“Nobody’s going to mess with me, Dirk.”

  “I want to agree with you, but we’ve seen way too many unexplained deaths lately. Call me paranoid, but I’m tracking your phone.”

  It takes a lot for me to feel warmth after all that’s happened to me. I’ve got a layer of concrete around my emotions a mile thick, but affection still nudges like one of those sprouts that can’t be stopped.

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Text me when you’re out.”

  I’m in a black leather jacket and jeans. My long, brown hair is tied back in a samurai bun, and all the ink on my skin serves a dual purpose–it covers the scars and it tells people to keep their distance.

  The cab stops outside unassuming, glass double doors. It could be a store from how it looks at street level, but all the action is below ground. Passing the driver cash, I step out and go around to the alley entrance.

  Gibson’s is an old, basement bar that flouts the laws, cleans the money, and accommodates the darkest thugs in the uncivilized world. It’s not the first time I’ve made this descent into hell. Still, after all this time, I doubt anyone here will remember me.

  That was years ago, after Simon sent me from Minsk to New York to be a bodyguard for his brother Victor.

  I was pretty messed up when I saw my wrecked body. I wasn’t sure what was left for me anymore, and hell, maybe I was depressed. I had no family, no job, no prospects, and now people recoiled at the sight of me. I didn’t have a plan, so I accepted Simon’s story and did the job he required.

  I got to know some of the guys in his employ, but more than that, I got to know what they did and who their bosses were. Then I grew to hate them. I could deal with the racketeering, the theft, the money laundering, but I grew angry when I found out they were doping horses. Sex trafficking was the final straw.

  Simon threatened my life. He said I knew too much to walk away alive. He said he owned me, but when I found out Victor was a pedophile, I drove to the airport and flew to South Carolina. Simon could rot in hell. I didn’t have anything to lose, and I wasn’t protecting his brother any more. Victor was lucky I didn’t cut his balls off before I left.

  Hutch didn’t know why I showed up in his office that day. He offered me a job, and I took it. I joined their private investigation firm, and I stayed on guard. If Simon or his minions wanted to come for me, they’d better be fully armed and well-prepared.

  Years passed, and no one ever did.

  I want to believe they still haven’t, but this is too many coincidences. I don’t believe I just happened to cross paths with these women who also happened to be mixed up with the Petrovs. Simon is involved in this somehow, and I have to get to him before he gets to me.

  “We’re not open.” A thick, Italian man with dark hair and a thicker accent steps between me and the door.

  Bowing up my shoulders, I look down on him from my full, six-foot-four height. “I’m not looking for trouble.”

  His eyes narrow, and he’s not intimidated. “What are you looking for, friend?”

  “Petrovich sent me.”

  He immediately falls back at my lie, lowering his arms and stepping aside. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  I don’t answer, but he just gave me a shit-ton of information in his retreat.

  “No worries.” I nod, moving past him into the bowels of the red-velvet club.

  It’s all shades of burgundy and maroon, from the leather booths to the shag carpets lining the floors and the bar. Heavy curtains hang around the perimeter, I’m sure to hold the cigar smoke that floods the air during business hours.

  Smoking is prohibited in all bars and restaurants in New York City, but at Gibson’s it’s all about the atmosphere. Whiskey, martinis, high-balls, and cigars. Pretty girls for hire, and who knows what else goes on in the back rooms.

  I know what else.

  Waiters and busboys are preparing for the night. They don’t look up as I cross the empty space to the office, hoping to find answers. Pushing through the painted-black door, I’m surprised to find a young woman in the room.

  “Oh!” She jumps and spins around when I enter, her voice between a shriek and a scream.

  She blinks up, up, up at me, with black eyes and bleached-blonde hair, and I vaguely recognize her. She’s that little girl who was hanging around Blake’s friend last time we were here. It takes me a second to remember her name.

  “Stormy?” My lip curls. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you underage?”

  “It’s Rainey.” She shoves a lock of bobbed hair behind her ear. “I don’t know what you mean. I was just getting my coat.”

