself into any abandoned deals.

  Marco, Simon’s driver, had nowhere to go, and me? What’s my excuse? Good question.

  I was pulled into this shitshow crime-world before I was old enough to say no. I went from being the only daughter of a loving father I adored on the beautiful shores of the Black Sea to an orphan, living with my “uncle” Simon and my “cousin” Natasha.

  My father’s death always felt like an inside job, but I've never been able to prove it.

  Closing my eyes to wash away the cleanser, I can still see Natasha’s nine-year-old face scowling when I arrived, curling her nose like I was an ant invading her picnic. I’m still that ant, threatening what she’s hungered for since she was old enough to know what it meant—control of this corrupt empire.

  At first, I played it safe, following her like a minion, but now I’m twenty-two, and everyone’s dead. And I want answers.

  I want to know who killed my dad, and then I want to make him pay.

  When I return, patting a towel against my face, Rick gazes at me from the kitchen in a way I don’t like.

  “Say, girl, you really filled out these last few years. I remember when you were a runty little kid, but now,” he smacks his lips, smiling to reveal a gold tooth as his eyes glide lustily from my tank down to my sleep shorts. “You lookin good.”

  I’m legitimately revolted. Rick Ivanov is a slippery con man who dabbles in porn and would blackmail his own mother if it would make a buck—and probably has.

  Turning away from him, I go to my armoire. “I couldn’t be less interested in your opinion.”

  I know how I look. With ice-blue eyes and deep, chestnut-brown hair, I’ve attracted unwanted attention since I was young, a dangerous thing in this world. So I bleached my hair and wore brown contact lenses.

  Done. Invisible.

  “All those years you acted like you were nothing.” He crosses his arms, leaning against the counter. “Why would you do that?”

  So losers like you would stay the fuck away, I muse.

  “I have my reasons.” I take out a hoodie and sweats, quickly covering my body in baggy fabric. “We’re supposed to be meeting Natasha at the firing range at…” Shit. “In ten minutes.”

  “Just chill, baby girl. I got my car out front. I’ll drive us.” He scoops a pair of jeans off the floor and jerks them over his lean hips. A metal chain dangles from the pocket to the belt loop, and he quickly pulls on a white tank and a plaid overshirt-jacket.

  I run a brush through my long hair, whipping it into a ponytail.

  “How did you manage to park your car out front?” My loft apartment is in the part of Hell’s Kitchen that never has street parking available.

  “Get on the parking payola, and they’ll save a spot for you.” He pours us each a go-cup of coffee. “Let’s hit it.”

  No telling what he’s told the guys running the lot across the street. They probably think we’re sleeping together, which makes me ill.

  Grabbing my black bag from under my bed, I slip my socked feet into my Adidas slides and follow him out the door, down the stairs, coffee in hand. He slaps the hand of the guy at the booth, slipping him some amount of cash, and they give him the keys to his late-model Subaru. It’s sporty enough and completely impractical for this town.

  “We should’ve hailed a cab.” I settle into the passenger’s seat, surveying the traffic. “It’ll take longer than ten minutes to get to Chelsea, and there’s definitely no parking there.”

  “Just drink your coffee and leave it to me.” He lays on the horn at a cab taking too long in the intersection, and I sip my drink.

  I’ll give Rick credit. He makes good coffee.

  We’re moving slower than I can walk, and he glances at me. “You were pretty shit-faced last night. Why you drinking so much? I heard they put your name on a bottle of vodka at Gibson’s.”

  “So sphincters can ask why.” It’s a childish response, and he blows air through his lips, shaking his head as he looks out the window.

  Gibson’s is the underground cigar bar in the Financial District that serves as the unofficial headquarters of the “RDIF Investment group,” which serves as the legitimate front for our organization. I grew up in it, but Rick came on the scene about five years ago.

  “Why are you still hanging around anyway? You’re like one of those vultures picking at the carcass.”

  “I remember when you were sweeter.”

  “I was never sweet.”

  He remembers me as a scared teen doing my best to blend into the scenery, but I’ve spent four years training my body and learning how to navigate the dark web. I’m building a file, so when I find what I’m looking for, there will be consequences.

  Another abrupt stop, and I’m ready to get out and walk. Between my throbbing head and his driving, I’m nauseated. Setting the coffee in a cup holder, I roll down the window to let the cool breeze blow around us. Fall is creeping in on little cat feet, and I’m ready to bundle up in wool and textures.

  “Don’t barf in my car,” he snaps.

  “I’m not going to throw up.”

  I would like to know why Natasha is summoning us on a Saturday morning at this hour. It had better be something important.

  We finally reach the stately old building, and Rick pulls up to the curb. “Go in and tell her I’m parking. That way she won’t go off on her ‘no respect’ rant.”

