Going straight to my bed, I plunge between the sheets, curling into a ball in the cold. It’s not the same as being in Scar’s arms. I’m alone again, unprotected and afraid, and wondering if I’ll ever be a normal person.

  My phone buzzes in my hand, and I lift it to see it’s a text from him. Hutch needs to meet this morning. See you later?

  Touching my eyes with my fingertips, I do my best not to cry. You want to see me?

  I hit send, and wrap my arms around my waist, my filleted heart throbbing.

  As far as he knows, I went from sucking his dick like a lollipop to flying out of his house like it was on fire. Who wants a crazy person in their life?

  Yes.

  My eyes heat at his single-word reply.

  I don’t know what to say, and as the seconds tick past, I decide it’s okay not to answer for now.

  Embarrassment, humiliation, my beating heart all combine to make it impossible to sleep. Not to mention, I slept so well last night, I’m not tired.

  Throwing the blankets aside, I quickly shower and change into leggings and a long-sleeved sweater. I start to wrap my hair in a bun when I catch the scent of warm woods and clean man-scent. Hesitating, I hold my hair to my face and inhale deeply, allowing his essence to relax the pain in my chest.

  He said yes. He still wants me.

  My shaky insides grasp at that thin shred of hope. That fierce, beautiful man still might be mine.

  I dig my camera out of the bag and jog down the stairs. The best I can do with this dumpster fire of a situation is make art. The best art grows out of pain, right?

  Norris has a fresh pot of coffee waiting, and I grab a scone off a tray. My uncle’s dear old butler must have been awake when I arrived, and he always takes good care of us.

  He has an assortment of fresh food on trays all day long, from scones or biscuits and fruit in the morning to little sandwiches in the afternoon. Uncle Hugh’s cancer is in remission, and he and I both are trying to get healthier.

  Walking down to the basement darkroom, I flip on the red light to let everyone know I’m working. Placing my sadness away, I try to recapture the excitement I felt when I was taking the photos.

  I summon the ideas swirling in my mind with Pepper and her friends at the skate park and Scar on the beach. Inspiration lifts me beyond my past and gives me hope I can make something beautiful from the pain.

  Going to the computer, I plug my camera into the hard drive and start sorting through the images. I also take out the film in the back and scroll through the ones I stored for further manipulation.

  I like that I can use digital editing on certain photos, but I really enjoy getting creative with lighting and saturation on film. Some of them I’ll make distressed or vintage, over-exposed or monochrome.

  Debbie knew so many photographers in New York from art school. Two in particular let me follow them as they worked, and they taught me different techniques. They told me about the cameras they used and the lenses and how to adjust shutter speeds.

  Blake preferred making money as a model, so she could pay for her clothes and tuition without having to borrow from our mother until she turned twenty-one and her trust fund matured.

  I just borrowed money from anyone who’d lend it and drank on whatever tab was open. God, I was such an idiot. Trip has to help me pay it back now that my own trust has matured.

  Thinking about money, I remember a certain photographer who preferred the heroin-chic look of the early aughts. He was a total dick to my sister. I think he called her fat, and she never worked with him again.

  He’d find Debbie and me some nights when we’d be getting drunk or high, and follow us around, taking pictures that made us look like the nouveau Kate Moss or James King. He was a real asshole, because he would sell our images to Page Six and never give us a dime.

  My favorite photographer was an older man. He was obsessed with Blake’s 1950s-era pinup curves. She would sit for him, and I would hang out watching him work. He let me in the darkroom where he’d fine tune the hue and saturation so her photos looked like they were taken in the days of Marilyn Monroe or Jane Russell. He taught me the most about light and shadow.

  Anyone can take pictures, he’d say, but to make a mark on the art scene, you have to have a vision as an artist, your own personal style.

  Starting with the photo of Pepper, I enlarge it to poster-size and add a halo around her feet overhead. Her mouth is set in a firm line, and she’s a superhero, flying on four wheels and defying gravity.

