When I open the door, I find two people standing on my front step. One of them is an older man in a police uniform. He’s paunchy and has one of those red noses that hints at years of heavy drinking. I don’t recognize him.
The other person is an attractive Black woman in her late forties wearing business casual dress: tan slacks and a navy jacket with a white button-up shirt beneath. She wears no makeup or jewelry, not even earrings. Her fingernails are unpolished. Her hair is pulled back in a simple bun. Despite her lack of ornamentation, she gives off an air of effortless glamour.
I recognize her well.
Her name’s Brown. Detective Doretta Brown, to be precise.
The woman who led the investigation into David’s disappearance and never let me forget for a second that she wasn’t ruling anyone out as a suspect.
Including me.
“Detective Brown. It’s been a while. Do you have news about David?”
Her eyes narrow slightly as she examines my face.
I bet she can smell the fear on me. The woman’s intelligence is frightening.
“We’re not here about that, Ms. Peterson.”
“No?”
She waits for me to say more, but my tongue is pinched firmly between my teeth. Kage’s warning about talking to the police is too fresh for me to start blabbering.
When I don’t break under her laser beam stare, she adds, “We’re here about the shooting at La Cantina last night.”
I don’t make a peep. I do, however, notice that there’s more than one law enforcement car parked at the curb out on the street.
Chris leans against his sheriff’s cruiser with his arms folded over his chest, staring hard at me over the tops of his mirrored sunglasses.
Shit.
Realizing that Detective Brown and I could stand there in silence forever, the paunchy officer makes a friendly suggestion. “Why don’t we go inside and talk?”
“No.”
He looks surprised by the forcefulness of my answer. Detective Brown, however, doesn’t.
“Is there something you’d like to tell us, Ms. Peterson?”
I bet those sharp ears of hers can hear the faint screams of my bowels, but I manage to keep a straight face when I answer. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”
She shares a knowing glance with her colleague. He crosses his arms over his barrel chest and gives me a new look. One that says he didn’t take me seriously before, but he does now.
Obviously, Detective Brown has been telling him stories.
In her book, I might look innocent, but I’m not.
I wonder if she thinks I chopped David into tiny pieces and fed him into a wood chipper.
She says, “There was a shooting last night at La Cantina. Four people were killed.”
Pause. A daring stare. I say nothing. She continues.
“What can you tell us about it?”
“Am I under arrest?”
She seems taken aback by that, but quickly recovers her composure. “No.”
“Then perhaps you could direct your attention to the open investigation of my missing fiancé, and come back when you have something.”
I start to shut the door, but the other officer says, “We know you were at the restaurant last night.”
I stop, draw a steadying breath, and look at him. “I’m sorry, we haven’t been introduced. What’s your name?”
He unfolds his arms and casually rests a hand on the butt of the firearm strapped to the utility belt at his waist. I get the impression it’s a ploy to intimidate me. Instead, it royally pisses me off.
There’s nothing more I hate than a bully.
He points to the badge on his chest. “O’Donnell.”
Keeping my tone pleasant, I say, “Officer O’Donnell, take your colleague and get off my porch. Unless you have new information about the disappearance of my fiancé, I have nothing to say to either one of you.”
Detective Brown says, “We could make you come to the station with us to have a chat.”
“Only if you’re arresting me. Which you’ve already said you’re not.”
Boy, she really doesn’t like me. Her look could peel the paper right off the walls.
“Why would you refuse to cooperate with us if you have nothing to hide?”
“Citizens are under no obligation to speak to the police. Even if they’re accused of a crime. Even if they’re in jail. Am I right?”
She says, “A judge can force you to talk to us.”
I’m pretty sure that’s a stretch, but considering I’m not a constitutional attorney, I don’t know.
Still, we’re playing chicken here.
I won’t blink first.
I say, “I don’t see a judge on my porch. Have a nice day, Detective.”
Heart hammering, I shut the door in their faces. Then I stand there shaking and trying to get control of myself, until I hear Chris’s voice from the other side of the door.
“Nat. Open up. I know you’re standing there.”
“Go away, Chris.”
“I have your purse.”
I freeze in horror.
Oh my god. My purse! I left it at the restaurant!
Don’t panic. You haven’t done anything wrong.
Hurry up and make up a lie anyway.
I open the door and look at him, standing there with my small black clutch in his hand. My mind goes a million miles per hour trying to figure out what to do.
