17. Rhaim

17

RHAIM

I drove across town and circled the man's apartment complex by summer's fading light.

Sable had been right; the man lived in a shithole. Probably had thin walls, so I'd need to muffle him, but on the plus side I doubted his neighbors were the cop-calling type.

After that I drove home to my apartment, packed, power napped, and it was far easier to get up in the middle of the night than it had any right to be.

It was because part of my body was wishing it were still on the farm with Gracie—and part of my body still ready to get up in the middle of the night with thoughts of Lia.

I tried to write it off as eagerness to fight—it'd been a while, and I loved a good brawl—but there was no point in pretending my dick was going to punch anyone. I jerked off quickly, methodically, the same way I had ever since Isabelle had died, like I was relieving an animalistic urge, but instead of imagining Lia crawling over me like she had at the club, this time I was punishing her, a thousand different ways for a thousand different indiscretions. For coming into my life without warning, for trying to use me, for being related to her father, for being so young, for being so beautiful, for the strangely awestruck way she sometimes looked at me, for the curve of her ass, for what I was very sure she would be able to do with her tongue—I came with a shuddering gasp, but instead of feeling even a moment of respite, I felt like I was on fire.

Like I was alive again.

God. Fucking. Dammit.

I had been complacent in my grief, absolutely comfortable. I had wrapped it around me like a cloak, and buried all my hopes and dreams and now here I was, feeling them again. It was bad enough that the ice in my veins was thawing—why the fuck did it have to burn?

I looked at the cum in my hand and I hated her for it.

I washed it away though and pulled on all black clothing, because if I couldn't make her pay, someone else was fucking going to.

I considered my options as I drove back to his apartment and parked several blocks away.

I wouldn't put it past an agency to have created an entire backstory for this guy that you could bounce a quarter off of, and while I trusted in Sable's witch-like powers with electronics, you never knew.

So in addition to a balaclava and my fists, I'd brought my Sig Heuer P365, a gun small enough to be called charming, if you weren't the one about to get shot by it.

And when I got there, I gave my surroundings a cursory glance, making sure there was no one awake to see me, before I trotted up to his apartment's second floor.

It only took a moment to let myself in, after bringing down the knit mask that covered everything but my eyes.

His place smelled like old diapers and cigarettes—and as I looked around his living room with a flashlight, there was a level of authenticity in the squalor the FBI was not known for.

I'd looked up the blueprints to the place online, so I knew there was only one bedroom, through a closed door. I walked back to it with soft treads, and while I was tempted to kick it open, I could hear a man solidly snoring through the cheap particle board. I carefully opened it up and then stepped inside. He was illuminated by a streetlight outside coming through wrinkled blinds.

He didn't wake up.

He was clearly subpar.

Which made everything here even more confusing.

I padded over to his bed's far side and planted a hand on the pillow that was lying skew there, in case there was a gun beneath it—then pulled out my own and aimed it at his head. He was in his thirties and sleeping like a child.

What the fuck was that even like?

"Wake up, Chad," I said in my most ominous tone, and when that didn't work, I kneed the bed.

He startled awake at that, and then saw me. "Oh—oh shit," he cursed, with a frantic look in his eyes.

"Move and I will kill you. Answer my questions and you get to live."

There was a moment when I thought that he'd be foolish—I saw all his decisions flowing through him, making him twitch, as the frightened part of him tried to run and leave the rest of him behind, but eventually he figured out his shit.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice an octave higher than it had been.

"I have a feeling you know who I am."

He nodded slowly. "Yeah—you're the Italian guy," he said, then swallowed.

"Hmm. Finish that sentence," I prompted.

"Th—that I've been following, for the girl."

Beneath the facemask I was wearing, one of my eyebrows arched up, but I made sure to let nothing on. I wanted to hear his story, unadulterated. "Keep going. Tell me everything."

"She hired me. A few weeks ago. Said that I was supposed to keep tabs on you. So I did, and it was easy—you never go anywhere—just your apartment and your job. And that other night, when you went to that brownstone that's got a sex club downstairs. I used to do divorce work a ton—a wife went through her husband's credit card receipts is how I knew about it."

I indicated with the tip of my gun that it would be in his best interest to be more forthcoming.

"And—she paid me up front." I watched him blanch at that, becoming whiter than his dingy sheets. "I've already spent it. I can't get it back?—"

"I don't want the money," I said, before he could lose focus. "Tell me more."

