Dirty Chase: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Brooklyn Brotherhood Book 2) (21 page)

I
t's raining in Paris
.

Again.

It turns out December in Paris is beautiful: all the shops are decorated for the holidays, the people are chic, and Christmas magic seems to float in the air along with the scents of croissants baking and coffee brewing. But it's also wet.

All the damn time.

I run from awning to awning, trying to avoid the downfall and puddles on the cobblestone streets. It's useless. My knee-high boots are soaked within minutes, and despite that fact that it's amazing
that I can
walk
to the Musée d'Orsay on my day off, I'm regretting leaving the gorgeous apartment I currently live and work in.

Not that I regret coming to Paris. I can't let myself regret that.

And "apartment" is an understatement. Mr. Dumont, my boss, owns the entire
building
. It's a gorgeous townhouse, with four floors and the smallest elevator I've even seen. But still,
it's an elevator in someone's personal home
. It can just fit Celeste and I and Monsieur Bunny, "bunny" being the only English the adorable four-year-old knows.

I run across a narrow alley—even the alleyways in the 7
^th
Arrondissement are picturesque—and try to squeeze under another awning, this one outside of a gardening store, a taxidermy shop, and a café. There's a couple already hiding from the rain, and I smile and nod at them. They both look me up and down, but don't respond.

I sigh and turn to watch the street.

I feel so
American
here, and I can't hide it.

I'm loud, and bumbling, and I can't seem to get a grip on my emotions.

The clouds take on my mood, suddenly releasing an absolute downpour. The puddles in the street turn into a river, and I give up and take refuge inside the small café. A handsome young waiter comes to my table. He smiles, checking me out but wincing at my accent.

"
Une noisette
,
s'il vous pla
î
t
," I say. An espresso with clouds of foamy milk on top, my drink of choice here in the city of love. The waiter nods, and I thank him in French, even though I know I sound terrible.

I'm forcing myself to speak the language as much as possible, both to learn it for myself, and to learn to communicate with my young charge, Celeste. I'd been told she spoke some English, but something got lost in translation, because the poor, sweet, sad waif speaks
no
English whatsoever. Well, besides what I've taught her—
bunny
being what's stuck with her. Most of the time she doesn’t speak at all.

I've got to find a way to get through to her.

I open my purse and rifle through the postcards I'd bought at the Musée d'Orsay, a former railway station on the banks of the Seine that is now a world-famous art museum. I'll send one to Kat and Gray along with their Christmas gifts, and let Celeste play with the rest.

I nestle near the window, a cold draft sneaking in through the old wooden panes. The thick glass is streaked with the driving rain, but—I gasp and sit up suddenly.

I swear I just saw Chase across the street.

There's a man standing there, on the corner, in the rain. Tall, lean, with a dark jacket and dark hair. He's facing away from me, but those shoulders—I
know
those shoulders. I foolishly wipe the window so I can see more clearly. Of course it doesn't work. The water's on the outside.

"Madame." the waiter delivers my drink. When I look back up again, the tall, dark figure across the street is gone.

I'm sure it's just my mind playing tricks on me. Again.

I've been in Paris for over a month, and for the past few days, I keep thinking I see Chase whenever I leave the house. But that's impossible. No one knows where I am.

I finally emailed Kat—I can't keep a secret for shit, so I did it while she was still on her extended honeymoon—and she flipped.

Flipped the fuck out
.

She wanted to know my exact address; she wanted to
fly
here to come get me. I told her I'd be home for the birth of her baby girl; I told her to trust me, to respect me, and to give me some time.

I am not asking you to keep anything from your husband
, I'd typed.
Which is why I'm not even telling you where I am. I'm safe. And I'm happy
.

The last line was a lie. But I was determined to turn it into truth.

Kat wasn't happy, but she told me she understood. And she said once she has the baby, I'd better come home, because she no flippin' clue how to change a diaper or deal with kids.

She didn't mention Chase. And I forced myself not to ask.

I take a sip of coffee and make a face. Something about it just tastes off today. I try to flag down the waiter, but no one can ignore you like a Parisian waiter. He swoops by me with the tray of savory crepes; my stomach turns as I take in the salty smell of ham and eggs and onions.

Oh, God, the onions.