When I don’t say anything, Chris sighs. “Four people were killed last night, Nat. Six others were injured. If you know anything, you really need to talk to the police.”
Detective Brown and Officer O’Donnell are out at the curb by their squad car, watching us talk. I know they sent Chris in because we used to date, and they think he might have a better chance of getting information out of me.
Which makes me wonder what he’s told them about our relationship.
What he thinks about our relationship. Does he actually believe he has some kind of influence over me, the girl he dated for a few weeks last summer who he never even had sex with?
Men.
“I don’t know anything.”
He holds up my purse and stares at me. “Really? So you weren’t at La Cantina last night? This just walked out of your house and showed up at the scene of a crime?”
I get the sense there’s no video of me at the restaurant. That the purse—with my ID and phone inside—is the only thing placing me there. Detective Brown would definitely have used security camera footage as her trump card to scare me into talking, but she didn’t.
Fingers crossed, because although I might not be legally obligated to talk to the police, I have no idea if lying to them is a crime.
Looking Chris in the eye, I say, “I accidentally left that handbag on the counter at the dry cleaners the other day. When I went back for it, it was gone.”
He examines my face in silence for a moment. “You’re telling me that someone stole your purse and kept all your stuff in it when they went out for dinner?”
“I have no idea what happened to it between then and now. May I have it back, please?”
His sigh is heavy. “Nat. Come on. What the heck is going on with you?”
“I’m just trying to get my purse back.”
His voice gains an edge. “Yeah? So you refusing to talk has nothing to do with your neighbor?”
My stomach clenches. I swallow, feeling my hands tremble, wishing I were the kind of person who could lie with confidence. Sloane would’ve already ripped him a new one and kicked him to the curb.
Be Sloane.
I lift my chin, pull back my shoulders, and hold out my hand. “Give me my purse.”
“I knew he was trouble, that guy. You’re too trusting of people, Nat. You need to be more careful.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about. Give me my purse.”
“You don’t know who I’m talking about? Does this ring a bell?”
From inside his jacket pocket, he pulls a folded piece of paper. Tucking my clutch under his arm, he unfolds the paper and hands it to me.
It’s a black-and-white pencil sketch of a man’s head and face. Despite my horror, I have to admit that the resemblance is remarkable.
It’s Kage.
Even in a rough, two-dimensional, hand-drawn sketch, he’s so damn gorgeous, it takes my breath away. If there were an international Hot Felon Contest, he’d win it, hands down.
“That’s a police sketch of one of the suspects in last night’s shooting. A couple of restaurant employees got a good look at him…right before he shot two guys point blank. Does he look familiar to you?”
“No.”
Chris is getting exasperated. He shakes his head, glaring at me. “That’s your next-door neighbor, Nat. The guy who threatened me right here on this very porch.”
I send his glare back to him, tripled. “Oh, you mean when you forced yourself on me as I kept saying no? Yeah, I remember that.”
A Mexican standoff commences. We’re two bandoleros with pistols drawn, facing each other across a dusty corral, neither one willing to run or shoot first.
Finally, he says softly, “Are you fucking him?”
Heat rises in my cheeks, but there’s nothing I can do about it. “My personal life is none of your business. Now give me back my purse and get the hell off my property.”
“Jesus, Nat. That guy? Are you kidding me? All you have to do is look at him to know he’s bad news!”
I take a deep breath. Then I hand him back the sketch and take my purse from him.
“Goodbye, Chris.”
I shut the door in his face.
I stand there listening for a few moments, but he doesn’t leave. Finally, he curses under his breath.
“Okay, I’ll go. But I’m gonna be keeping an eye out for you. This isn’t over.”
His boots make heavy thuds as he walks off.
I wonder if by “keeping an eye out” he actually means “keeping an eye on.”
I have a bad feeling he’s decided to make it his personal mission to keep tabs on me.
I go into the kitchen, sit down at the table, and open my bag. Everything is there as it was, my wallet and phone, lipstick and keys.
I’m shocked when I realize I didn’t lock the front door last night when Kage and I left. I didn’t notice the door was unlocked when we came back, either.
If I’m going to be a mafia king’s queen, I’ll have to be smarter about things like that.
When my cell phone rings, I jump, startled. I don’t recognize the number, so I’m hesitant when I pick up.
