Dirty Chase: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Brooklyn Brotherhood Book 2) (23 page)

H
elene enters
the café in a swirl of orange and neon-fucking-green, with the dog barking in her hands.

"“You know, darlin’, going undercover doesn’t mean you
have
to wear a wig. Especially not the brightest wig I’ve ever fucking seen.”

She drops the puppy on the floor and glares at me. I slide a tea over to her side of the café table and take my sunglasses off.

"Sorry. You look gorgeous, Helene. Totally natural." I touch the fringe on her bright-ass coat. "What's this shade called? 'Nuclear-Reactor Green'?"

"Is that any way to talk to your elders?" Helene asks. She takes a bag out of her purse and empties it on the floor. Dog treats. The puppy shuts up and starts eating at her feet.

"Did you see her?"

"
Oui.
And I spoke with her." She pauses just to fuck with me, I know it. I make a fist and tap my leg and count to twenty while she sips her tea. "She was out by herself, then followed by the man—Xavier, the bald one."

I slide a file across the table for Helene to take a look. "Xavier Benedictine. Real bad guy. Served in the French Special Forces for five years until he received a dishonorable discharge. A lot of civilians in Iraq mysteriously 'disappeared' wherever he was stationed. He was set to go before a military tribunal before he dropped off the radar."

Helene peruses the file. "Hitman for hire. Does dirty work for the highest bidder." She glances up at me. "So, you two have something in common."

I resist biting her head off. I need her. I respect her. But the fact that this shithead and I have anything—okay, quite a few things—in common makes me see red. "I never kill women or children. Or innocent fucking civilians—"

"Chase. Calm down." Helene lays a wrinkled hand on my arm. "Perhaps you should leave the retrieval of Elle to me and my associates? You are compromised. Too emotional. Whoever Dumont is, he is not stupid. And he has laid an elaborate web to trap you."

"I'm not gonna sit on my ass while she's in danger."

“Chase. Everyone needs friends. There’s nothing wrong with asking for help.”

I hold her eyes. "I'm not asking for help. I'm
paying
for it. And I'm not sitting on the sidelines. I'm going to rescue my woman."

Helene removes her arm, and I realize I've insulted her. "Fine. And you owe me extra for the puppy. I'm allergic to dogs."

She hands me a slip of paper from her purse. "There is the address where she is staying. But we need a few more days to plan how to get her. And Chase, I do not know this for certain, but I believe Elle is
enceinte
."

I stare blankly at her.

"Pregnant. I believe Elle is
pregnant
."

What the fuck
. "What makes you say that?"

"She went to a pharmacy, and left with a bag of pregnancy tests. Many tests. Someone in the house is pregnant."

"That's impossible." I draw my hands down my face. "That's impossible." I shake my head. She's on the Pill. But we were together over a month ago—maybe she stopped taking it when she left me.

Am I the father
?

I can't imagine her with anyone else. I would have known.

I could be a father
.

"Chase. Focus." Helene raps the table with the heavy rings on her fingers. "Nothing is impossible. But what will be
very challenging
will be getting to her. If Dumont knows you are getting closer, he may keep a tighter rein on her. My men have been watching the house—it's heavily guarded. Serious muscle, serious firepower. You can't just run in and grab her. We need a plan—"

I stare down at my international cell. I have four new text messages, all from an unknown caller.

I click on the first one, and my heart stops.

"Getting in won't be a problem," I say.

Helene leans over my shoulder and gasps.

The first photo is Elle, asleep in her bed.

The second photo is Elle in the shower, obviously unaware of any camera.

And the third photo is of a pregnancy test. A positive pregnancy test.

The fourth message says:
Come alone, tonight by midnight, or we kill her
.

I
sit
in front of the fireplace, trying to keep my mind on the game.

"Your turn, Elle," Jean-Paul says, his eyes kind. He's lying on his side on the floor, a giant of a man. Celeste is leaning against him, studying the game in front of her. She's so comfortable with him, and it's easy to see why. He must have been guarding her for at least a year now, but he's also so kind and warm. Kind of like a giant, no-neck teddy bear.

"Oh. Sorry." I glance down at the cards in my hand and place one on the deck. "Uno," I say, trying to sound cheerful.

"Ha!" Celeste grins and plays a Draw Four card on me.

Four. Four positive pregnancy tests. I had come home from the pharmacy, ignored Xavier's icy glares, and locked myself in the bathroom. Peed in a cup. Processed all the tests.

Which were all—resoundingly, immediately—positive.

I should call Chase. But what will he say? I haven't spoken to him in months. Well, minus letting him bang me against a wall. And what will I say?
Oh, hi, Chase. Remember me? The woman who ignored you for half a year? Well, guess what? Your commitment-fearing ass is gonna be a father.

God, he'd want to run away, screaming. If he even answers the phone.

Being a father would rein him in, lock him down. And that would be worse than anything, because caging a man like Chase would make him slowly grow to hate me.

And as much as I have tried to hate him, I have to admit: I can't. I don't.

I still love him.

And now I'm going to ruin his life.

I rest my forehead on my bent knees and try not to laugh—or cry—at the irony.

"Elle, are you unwell?" Jean-Paul asks.

"I'm fine," I lie.