  “It looked more like you were going through the desk.”

  Her brow furrows, and her eyes dart side to side. Her fingers tremble, and the fact she’s so nervous puts me on guard. Dirk’s words about creative murders drift through my mind.

  “You’re Hana’s friend.” She blinks up at me. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was looking for Trip.” She doesn’t have to know the truth, and I figure I’ll see what I can get out of her.

  Fishing worked with the Italian upstairs.

  Rainey frowns, grabbing a piece of fabric that looks like it’s made of teddy bear fur. “I told you, I left my coat here last night. I’m just picking it up.”

  “I know a lie when I hear it.”

  “Last time I checked, you weren’t welcome at Gibson’s.”

  Now I’m definitely suspicious. This girl is way too young to know anything about me.

  “Who told you that?” I take a step closer, and she only partially withdraws.

  “Greg said the van Hamiltons weren’t allowed back in Gibson’s.” She waves her hand as she talks, closing her eyes and shaking her head. “They got in some kind of fight or something. If you’re working for them, you’re not allowed here either.”

  My eyes narrow. Maybe she doesn’t know anything or maybe she’s covering a slip. I can’t be sure. “So you’re here for a coat, but you also happen to be sorting the mail?”

  “I lost my ID. My fake ID.” Her face scrunches as she examines me. “Are you a cop?”

  “I’m a private investigator. Who’s in charge now?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”

  It’s then I realize we’ve been slowly pivoting this whole time, and she’s at the door, which she quickly opens and slips through.

  “Fuck,” I exhale deeply, watching her run away at top speed, banging into a chair before sprinting up the stairs.

  Even if she doesn’t know anything, she’ll run her big mouth that I was here asking questions. Odds are I’ve blown our cover, and there’s no point in remaining in Manhattan. If Ivan X isn’t dead, he’ll go even further underground.

  Stepping out into the big empty bar, I give it one last sweep, looking for anything I might have missed.

  My eyes land on a black door leading to the hidden rooms. I know what goes on back there, and it’s all illegal and off the record–and evil as shit.

  It conjures a memory living in my head…

  You think you’re better than me? Victor’s words echoed in the small room. You are me. I’m a dirty old man? You’re a dirty young man. I’m a killer? You’re a murderer. You’ll show me the respect I deserve.

  I grabbed him by the lapels of his coat. If I were a murderer, you’d already be dead.

  Freak. His words were the desperate cry of a cornered rat. You have nothing to live for. No one wants you.

  My response was flat and cold. Then they’ll fear me.

  I step out of the bar into the fading twilight, shaking away his words and how deep they cut me.

  I slide my phone from my pocket and comply with Dirk’s wishes. It’s not affection or any sort of misplaced sentiment. It’s my military training. You always check in with your partners. Communication is a lifeline.

  Didn’t find anyone in charge, but possibly got some info. Heading back to Hamiltown. Home tonight.

  I’ve already hit send when I realize I just called Hamiltown my home. What the fuck? It’s a decent enough place. It’s quiet and I’ve built a nice house there… Shit. Scrubbing my hand over my eyes, I know I’ve gotten attached. The other thing my sorry life has taught me is love is a liability, a weapon of torture. Attachments are dangerous.

  Dirk’s reply is swift. See you soon. Fly safe.

  How long has this been growing? I’ll actually be glad to get back and check in with Dirk and Hutch. I’ll be glad to be in my own bed tonight.

  Then I’ll see her.

  3

  Hana

  Pepper sits on the heavy wooden bar in the middle of Hutch’s oversized kitchen holding a plastic-spiral bound recipe book from a ladies auxiliary. “Lurlene’s making chicken and dumplings for dinner tonight. She said it’s the easiest thing because she can use her slow cooker. Y’all should join us because it’s always too much food.”

  “I love Lurlene’s chicken and dumplings.” Hutch’s housekeeper is the best cook. I take the book and slowly turn the pages, scanning the amateur photos and wondering if Scar might be here, too. “You think she’d mind if we came? I hate to make more work for her.”