My stomach suddenly clenches, and I feel a rush of saliva in my mouth like I'm going to throw up. Maybe it's not the coffee. Maybe it's me; I must be getting sick or something.

I toss some Euros for the bill and rush out the door. The fresh air is better—much better. I take a few deep breaths, wondering how I'll get home without getting completely drenched when a black SUV with tinted windows cruises to a stop in front of me.

For a second, I think it's Chase—but no. Of course not. I recognize the car because it's Mr. Dumont's. The driver's-side window rolls down, and there's Xavier, Mr. Dumont's personal bodyguard.

He's tall and bald, with a rugged face and cold eyes that miss nothing.

I don’t think Xavier is French, even though he wears tailored black suits that would fit in at the nicest restaurants. He has an accent, but it’s more German or Russian-sounding. The longer I’m here, the more I realize that I’m a clueless American when it comes to accents.

Xavier could be from Lithuania or Romania for all I know.

And I’m certainly not going to ask him. Because despite his classy suits, expensive shoes, and watch that probably costs more than my annual salary, he scares me. I guess that’s a good quality in a bodyguard, but I’m pretty sure he scares Celeste, too.

The irony is not lost on me, that I left Chase because I didn't want to be surrounded by bodyguards and violence—and then moved into a home with even more bodyguards than Chase's.

Though with the guys back home, I felt safe. Protected. With Xavier and his coworkers, I just feel…nothing. He looks over and through me, like I’m just a piece of meat. I’m there to do his boss’ bidding. And if I stay in line, he doesn’t see me.

I’m scared to step out of line. I don’t want to do anything that brings his attention to me. Which is why I’m especially nervous as he lowers the window and stares at me.

“Miss Sinclair,” he calls from the car. “Get in. We will take you home.”

My instinct, strangely, is to run away. But that’s crazy. I force a smile and duck my head as I step into the rain. The rear door opens for me, and I stumble in—then see who’s inside and gasp.

“Oh! Mr. Dumont, I mean, Monsieur Dumont. Hello! I’m so sorry, did I get you wet?”

“Miss Sinclair, please. You do not need to speak French.” He winces good-naturedly. “‘Mister’ is fine.’”

I smile and nod and try to adjust myself into the corner of the seat. My boss is kind but exceedingly formal. I don’t even know if he knows my first name.

Mr. Dumont is sitting on the other side of the spacious SUV. He normally wears a nicer suit than Xavier, but today he’s in fashionable dark jeans and a thick cream sweater.

I don’t know exactly what I pictured a world-famous government scientist to look like, but whatever it was, it’s
not
Mr. Dumont. He's an older gentleman—maybe fifty-five? sixty-five? He’s fit, a little taller than me, and always impeccably dressed. He has short salt-and-pepper hair and wears wire-rimmed glasses. His wife must have been much younger than him, because, well, he’s old enough to be his four-year-old’s grandfather, that’s for sure. There’s a hardness to him, which I attribute to losing his wife a year ago.

He’s also mostly absent from the house, and Celeste’s life. While I think it’s horrible that he doesn’t see his daughter often, he’s obviously provided everything else for her. And I try not to judge him—after all, I can’t imagine waking up every day, knowing the love of his life is gone, and that her spitting image is sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast.

At least, that’s what I imagine. I know it’s why I fled New York, to get away from Chase’s memory—and he’s still alive.

For a second, my gut clenches. He
is
alive, isn’t he? Suddenly I regret not asking Kat about him. Not answering his emails. I had to switch phones to a cell that works in Europe, but I could still get a phone card and try to call him…

I give myself a mental slap and focus on my boss, who is, oddly enough, just sitting there, silent, studying me.

I met Mr. Dumont on my second day in Paris. We chatted about Holton Prep and his expectations for me. And then he introduced me to Celeste.

If I’d been intimidated by Mr. Dumont’s coldly elegant manner—and by Xavier’s just plain icy demeanor—Celeste more than made up for them. She’s adorable, a tiny little thing with brown flyaway hair that always falls out of her pigtails and braids. She has dark brown eyes and two big dimples, and though she can’t speak English and I barely speak French, we get along wonderfully.

Mr. Dumont, as he explained to me that day, was working on a confidential government project. He would be gone sometimes for days at a time. That’s why he had a cook, and a housekeeper, and now, me. He also has a number of bodyguards, Xavier being the senior one, I guess.