"There's not much more to tell." He pulled a hand out from beneath his sheets under my watchful gaze and ran it through his hair. "It's the easiest job I've ever had—and it's paid the most one has in years." He considered this, and then he looked at me. "Are you real? I'm on Ambien, man. This is fucking trippy."

Which meant he was likely not lying—and it explained how hard it was to get him up, even when his life was on the line. "Mmmm. Why?"

"I—like money?"

I growled. "Why me, you fool."

"I don't know!" he protested.

"And you've never interacted with any other members of her family?"

"I don't even know who she is! She paid me in cash and told me not to ask questions!"

I rocked back at that, my teeth gritting. Why would Lia be siccing this inept man after me? Then again, if she hired quality help, they'd have been smart enough to know who she was—or how dangerous I could be.

"I just stay far away, take a couple pictures—there was even that whole week where I lost you," he said and then began bawling. "I'm not even good at my job, please don't kill me!"

"Where's your fucking phone?"

He snorted snot back unattractively. "Over there. Can I—" he asked, and I waved him on with the gun, before putting it away as he grabbed it from his nightstand.

"Open it."

He did so and handed it over to me.

I programed in one of my burner lines and gave myself my own title in his contact list: Monster.

"From here on out," I told him, "you work for me. You keep interacting with her, like normal, but everything you tell her, you also run through me. And then you add whatever else I tell you to onboard."

He nodded frantically. "Okay, okay," he said, as I rocked back and made to stand. Then he gave me a bleary look, finally focusing his concentration, and the Ambien making him potentially unwise. "Since I'm working for you—are you also going to pay me?"

I laughed like Satan himself. Up until that moment, I'd been thinking I'd let him go, because he wasn't worth my time, but then?—

"Let me give you something to remember when you wake up," I said, and punched him.

His nose crushed beneath my knuckles and blood instantly spurt out. He yelped like a shot dog, and both his hands flew to his face, reeling, blubbering, "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God."

I grabbed the front of the T-shirt he was wearing and yanked him upright before letting him go. "Sit up in bed so you don't drown in your own blood," I said, wiping my hand off on his sheets, before leaving his apartment behind.

I didn't know what to make of things, on my way back to my truck with my balaclava tucked into my pocket. Why on earth would Lia care about me? Unless she did want to bring me down? But that made no sense—hurting me would be as good as hurting her father.

Then again, she did want to call guys who fucked her Daddy.

Did she hate him?

She had cause—he was going to essentially give her away—did she know?

But this whole thing seemed far more premeditated than that recent revelation.

Not that she hadn't always known she was her father's pawn—just like every other person in Nero's orbit.

The whole affair put a bad taste in my mouth. Because either she was dastardly on some level I was unwilling to give her credit for—couldn't, really, after interacting with that buffoon—or...

Or.

I sat in the cab of my truck and pulled my phone out, texting Sable.

What's her handle?

It took a moment for Sable to text me back, but she did—people like she and I didn't get the luxury of sleeping on benzos.

What's it worth to you?

she teased, but the Instagram account came up before I could even get angry.

There you go, lover boy.

Don't think you'd survive calling me that in person

I texted back, before hopping into the app store to install the stupid program.

You say that now—but tomorrow we're doing lunch

she sent in return.

Which meant that she had answers for me.

See you there

I texted back as the program loaded.

Lia wasn't in my office the next day when I got there, which was somewhat of a relief. I was tired after last night's escapade—and cranky, which I'd be straight through lunch, hoping that Sable had some answers for me.

Ones that made sense and weren't highlighted and circled around with hearts.

I was certain I'd made my point clear to her man—there was no way he'd risk talking to Lia without telling me, and he'd texted me this morning exactly what he'd told her, that he'd spotted me leaving my building.

I knew I was a thousand times more frightening than a little girl.

But I left the door to my office open, so I could contemplate her empty one.

Maybe she'd gotten her period or something, I thought, like a Neanderthal.

Or, maybe, I'd fumble-fingered while I was snooping last night, and "liked" something while I was scrolling, and now she was horrified that I'd seen all of her silly, girlish secrets, and couldn't look me in the eye.

That seemed far more likely.

I'd found myself slightly jealous though, of all the strangers she'd been interacting with on her posts, entirely without artifice. Why did they get that version of her, and I got the difficult one who kept coming here?

It didn't matter. I had actual work to do.

Four hours later I left Corvo and sent Lia's man a threatening text on my way to visit the café again.

This time, Sable had beat me, and she was already sitting at our table like a queen. When she saw me she pointed to table in front of the empty place setting. "Sit down," she said, like I was a dog, but then followed it with, "and buckle in."