  Pepper is Hutch’s niece, and he's been raising her since his sister died several years ago. She’s nine years younger than me, but we have a ridiculous amount in common.

  She rolls her eyes and crosses her legs on the bar. “Lurlene is always happy to have y’all here.”

  I guess if my sister is Hutch’s fiancée, she’ll be living here soon. “I’ll check with Blake.”

  Pepper has already moved on to the next item in the middle of the bar. “This chicken does not spark joy.”

  She sounds like she’s reciting a mantra, and I look up to see her holding a polished, pecan bowl with gray moss. In the middle is a colorful, taxidermic hen.

  “Thank you, chicken, for your contribution to this house, and now I shall let you go.” She holds it out, turning to one of the open, double trash bins hidden in the bar, ready to drop it.

  “Hang on!” I catch the display before she tosses it. “Is this your item to throw away?”

  Pepper’s mouth puckers with a frown, and she slants her dark brown eyes at me. “Whose side are you on? That thing is creepy as–”

  “Pepper!” I shake my head. “This was a really popular item last Christmas in New York. I saw one of these at Barney’s for eight hundred dollars.”

  “Barney can keep his dumb chicken. It’s creepy, and it does not bring me joy.”

  “What’s all this joy business?” After moving the nesting hen to the top of the refrigerator, I return to my little friend.

  Her light brown hair is in the usual pigtail braids, but I notice today they have a little more flair, a little French braid style going on. Her dark brown eyes are accentuated by a touch of mascara. I realize, Pepper’s not a skinned-knee shortstop anymore. She’s maturing, and I’d better catch up quickly.

  “Have you heard about the KonMari method?” She frowns at me, and my nose wrinkles.

  I do my best to make my memory work. “Is that the Netflix show with that cute little Asian lady?”

  “She’s Japanese and her name is Marie Kondo.”

  “Right!” I smile. “She seems so kind. You like her?”

  “She says the best way to find yourself is to get rid of all the clutter in your life. You have to clear the way for the universe to speak to you.”

  My eyebrows rise, and I nod. “I’ve always wanted to hear from the universe, but it’s never really happened.”

  “Because you need to tidy.” Pepper nods like she’s solved all my problems. “Clear the clutter, get rid of the things that do not bring you joy.”

  Measuring my words, I don’t want to attack. “Shouldn’t they be your things?”

  She exhales and her shoulders drop. “That’s the hard part. I’ve run out of things that don’t bring me joy.”

  “What about the things that do bring us joy?”

  “I haven’t gotten to that part.”

  “I have a recipe for sugar cookies that only has three ingredients.” Turning quickly, I open the refrigerator and take out the butter. “That’s tidy, don’t you think?”

  Pepper hesitates, then she nods. “I mean, I guess.”

  “We’ll be so tidy, Lurlene won’t even know we’ve been here.” Moving around the space, I open cabinets. “It’s just unsalted butter, granulated sugar, and flour.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Grab the pure vanilla extract, and we’ll be fancy.” Reaching for a sterling silver bowl, I look over my shoulder. “Does she have sprinkles? We could be extra fancy if she has sprinkles.”

  “Sprinkles are not tidy. They make a mess.” Pepper giggles, and I love that she’s coming out of her funk.

  “No sprinkles!” I hold up a wooden spoon. “So we beat the butter, sugar, and flour together until we have a dough.” I dump everything into Lurlene’s prized mint-green Cuisinart mixer and switch it on.

  We’re leaning closer as we watch it blend, and I add a few drops of vanilla extract.

  “This won’t take long,” I muse as we wait, hypnotized by the beaters.

  “You said you only ate food off a truck,” Pepper says quietly. “How did you learn to make cookies?”

  “My friend Debbie and I used to make these after parties.” I stop there.

  Hutch wouldn’t like me telling Pepper about my old days in the Manhattan party scene and how we loved eating cookies as we came down off whatever drugs we’d taken. Hutch has only reluctantly agreed to me and Pepper being friends, and I think it’s because Blake got pissed at him for calling me a bad influence.