He didn’t spell it out for me, but he hinted that whatever government work he’s doing, it’s very, very important. Important enough that there were always two or three men at the house, even, watching over Celeste.

I hadn’t seen Mr. Dumont more than three times in the past month.

“How did you even see me as you drove by?" I say, trying to make small talk. "This rain is horrible.”

Mr. Dumont smiles and gestures out the window. “Xavier saw you. Your hair—it is unmistakable, no?”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I shrug and smile nervously. I wish I'd worn a hat.

I keep talking. “It’s my day off, so I just thought I’d walk to the Musée d'Orsay. Should've checked the weather, beforehand.”

He doesn’t smile.

“Miss Sinclair, I’m going to be up front with you. As I have told you, I work on sensitiv
e
projects for the French government.” He gestures toward Xavier in the driver’s seat. “It is highly secretive, vitally important work. I cannot tell you more, except that I hope to help the world. To right wrongs and injustices. It is so important that I leave my daughter, as you know, for days at a time."

I nod slowly. I have no idea where he's going with this, but it's true—I have often wondered how he could leave his daughter, alone in a big house with just staff—for so long. I've tried not to judge him, but it's difficult.

Especially knowing his wife passed away recently.

Especially because I'm the one who runs to Celeste's side at night, when she calls out in her dreams, crying and whispering, "
Maman, maman
."

I start to tear up, thinking of it even now.

"We have recently received intelligence that certain forces wish to stop my work. This cannot happen, but they will try anything, even hurting my family. My daughter. Perhaps even you."

I can't help but gasp, and my hand flies to my mouth. "What? What warnings? Oh my God, is Celeste in danger?" I stop and press my hands to my stomach, which is feeling terribly upset again. Am
I
in danger?

Mr. Dumont turns toward me. His eyes are bloodshot, I realize. Perhaps his stern facade is just that—a hard outer shell to hide his pain.

It makes me think of Chase. But what
doesn't
.

“We are working to keep her—and you, and everyone in the household—safe. I will never let anything happen to Celeste. Or you. But from now on, you must not leave the house without a guard. And, to be honest, I prefer you not leave at all. It is only two days until Christmas. I would like Celeste to have a happy, warm holiday—as happy as possible.” He doesn’t mention his wife or the threats again, but his face falls.

I feel horrible. The man has lost his wife, his daughter is in danger…and for a moment I made it about me.

“Of course, Mr. Dumont,” I say. “Thank you for telling me the truth. Of course, I’ll stay with Celeste. And we won’t go anywhere without a guard. But—for how long? How long is this threat supposed to last?"

He narrows his eyes and turns to glare out the window. "We are working to eliminate the threat, as we speak."

S
ergey raises the knife again
. It floats for a minute, above me. The handle is carved, ancient. The blade flashes like a slice of white moon, then plunges toward my chest.

I grab his wrist just in time, stopping its fatal motion; I can feel the blade pricking the place above my heart. Odd thoughts spring to mind, like, "Fuck, I liked this shirt."

And now a crazed motherfucker just put a hole in it.

Oh right.
And
in me
.

"Don't do this," I gasp. We both struggle, a deadly form of arm wrestling. He pushes down with all his might; I push up, clinging to his wrist, feeling the slight burn from the knife on my chest, the deep cold burn in my side where he stabbed me. I'm holding his wrist with both hands. Then he brings his other hand over the top of the handle, trying to drive the blade downward.

"You never take anything seriously, boy," taunts my father from the back of the jeering crowd. No, wait. That's impossible. He's not here.

"You don't have to
do this
," I grunt, pushing against Sergey. He looks down at me, his eyes as dark as my blood on the alleyway.

"Da," he retorts. And then a string of unintelligible Russian invective. I hate that I don't know what he's saying. How can I die when I don't know what he's saying?

"Fucking talk to me like a man!" I growl, but I don't know if I'm yelling at the man on top of me, or the memory of my father. "Why do you hate me? Why do you hate me enough to kill me?"

Sergey takes a breath, as if he might tell me—as if he might solve the riddle of why someone's been trying to kill me since the day I was born. It's enough. It's enough of a movement that the knife rises, just enough of a distraction for him that I grab it, slice it 180 degrees through my own flesh and turn the handle and the blade—

Straight up.