"Oh God," I muttered, doing as I'd been told.

"First off," she said, reveling in the fact that she had the upper hand, "how was the rest of your night, Romeo?"

I eyed her dourly. "Sable, while I do have a sense of humor, I am possessed of very little patience."

"Too bad!" She cackled for a good long while before sobering, as I kept staring her down. "Oh, come on, Rhaim. I never get to have anything over you, let me enjoy this."

My eyes narrowed. "Only because I have a surprise planned for you later."

She lit on that like a hawk snatching up an unsuspecting hare. "Really? What?"

"Your news first," I said darkly, while crossing my arms.

"Fine," she complained, then chuckled to herself and pulled a small tablet out of her bag. "I traced your girl back. It didn't take long, but I'm still charging you full price," she said, flipping through screens till she got the one she wanted. "So she was sent overseas to boarding schools ten years ago, right? And after that, every year—not precisely, sometimes eight months, sometimes fourteen, she'd have to change systems. This girl got a tour of the European continent, Rhaim. These places were in Switzerland, Germany, France?—"

"So?" I interrupted her. "Sounds nice."

Sable's expression changed. "That's where you're wrong. A lot of these places...they were closer to institutions. And she was hospitalized during that time frame. More than once."

I leaned forward. "What for?"

"Some of these schools were so traditional they still used paper so I couldn't hack them, but the hospitals I could. Psych stuff, eating disorders, self-harm, that sort of thing." She flipped through a few more screens, showing off old manors with massive lawns, and the fa?ades of imposing looking hospitals in turn. "When she was in school though she always got good grades. She just had a problem staying in one place—and staying sane—was all."

"No boyfriends?" I asked with a frown.

"You jealous?" Sable teased, but then shook her head. "No. Why?" She leaned over and scrolled a little bit for me, showing me more of Lia's photographs. "She's in some group shots—but she's never with anyone. No holding hands, no longing looks."

Not many smiles either, I noted.

But without my drug-muling boyfriend theory—and with the man she'd hired definitely not working for the FBI—I wasn't sure I liked what was left.

"What're you thinking?" Sable asked.

I glanced at my watch. "That it's about time," I said, looking around expectantly. And I spotted him there—Lia's PI, in his red late model Camry, coming to a stop across the street. "I need you to do me one more favor, Sable."

She clapped her hands in delight. "This is like fucking Christmas, Rhaim—I love having you owe me. What?"

I calculated angles, then gestured that she should stand up. I moved to stand by her, occupying her personal space, and her amusement turned to chagrin. "All right, then. Pretend to kiss me."

Her eyes went wide. "What? No. Rhaim , I'm gold star?—"

"It's for the benefit of that man in the Camry over there." I tilted my head his direction, wondering if Sable could make out the bandage plastered across the man's face to keep his nose set. "I need him to take some pictures for me."

She looked over her shoulder, and then back at me. "Why?"

Because the only remaining option is that Nero Ferreo's little girl wants information about me—and to be around me—for some reason.

And nothing good can come of it.

"I'll triple your fee," I said, rather than answer her.

She pretended to do math, then huffed, "Fine. I'm not going to pretend to enjoy it, tho?—"

Before she could finish her sentence, I'd stepped much, much closer to her, and put one arm around her waist, and the other around her upper back, setting a careful hand atop her braids, making her dip slightly sideways, so my face in profile would be clear. I held the pose a moment longer than was necessary, released her, and then the Camry drove on.

"That is the one and only," she said, beginning to protest. I lifted my hands off of her and backed up, while she did a disgusted shimmy. "That had better not get on the internet! I have a reputation to uphold!"

"It won't," I said, while she squinted at me, waiting for me to be more forthcoming.

"Well?" she demanded, but I shook my head silently. That didn't stop her. "So if she's not FBI, Rhaim," she said, insinuating all sorts of things with her tone as I flipped open my wallet for cash for our table.

"Then I don't know," I said, and when I looked up next and saw her eyes flashing. "And I don't want to make assumptions."

"Oh, I'll make them for you," she promised, and snorted loudly.

"Don't," I commanded. "We both know fucking Nero's daughter would be like jerking off while holding a live hand grenade."

She gave me an impish look. "Sounds fun, up until the end."

"Says the woman who's never touched a penis," I muttered, turning on my heel before she could taunt me again. "See you around, Sable."

"Hacking Russian oil conglomerates is nowhere as amusing to me as watching you deal with your love life," she called after me in sing-song, but I refused to turn back.