  I check the traffic before hopping out and circling the front of his car. The entrance to the antique store is two stately brass doors with Dezer Building printed in gold lettering on the transom. The exterior looks like it could’ve been a bank in a previous century, but inside it’s just a run of the mill Army surplus store.

  Assorted camping gear is arranged in the front. Old military coats hang on mannequins, and plaques with assorted sizes and types of bullets adorn the walls. The shelves are crowded with taxidermied animals, and a sign taped to the glass reads, Making good people helpless won’t make bad people harmless.

  Everything is covered in a layer of dust, and it smells like old paper. I nod to the old guy at the register before following a narrow hall to a flight of stairs leading underground where an old parking garage has been converted into a firing range with stalls for individual practice.

  Metal clips are attached to mechanical wiring along the ceiling, transporting the black and white paper targets of male torsos back and forth.

  Natasha has a pair of black headphones around her neck. Her hair is dyed red these days and styled in a French twist. She’s wearing tan slacks and a black turtleneck, and she’s not smiling. “What took you so long?”

  I glance at the digital clock overhead. “Give me a break, Nat. We’re five minutes late.”

  “Where’s Rick?”

  “Parking his car. What’s this all about?”

  Cocking her hip to the side, she crosses her arms. “I’m curious, Rain. Show me how useful you are to me after binge drinking all night.”

  I don’t even hesitate. I unzip my duffel and take out the only possession I have from my father, a pearl-handled, 9mm Ruger.

  Simon gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday, and when he told me my father would’ve wanted me to have it, I knew he was a liar.

  My father would’ve never wanted me to need a gun.

  After they took my older brother, he took us off the grid. We lived on the coast for easy escape, and he didn’t like using electricity or having any kind of “locating services” like the Internet or phones.

  We had a root cellar and a garden, goats and chickens, and everything we owned, we either made or harvested. We stayed hidden for a long time, but they found us. I’ll never forget the day they came.

  I was so young, it’s mostly shadow memories… until I fall asleep. Then my body remembers what my mind tries to forget.

  Lifting the handgun, I squint one eye, exhaling slowly as I gently pull the trigger… Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop! My arms don’t move as I do what I’ve spent four years mastering, along with Krav Maga and tracking.

  Stepping back, I flip the switch to return the target to us. The five bullets I shot are clustered in a tight circle around the heart on the black and white paper torso.

  “How useful is that?”

  Natasha’s arms are still crossed, her flat expression crackling with annoyance. It’s always been that way with her, from the first day I appeared in Simon’s house, begrudging acceptance.

  “You’ve grown up a lot since Simon died.” Approval is not in her tone. “He always said your true colors would emerge, but I didn’t believe him.”

  She doesn’t have to tell me she didn’t. She made it abundantly clear. What’s not so clear is the meaning of my true colors, but I’ll leave her in the dark for now. As it is, I’m still trapped in this cage.

  Holstering my gun, I return to my original question, “What are we doing here?”

  Rick trots down the stairs, the chain on his jeans jangling. Nat lifts her chin, indicating for him to join us. Once we’re all together, she motions for us to take a seat. I gladly comply, and she paces a tight line, speaking quietly, urgently.

  “It’s difficult to take the lead in this world, assuming the mantle with no guidance or support.” She looks around as if someone might be listening. “The old guard thinks they’ll steal what’s left and remove me without any accountability, but I’m one step ahead of them.”

  She inhales deeply, straightening her back. She wants us to ask how she’s ahead, but those days are over for me. If she has something to say, she can say it.

  So she continues. “Victor kept a ledger of every member of the RDIF’s dealings. How much they collected and paid, to whom, and most importantly, how deeply they were involved. Five years ago, Andre Bertonelli stole it. It was a pointless act, because the information only makes sense if you’re in our organization.”

  “Okay.” I sit straighter, growing more interested.

  A book like she’s describing could help me find what I’m looking for.

  “I have to get it back,” she continues. “That book will give me all the information I need, the receipts to force everyone back to the table.”

  “Do you know where it is?” I ask.

  “From what I’ve been able to learn, Hugh van Hamilton gave it to Hutch Winston’s younger brother Dirk. He’s their computer geek, so it’s either still with him or it’s somewhere at Hugh van Hamilton’s estate in South Carolina.”

  Blinking fast, I know where she means. “In Hamiltown…”

  She nods, and I remember Greg and Trip going there to search for something stolen. Mystery solved—although, I take it they never found the ledger.

  “Do you have a plan?”

  “The Winstons and the van Hamiltons all know me, and they know Rick.”

  My brows furrow. “They know me as well. We partied with Hana and Blake all the time, and Hutch and Scar were with us at the Belmont Gala and in Gibson’s.”