  Ainsley doing the arabesque is my next poster, and I add a vintage sepia cast to make it look like something from the seventies, roller girl.

  Pulling out the roll from the beach, warmth flushes my body when I’m hit by Scar’s ice-blue gaze. Moving down the line quickly with my scope, my breath becomes shallow in my chest.

  He’s a living work of art, and blending him with the turbulent ocean waves, the overcast sky, and the orange twilight makes him appear mythical, my viking prince.

  It’s possible I’m biased, but I think even a casual observer would stop and stare at him.

  My favorite is him on the boat, looking out to sea. Wisps of hair frame his face, and the muscle in his square jaw is pronounced beneath his beard. One large hand is near his cheek, and he’s so terribly dangerous and totally fuckable.

  I snapped so many images yesterday, I’m just seeing what all I have, and my heart stops when I find one where he’s giving me a hint of a grin.

  Furrowing my brow, I try to remember what I’d said to make him finally crack a smile. He’d been so impatient with the entire process.

  Starting with those two, I blow them up to poster sizes. I add the effects, and in the final bath as the lines solidify and become more distinct, a flutter fills my stomach.

  I can usually only hold his gaze for a moment when we’re together. It’s so intense. But alone in this dark room, I absorb his energy. Looking straight at me, his gaze is hungry and possessive.

  His brow is lowered, and the storm in his eyes is elemental, primitive. Powerful. He’s poised to consume, his possession complete. I’m lost in his pirate gaze, in the set of his jaw and his straight, white teeth. He’s a rock, unmovable, ready to crush anyone who might challenge him.

  The ink curling around his forearms and climbing up his shoulders to his neck are flames of black fire covering the damaged skin. Taking another frame, I zoom in on his fingers holding the knife.

  Such elegant hands, long fingers with fragile skin, damaged tissue barely peeking out at his wrists. Leaning my face against my own hand, I study his scars up close–injury transformed into art.

  I want to know his story.

  With a sigh, I’m ready to take a break for the day when my heart freezes at the last three pictures on the film roll.

  A face looks back at me, pictures from a night so long ago. How did this happen? Had I started this roll of film and forgotten it?

  The first is a black purse dropped on the concrete with all the contents spilled out. Lipsticks and theater tickets, a pen and and a powder brush on the ground beside black stilettos.

  The next is Debbie looking over her shoulder at the lens, heavy cat eyeliner on point, bleached blonde hair peeping out beneath her black kubanka hat.

  Finally, one is of me with my hair in a bun at the nape of my neck. I’m in a plain white dress, and I look so young holding a cigarette in my fingers. I only held it–I never smoked. I’m sitting on an iron bench, blue eyes glassy.

  My chest heaves, and I realize this is one of the nights I’ve forgotten. So many nights I don’t remember, when Debbie and I would do stupid, reckless things.

  A full-body cringe forces me to turn away, but a flash of memory grips my attention. Closing my eyes, I press my back to the wall. She was supposed to protect me, but something went wrong. I was lost.

  Flickers of memory, images flashing like a moving train through blinds. I’m in a dark room with old men sitting around me. One is at my feet, and it’s the same old torment–hands touching me, a mouth on my skin. I’m paralyzed, holding the torch, staring at the body on the floor.

  “He’s dead.” The whispering voice is female now. Is it Debbie?

  A man is holding a camera, but he’s not like me. He’s filming everything.

  Cold sweat breaks out on my arms, running down my torso. A silver cup is in my hand–I gave him his final communion, his final rites.

  Pushing back on the table, I spin away, slamming off the lights and jerking the door open. I’m out of the darkroom and running up the stairs, away from what I did.

  12

  Scar

  “You look relaxed,” Hutch quips as I enter the office.

  “Fuck off.” I don’t feel relaxed, not after the way Hana bolted from my bed this morning completely freaked out.

  She went from sexy vixen to terrified child with the flip of a switch–or the touch of my lips–and I’ve been mulling over it all day.

  I want to find the man who did this to her, dig him up and kill him again. Slower.