“Hello?”
“The leader of the Russian mafia in America is a dude named Maxim Mogdonovich, a Ukrainian. Isn’t that interesting, a Ukrainian in charge? You’d think ethnic Russians would be a little pissed.”
“Sloane! Oh, thank god. Are you okay? You’re safe? Where are you?”
She laughs in delight, sounding like she’s on the lido deck of a cruise ship, cocktail in hand. “Babe, I’m fine. You know me. I always land on my feet. The question is: how are you?”
I collapse facedown onto the kitchen table and groan.
“That’s what I thought. Have a glass of wine. It’ll make you feel better.”
“It’s nine o’clock in the morning.”
“Not in Rome it isn’t.”
“I’m not in Rome!”
“No, but I am.”
I sit bolt upright in the chair. “What?”
“Stavros has a private plane. We flew out as soon as we left the restaurant. I think he’s terrified your man will string him up by his balls if anything happens to me. I’m really going to enjoy you being the moll of a mafia kingpin, by the way.”
“Excuse me, but I’m nobody’s moll.”
“You don’t even know what it means.”
I hate it when she’s right. “I will if you give me a sec to google it.”
“It means gangster’s female companion.”
“There’s a word for that?”
“There’s a word for everything. Example: you know that little landing at the top of a flight of stairs where you have to turn and go up another set of stairs?”
“Yeah?”
“That’s called a halfpace. Isn’t that cute?”
“You’re drunk. Is that it?”
She laughs again. I hear men’s voices in the background. “Stavros’s yacht has a lot of stairs.”
“Yacht? I thought you were in Rome!”
“We landed in Rome. Now we’re on his yacht. The Mediterranean Sea is unbelievable. Hey, you and Kage should come join us!”
No wonder she sounds like she’s having cocktails on the lido deck of a cruise ship: she is.
I demand, “You knew Stavros was in the mafia, didn’t you?”
“Sort of? It’s not like they make a big production out of it. Nobody’s going around wearing lapel pins that say, ‘mafioso.’ Or whatever the word is in Russian. I just got a vibe is all.”
“How could you not tell me you were dating a mobster? You said he was a tech guy!”
“He is a tech guy. Who also happens to be in the mafia. Why are you so upset?”
I say drily, “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe it has to do with the gunfight during dinner last night? Or the four dead bodies we left at La Cantina? Or the cops who knocked on my door this morning? Or the fact that Kage was gone when I woke up?”
She sucks in a thrilled breath. “You slept with him, didn’t you?”
“Out of everything I said, that’s what you’re interested in talking about?”
“Yes! Oh my god, bitch, spill!”
“Rewind, maniac. The cops knocked on my door this morning.”
“And you didn’t tell them anything. And now they’re gone. Let’s get back to the good stuff: you and Kage. I know the answer’s probably no because it was your first time being together and all, but I still have to ask…butt sex?”
“There is something very, very wrong with you.”
“Answer the question.”
“I could be in jail right now!”
“Babe, you didn’t do anything to get put in jail for. Now answer the damn question.”
“The answer’s no, psychopath!”
She sighs in disappointment. “Well, at least you’re okay. We got lucky getting out of that restaurant alive.”
“What happened, anyway? I missed how the shooting started.”
“Stavros saw some guys over at the bar who were looking at him sideways. He said something to Alex and Nick, the other guys approached the table, there was a little bit of conversation, then Alex and Nick just jumped up and opened fire.”
So they started it. Interesting. “What did they say to each other?”
“Who the hell knows? It was all in Russian and Irish. Whatever it was, it obviously wasn’t good.”
“Did Stavros tell you anything?”
She chuckles. “Babe, I know better than to ask. The less we know, the better.”
She sounds exactly like Kage. I make a face at the phone.
“When are you coming back?”
“I’m not sure. But from what I’ve overheard, Stavros and his crew will wait for contact with Kage before they do anything. Apparently, sis, your man is the shit. Second only to the Grand Poobah of the Russian mafia himself.”
Maxim Mogdonovich. The man Kage said was in prison…leaving him to run the daily business.
My boyfriend is the acting head of an international criminal syndicate.
My mother would be so proud.
My phone beeps, indicating another incoming call. When I look to see who it is, my heart starts to pound. I tell Sloane I’ll have to call her back.
Then I click over to Kage.