  “Yes.” She takes a few steps nodding, her arms still crossed. “But you’ve never met Dirk, and he doesn’t know you.”

  “I’ve been photographed with them, I have social media. I’m sure he knows what I look like.”

  “Not necessarily. You always changed your hair color, your eyes, and a photograph is very different from meeting someone in person.”

  I’m not convinced this will work. “But if Blake and Hana are there, they’ll know me.”

  “Professor Dirk Winston has taken a faculty position at Thornton College in Miranda Bay, about an hour west of Hamiltown. He’s teaching a course there this fall, and he’s living on campus.” She walks directly to where I’m sitting and stops. “You’ll enroll in that class as Reanna Lorak, get to know him, and get me that book.”

  Rick blows air through his lips, laughing like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. I’m still as a statue, considering what she’s saying.

  It’s a risky plan that could blow up in my face, but I’m intrigued by the prospect of getting my hands on such an important item and being eight hundred miles away when I do.

  I could finally learn what happened to my father’s estate after he died, and I could follow the money to his killer.

  Natasha scans me briefly. “Rick, can you hack into the college enrollment system and create her student account?”

  “Can do, boss.” He sits forward, ready to get started.

  “Don’t make her stand out too much. We don’t want to raise questions. Classes start next week, so find her a room in one of the dorms. ”

  “I’ll take care of it. No worries.” He heads up the stairs, and I’m on my feet now as well, sorting out my plan to bag this new professor.

  “It’s his first semester, so he won’t know any of the students, new or old.”

  I need to have regular, private access to him that won’t raise eyebrows or come across as stalkerish. “Would it be possible for me to be his teaching assistant?”

  “That might raise questions about your identity. You’ll have to work it out while you’re there, have a problem in the class, meet with him after hours for special help.” Her eyebrow arches.

  “I’m not sleeping with him just to get a book.”

  “It’s a very important book.” Natasha returns the headphones to a hook on the wall. “I can tell you have ambitions. Get me that ledger, and I’ll make you my second in command.”

  “I’ll get the ledger.” I scoop up my bag and head for the exit.

  I don’t say she can shove the number two job, or Rick can keep it for all I care. When I do get that book, I’ll be calling the shots. What happens next will be up to me.

  3

  Dirk

  “Welcome, Professor Winston!” Dr. Bowerman greets me with a broad smile, gripping my elbow and passing me a crystal tumbler of brown liquor.

  He’s a stocky man in his late sixties, head of the psychology department, and the guy who hired me. He looks exactly how you’d imagine a faculty head to look—corduroy slacks, wool sweater, tweed blazer. His gray hair is brushed back from his face, and a scant, salt-and-pepper beard covers his jaw. An unlit pipe is tucked in the breast pocket of his coat, and I admire his old-school, friendly nature.

  “Thank you, sir.” I take the glass.

  “We’re so glad you could make our little gathering.”

  Classes begin tomorrow, and I’ve been invited to a meet-and-greet for new faculty, which, as far as I can tell, is only me.

  “Dr. Chase wanted me to apologize on her behalf,” he continues. “She has a sick child at home and couldn’t stay.”

  “I completely understand.” I sip the drink, a nice, smoky bourbon.

  The faculty lounge is as elegant as the rest of campus, with dark mahogany wainscoting, highly polished oak tables and leather chairs. Brass floor and table lamps provide soft yellow lighting, and the built-in bookshelves are filled with hardcover editions of every psychology text you could possibly desire.

  The scent of ancient pipe smoke and aging knowledge lingers in the fabric of this cozy space, which by day serves as a communal study and after hours as a place to have a drink and relax.

  “I trust you had no problems getting settled into your housing?” he asks.

  “Yes, thank you. It’s much better than I expected.”

  My furnished, one-bedroom faculty cottage is similarly decorated as the rest of campus—beige limestone on the exterior, dark wood, built-in bookshelves, and leather furnishings on the interior.

  “And what exactly were you expecting?” A superior-sounding male strolls up to where we’re standing.

  He’s dressed similarly to Dr. Bowerman in brown pants and a brown tweed blazer over a beige sweater. His light-brown hair is neatly trimmed, and his beard is also starting to gray.

  A scotch is in one hand, and he extends the other to me. “Landon O’Toole, clinical psych.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I feel too casual in my jeans and blue crewneck sweater, and now I’m thinking I should probably get my hair trimmed. “My only experience with campus housing was the men’s dorm at Columbia, and they were not concerned about our comfort.”

  Dr. Bowerman chuckles. “I’ve often considered having the boy’s dormitory completely stripped and fumigated between semesters. I might do it yet.”

  “Not a bad idea,” I quip.