Now the knife's handle, not the blade, is nestled against my beating heart. I'm still alive. Sergey throws himself down on me at the exact same moment as I move the blade. He realizes too late. I don't want it—I don't want to—but he slips in my blood, his knees gives way and suddenly he's laying flat on me.

The shock. The horror. The knife in
his
heart.

His eyes are brown this close up. Brown and panicked.

He's still speaking in Russian.

"I'm sorry," I say. Fuck it. Fuck them all, all the men standing around watching both of us bleed to death. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Fuck, fuck, I'm sorry."

I just came out here tonight, thinking we were all getting dinner.

I'd always been so hungry, all my life.

The shadows take over as breathes his last. I'm cold now, as cold as the bricks beneath us. Then someone's lifting Sergey's body away, and Gray's kneeling next to me, telling me I won. I won.

Yeah, this doesn't feel like fucking winning.

Fuck them all. I want no part of this crew. I was born alone. I'd rather die alone than join these fuckers.

We all die along anyway—

I bolt upright as a door slams shut.

There are water stains on the ceiling. Like a Rolodex, my mind shuffles through all the shitty places I’ve woken up in over the last few years.

Ah, I know where I am. Paris.

I groan and put my feet on the floor, shaking off the dream. Nothing in my head is as terrifying as the fact that we've finally found Elle—and she's in danger.

I glance up at what made the noise: Helene comes bustling into the apartment, glaring at me and pulling open the curtains to reveal the wet expanse of Paris rooftops below. We’re in the attic of a group of apartments that overlooks the Seine.

As far as safe houses go, this isn’t the worst apartment I’ve ever slept in. But it’s no four-star hotel, either. The mattress is hard as concrete, there’s no heat except for a space heater that might be older than me, and the company… well, the company is unique.

“Do we have an address yet?” I ask Helene. She’s an old contact, and while I wouldn’t call her a friend, I respect her. And she respects my money, so we’re getting along famously.

She’s also eighty if she’s a day, and prone to wearing purple, hot pink, orange and lime-green clothing. All at once.

“How the hell do you still work undercover?” I gesture at her outfit.

The old woman grins. “
Mon beau
, this world we live in—do you not know what the greatest disguise is? Age. No one looks twice at me. And no one knows that back in my prime, I could kill a man in two seconds.”

I wink at her. “How long does it take you now? Seven?”

She winks back. "
Ouf
. Depends on the man.”

I stand up and start the electric kettle. Helene prefers tea, and I prefer she’s happy so she’ll talk faster.

I’ve been in Paris for a week, since Kat first heard from Elle. Elle sent Kat an email, confessing that she'd left town. Kat panicked and showed Gray. Gray sent it to our IT guys, who pulled the IP address and could tell us that, most likely, Elle was in Paris.

Paris. Motherfucking Paris.

I’d immediately had a bad feeling. Then I’d paid a visit to her former boss, that uptight piece-of-shit principal. I’d confronted him as soon as Elle had gone missing, and he’d sworn up and down he had no idea where she was. That she’d turned in her notice with no explanation. No forwarding address.

But when I barged into Principal Barnes’ office a second time, he was much more amenable to talking—once I took my gun out of his lying mouth. In fact, he couldn’t
stop
talking. Told me how an alum of his prestigious fucking Holton Preparatory needed a nanny. How the alum's wife had died. How the man was a scientist with a four-year-old daughter.

I didn't believe any of this. “I’m not going to shoot you,” I’d growled, stalking toward him. He was drenched in sweat, a small man cowering behind a giant desk. “Because I’m mad enough to kill you with my bare hands. Do you know how long it takes to suffocate someone with your bare hands?” I’d leaned across the desk. “You’re about to find out.”

He went for the phone on his desk, so I shot him through his hand. Thank God for silencers.

“If you scream, I will kill your entire family.” And I’d meant it, at the time.

Then he began talking. Spilled it all. He was in deep gambling debt—over a hundred-thousand. The money itself wasn't a problem—his wife was rich. She could help him out, if she chose to. It was his pride that had really fucked him up. He didn’t want to hurt his name, his reputation.

He had a place in
society
, he'd told me.

"You're about to have a place in the motherfucking cemetery," I'd shot back, wrapping one hand around his neck.