  “So you’re relaxed, but not completely?” Dirk jokes, leaning back in his chair and placing his foot on the desk. “That sucks.”

  “I want to find these fuckers.”

  “Now you’re speaking my language.” Hutch walks to the filing cabinet behind his desk and takes out his beretta, turning it to the side. “After what you told me, sitting still feels like a mistake.”

  “Going after Simon’s organization without a plan would be the mistake.” My tone is grave. “Those guys don’t get caught, and if they do, they walk.”

  Hutch lifts the shade on the glass front door. It’s just the three of us–him, Dirk, and me–and we typically don’t get walk-in business. “Simon Petrovich thinks he can order hits, blackmail our girls, steal from them, but you know their organization. We can draw them out and break this ring. I’d like to bring Louie into our circle if you trust him.”

  Louie Jackson is a police sergeant in Brooklyn Hutch has known since he retired from the military and got his private investigator’s license. He helped us the last time we were in New York when we had a dead body on our hands.

  I exhale heavily. “It’s been seven years since I was in their circle. They’re so paranoid, they’re always changing how they do things.”

  “They still operate out of Gibson’s.”

  “It’s true.” I remember the day I went there. “If it hadn’t been for Rainey, no one would’ve questioned me.”

  “Rainey.” Hutch, growls softly. “She’s a kid, and she knows all of us.”

  “What do we know about her?” Dirk taps on his laptop, and the young girl’s face appears on the screen.

  “She’s a party girl, close to Natasha, friends with Blake and Hana–with all of them.” Hutch says. “She’s very young.”

  “They all have fake IDs,” I note.

  “Hana’s show would be the perfect cover.” Dirk’s still scrolling. “We could make it appear she and Blake are in the city alone, then see what comes out of the woodwork to find them. Hana owes money all over town, she’s racked up gambling debts, she’s in the snuff film.”

  The objection is on my lips, but Hutch beats me to it. “Blake wouldn’t like us using Hana as bait. Anyway, they all know Blake and I are engaged. No one would make a move on her.”

  “All the more reason to think they would go alone. You’d dare anyone to mess with your fiancée.”

  “I’d dare anyone to hurt Hana.”

  Dirk sits up in the chair, leveling his hazel eyes on me. “Right, but we want to catch these guys, don’t we? You two are the perfect tools for catching them.”

  “Then let me do it. Don’t put the girls at risk.”

  Hutch’s voice is thoughtful. “Hana’s already at risk if they believe she killed Victor.”

  “Hana didn’t kill Victor.” My tone is final, and his green eyes flicker up to mine.

  “Or if she was involved in his death–”

  “She wasn’t involved.”

  He exchanges a glance with his brother. “It sounds like you know more than you’re telling us again.”

  I let that pass unanswered. “I think you’re overestimating our chances against these guys. Simon has a tight-knit, highly trained group of thugs with a lot of money backing them. We’re three men.”

  “Three motivated men with military training, police connections, and an insider’s knowledge of their network.” Dirk gives me a wink. “I’d bet on us any day.”

  My jaw tightens. I’m still not convinced it’s enough, and I won’t risk Hana being hurt again.

  Hutch crosses his arms. “I think our odds are better than you give us credit for. You should know from our days in the military, a quick, strategic unit can be very effective against a slow, bloated organization that thinks it’s invincible.”

  Nodding, I think through what I know of my old boss. “If we knew what he wanted, perhaps we could give it to him.”

  “Are you able to detect any kind of pattern in all this?”

  “No.” I shake my head, frustrated.

  “It doesn’t matter what they want.” Dirk’s voice has an edge. “If we cut off the head, the body will die.”

  Exchanging a glance with Hutch, I slide my hands in my pockets. “That’s one way.”

  Kill Simon.

  “I think it’s the only way.” Dirk’s gaze glitters with confidence.

  He’s charming and smart as a whip. He’s also the youngest of our group, which makes him a deadly motherfucker. Dirk won’t hesitate. Like his computer programs, it’s all ones and zeros, black and white.