  I’m really not…

  “You’d have cookies after the parties? That’s weird. Why didn’t you have cookies at the parties?”

  Chewing my lip, I think about how to answer this in a good-influence way. “They were more like dress-up parties. Not like eating parties.”

  Jesus, don’t even get me started on how we ate–or didn’t.

  Pepper nods like she understands, but it’s clear she doesn’t. I flip the switch off on the mixer and carry the silver bowl to the counter where a cookie sheet waits.

  “Now we form one-inch balls, roll them in the sugar, and flatten them on the tray.”

  She follows my lead, forming the little golden spheres and covering them with the sweet granules until they’re all done and mushed.

  “Ten minutes or until they get gold at the edges.” I set the oven timer, and we lean against the counter to wait.

  “I think sugar cookies are the tidiest of cookies.” Pepper chews her finger, and I smile.

  She was younger than I was when her mother died. I was thirteen when I lost my dad, but she was only eleven–and it was her mother. I don’t know how to talk to people like real therapists do or counselors, but I care about her.

  “Blake was worried you’d think she was trying to replace your mom when she marries Hutch.” Looking down, I hope I’m not overstepping. “She would never do that, you know?”

  Pepper hops onto the bar again. “I think Uncle Hutch should get married. Lurlene said he should have his own family.”

  My stomach shifts, and I feel like I understand all the joy talk now. “You’re Hutch’s family, too. I mean, I’m no expert, but he loves you a lot.”

  “But I’m just his niece. I’m not really his daughter.”

  “No, but he’s known you the longest.”

  Sitting straighter, she points to the oven. “They’re turning golden at the edges!”

  I get the feeling she’s trying to change the subject. Hell, as a master of distraction, I ought to know. “That means it’s time to take them out. Then they have to cool.”

  We’re sliding them onto the rack, and she absently notes. “Uncle Hutch said he’ll be glad when softball season starts up again, but my softball glove doesn’t bring me joy.”

  “It doesn’t?” I’m shocked. “But you’re the hardest working short-stop in the little league.”

  “That was sixth grade. I’m so much older now. I like skating better.”

  I’m a little sad at this news, but it reminds me why I came here. “I need to take more pictures if I’m going to be ready for my show. Would you and your friends meet me at the skate park tomorrow for a photo shoot?”

  “Yes!” She bounces on the bar, eyes dancing. “I can show you my new trick where my feet go up while I hold the side of the ledge… One of the skater boys taught me.”

  There’s the feisty little jock I missed, and maybe this is why she’s not so interested in softball anymore. “What’s this skater boy’s name?”

  “Tommy.” She leans forward, examining the cookies. I’m about to ask for more info on Tommy when she cuts her eyes up at me. “Mr. Scar got back last night.”

  My jaw drops, but I recover fast. “How do you know that?”

  “He stopped by to talk to Uncle Hutch. They said a bunch of stuff I didn’t understand, but he asked how you were doing.”

  I hold my expression steady, doing my best to hide the fireworks going off in my chest. “What did your uncle say?”

  “He said you were good.” Pepper’s nose wrinkles. “Are you doing good? Your face is all red.”

  “Of course!” My voice is too high. Lifting a cookie, I hold it to her mouth. “Try one and see what you think.”

  She takes a bite then quickly devours the rest. “Dang! These are amazing! They’re buttery and crispy and chewy… they’re like candy!”

  Allowing the smile I’ve been fighting to split my cheeks, I scrub my fingers in the front of her hair. “That means they’re perfect.”

  Rocking side to side on the bar, she eats two more cookies. “Lurlene said it’s about time somebody saw that diamond in the rough. I didn’t really understand what she meant, though. Who’s the diamond? Is it you or is it Scar?”

  My mouth is dry, and I feel like ants are on my skin. I need to go. “Maybe you should ask Lurlene.”

  “I think you’re the diamond and Scar’s just rough.”

  I exhale a laugh as my cheeks flush again. “I’m not much of a diamond.”