“My wife—she told me if I gambled again, she’d leave me. She can’t leave me!” he’d cried, cradling his bleeding hand, staining his nice white shirt. “It will ruin me if she leaves me. I’m
nothing
without her!”

“I understand,” I’d told him. “I know the feeling. But if you don’t tell me everything you know about Elle Sinclair’s whereabouts in the next five seconds, you'll be slumped over this goddamn desk."

And that’s how I learned that the entire alum story was bullshit. That an anonymous man had reached out, promising the principal a hundred-thousand dollars if he got Elle out of the country.

That's all he knew, he swore up and down. The man always called him. The number was blocked. And after Elle had landed in Paris, the principal had discovered a gym bag full of hundreds on his nice big desk.

I'd left him alive. Though I did shoot both knees. He was lucky. I wanted to put a bullet through his heart.

"I think we've found her," Helene says.

I steady my hands on her teacup, then give her the tiny porcelain oval filled with burning-hot water.

She takes it delicately, nodding her thanks, then pulls her own teabag from her purple purse. When she catches me looking at her, she shrugs. "Old habits die hard. Safer to eat your own food."

"You want me to drink the water, so you know it isn't poisoned?"

She smiles. "I trust you, Chase. Because you are desperate, and I have what you want."

My heart beats faster, and my mouth goes dry. "Where is she?"

"My man on the street, he says he has seen a young woman—an American blonde—in the 7
^th
Arrondissment—"

"You already told me that."

Helene narrows her eyes at me. "Patience. You Americans are so crazy to rush in, all the time. Some things, you cannot rush. Like a woman." She takes a sip of the scalding tea. "Or revenge."

She waits for me to speak, but I bide my time. She grins, then continues. "We have found a man who goes by Dumont. As far as my sources can tell me, he is not a scientist. And he does not work for the government."

"Would your sources know if he
was
being protected by the French government?"

"
Oui
, since some of my sources are
in
the French government. Other sources—most decidedly
not
the government—have given me his address."

Helene takes a slip of paper out of her purse and hands it to me.

"His address. But you should know: the Dumont who owned that building is no longer alive. In fact, he was born in 1892. The building is in a trust, and as far as I can tell, it is being rented out seasonally to pay for the elder Dumont's grandchildren's lavish spending habits."

"Have you seen her at this address?"

"I have." Helene sets her tea down on the coffee table and opens her purse. "This very morning, in fact. She was driven home by this man." She hands me a photo of a mean-looking bald fucker, and then a second photo. "And we think this is his boss, the man calling himself Dumont."

I study the second photo. Because there he is—the man who has Elle. He's short, tough-looking, well-dressed. And I've never seen the fucker before in my life.

And there she is. My Princess. She's walking in front of him, and what she doesn't see is that both men behind her are staring at her. Their eyes are cold, calculating.

"Local sources say this man—this fake Dumont—has rented this house now for six months."

"What about the child?"

"A girl suddenly appeared in the neighborhood a month or so ago. Your Elle and this child have been seen, walking together."

"So his name's not Dumont, he may or may not have a daughter, and I have no idea who the hell he is."

Helene raises an eyebrow. "Well, we know who the bodyguard is. Xavier Clemente. A real nasty bastard. He's freelance muscle, works for whoever pays the most. Kills for whoever pays the most. Hm, perhaps he is like you, Chase, no?"

I grit my teeth and don't answer. I want to say no, deny it.

But perhaps he is like me. Or how I used to be.

"So Elle thinks she's working for a scientist?"

Helene hands me more photos, of Elle holding hands with the little girl. Walking down the street. They're smiling at each other, laughing. "She
is
working, or so it would seem."

"He's lying about who he is. He targeted Elle and paid a hundred-thousand dollars to her old boss to get her to Europe. And then—what? He never contacts me. He doesn't ask for ransom. I can't even fucking say she's been
kidnapped
. Why give her a fucking
job
, if they're using her to get to me?"

Helene stands up and wraps her garish coat around her throat. "No need to rush, Chase, my hot-blooded friend. But my guess is: he wanted you to find her. You found out she was in Paris through her email, no? If he really wanted her hidden, he'd have made sure you could not track her that way. He lets her walk around, go to museums, parks, cafes. He is like a fisherman, and he has such a pretty bait."

"And I'm what? A big fucking fish?"

She smiles and heads to the door. "Let's hope you are the shark, my friend."