  “Let me see what I can find out before we set anything in stone.” The last thing I want is a war where I might be taken out and Hana could be left unprotected.

  Hutch is right about learning from our military days. I learned things are not always so cut and dried, and nobody wants a pyrrhic victory.

  “I’ll wait for your report.” Hutch picks up his keys. “You coming to dinner tonight?”

  “Not tonight. Thank Lurlene for me.”

  I have business.

  Pulling out my phone, I send a quick text to my girl. Still working. Sorry.

  Gray dots precede her answer. Will you be at Hutch’s?

  No–don’t worry.

  Funny how quickly my mind took ownership of her. It happened the moment I saw her, the moment her blue eyes captured mine. I don’t believe in love at first sight. I still don’t, but something shifted when she touched my arm.

  Her fragile heart, so damaged but still fighting so hard, reminded me who I am and what I fight for. She’s the beautiful face of their victims, the ones marred by what they did, and it’s what drives me to this day.

  Reaching above the door to my home office, I take down the key and unlock it. A gray, metal box is hidden behind a stack of books. Inside is a device I put away long ago–a disassembled phone from the days when phones were not so smart they had to be destroyed to protect your location.

  Reassembling it, I take the old-school black cord and plug it into the wall. I slide a small chip in the back and power it on for the first time in seven years.

  I put so much effort into disabling this device, hiding it in a metal box as if that would keep them from finding me.

  As if I didn’t know they always would.

  As if I didn’t keep this phone knowing one day I’d be here, placing this call from the only number he’ll accept.

  It rings once and Simon’s voice is on the line. “And he’s back.”

  An invisible fist grabs my stomach at the sound. We haven’t spoken in nearly a decade, but I can tell he hasn’t changed. He’s the same heartless thug he always was, surrounded by evil, protected in his bubble of dirty money and corruption.

  My tone is low, equally cold. “I’m not back.” My hatred for him and his entire web of crime has only grown stronger, burnished into steel after this morning with Hana. “I want to know what you want.”

  “I’m confused.” I can see his cruel smile in my mind. “You called me.”

  “I’m not playing games, Simon. This isn’t about a horse, and it isn’t about money. So what is it?”

  “It’s always about money, Oskar. However, in this case you’re right. Other factors are involved. Much has changed since you deserted your post. Perhaps if you’d fulfilled your obligations–”

  “Doping, murder, embezzlement.” My jaw grinds on the words. “I put up with a lot, but when you started hurting kids, I was out.”

  “Taking all your knowledge with you. Do you know why I let you live?”

  “Because none of your assholes are strong enough to take me out?”

  He scoffs. “A well-timed bullet would take you out. I let you live because I find you interesting. Every move you make intrigues me.”

  His words make my skin crawl, but I’m not buying it. “You’ve never been interested in me. You want something, so I’ll ask again, what is it? Charles van Hamilton’s debts don’t warrant all of this.”

  “Charles van Hamilton was an annoying gnat, a foolish liability. He lost again and again, bigger and bigger, yet he wouldn’t leave the game. Ultimately, he had to be removed.”

  “So you had him murdered, and Victor proceeded to siphon off the money he owed you.”

  “Victor siphoned off thousands. Charles owed me millions.” Anger enters his tone. “Now Victor is dead–my brother, my pakhan. That cannot go unanswered. Justice must be served–an eye for an eye, blood for blood.”

  “And Debbie Desayda-Rice?”

  “I don’t know Miss Desayda-Rice.”

  “She was murdered by your nephew.”

  “My nephew had his own entanglements. I have no interest in that situation.”

  “What’s your interest in Hana?”

  “Hana van Hamilton belongs to me. Charles pledged her to me as payment.” His tone is flat, but my insides are raging.

  I’ve fought this decree before.

  “Hana is not a slave. She’s an American heiress. You can’t claim her like a thoroughbred or a painting.” Or a forgotten little boy. “Her disappearance would be noticed.”

  “You should know, there are many ways to collect what belongs to me.”