It's Christmas Eve. I don't want to upset Celeste, especially since her father isn't home, and she has to spend her first Christmas without her mom with a bodyguard and a nanny.

Though we've had a surprisingly wonderful evening so far. Kira left us a delicious dinner, though I could only choke down a few bites. Celeste and Jean-Paul and a few of the other guards devoured it, though.

I pause. There was Jean-Paul at dinner, and that guy Michel, and two more…

And those were just the ones who ate dinner.

I stand up and go to the windows that look down onto the street. There are two guards outside.

Carrying machine guns.

"Jean-Paul, is something going on tonight?" I whisper, pulling the curtains aside. Celeste comes running up next to me, peeking out, and I suddenly realize maybe we shouldn't be standing here, like targets. Something's wrong. Something's very wrong.

"Of course something's going on tonight." A low voice stops me in my tracks. It's not Jean-Paul. "It's Christmas Eve."

I turn around to find my boss, Mr. Dumont, standing in the living room. But he doesn't look like the serious, scholarly man who hired me. He's wearing a black suit, a white shirt, a black tie. His glasses are gone, and his eyes gleam with a cold, calculating intensity. It's the expression on his face that has me absolutely frozen in fear. He's smiling at me like he's a deranged cat, and I'm the canary, and he's going to swallow me whole.

There are three men in black—with big, black guns—standing guard behind him. I've never seen them before. But despite their brawn and tactical gear, it's the smaller man in the suit who's scaring the life out of me.

"Papa!" Celeste cries. She's shaking. So it's not just me. "Papa!" she wails again, and runs straight to Mr. Dumont—and then past him, into Jean-Paul's waiting arms. She burrows into his neck, and he wraps his arms around her, protectively.

Familiarly. Like he's done it a thousand times before.

“Can we go now?” Jean-Paul chokes out, backing slowly away from the men with guns.

Mr. Dumont doesn’t even look at him. He just mutters, “Your debt has been paid. Get the hell out.”

Jean-Paul doesn’t say another word. He gives me one anguished glance—but then he flees, Celeste clinging in his arms.

It’s Celeste who looks up and begins to wail my name, reaching for me as her father races for the door. Jean-Paul doesn’t look back. I can hear Celeste’s screams even as they exit onto the street and escape into the night.

I'm alone in a room full of heavily armed men. And one man who looks like a madman.

"You're not her father?" I say.

Mr. Dumont grins. “I'll be happy to tell you who I am, Miss Sinclair. But please, sit by the fire. I wouldn’t want you to catch a cold. Especially in your delicate condition.”

I gasp and freeze.

“Is your name even Dumont?”

“Allow me to properly introduce myself,” the man says. He sits in one of the overstuffed chairs by the crackling fire, and then points to the matching chair across from him. When I don’t move, he nods at one of his guards, who walks over and grabs me, dragging me to the chair.

I sit and face my employer—my captor. He looks gleeful. He doesn’t have a good poker face, either.

Or, he has no reason to hide what he’s feeling.

“Mr. Dumont was an elderly French fuck who owned this house a century ago. It’s also a nice, bland, French name, don’t you think? My real name is long, and Russian.” He drops his French accent on the last sentence, and I feel a real, cold fear spreading throughout my body. He
is
a good actor.

He grins, enjoying my discomfort.

“You’re not Mr. Dumont,” I say. “And you’re not Celeste’s father. Is her—is her mother alive?”

His face darkens. “No, I am not her father. And how sweet of you to worry about the little brat. Her mother is fine. Well, hysterical with worry. No one likes their tiny daughter to be held hostage. But her father owed a large debt to me, and letting me borrow his daughter for a few weeks was the fastest way to repay it. It’s amazing. Jean-Paul loves that little girl more than life itself. And yet, he still willingly put her in harm’s way in order to save his own life. I'm always surprised at how fear and selfishness eventually, always, overpower 'love.'”

"Why would you do such a thing?" I sit upright, watching the men with guns pace the room and look out the window. They're waiting for someone. The madman across from me is waiting for someone.

Please, God, don't let it be Chase.

Mr. Dumont—I mean, the Russian—chuckles. He pulls out a knife and I flinch, visibly. It's not a kitchen knife. It looks ancient, carved…and
lethal
. He catches my eye and smiles.

"Why would I keep Celeste here? Bribe your former boss—what was that coward's name? Ah yes. Barnes. Pretend to hire you for to look after a girl who I don't even give a shit about? Is that what you're asking?"

"Yes," I whisper, barely able to get the word out. I'm having trouble breathing, just watching that knife. He plays with the blade, rubbing his thumb over and over the sharp edge. He cuts his thumb, but doesn't seem to notice.

"You are a teacher. You have heard of the famed Russian writer Dostoevsky, yes?"

I don’t answer, and he leans forward, suddenly grim. "Bitch, I asked you a question."

"I—yes. Yes, I've heard of him."

He leans back, suave and calm again. He looks down, then sucks the blood from his thumb while watching me. He smiles again, and it's the first time I think:
I'm going to die tonight
.

"Well, Miss Sinclair, here's a quote from Dostoevsky, my venerable countryman: 'The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping is to make sure he never knows he's in prison.' Wise, is it not?"

"Yes," I answer robotically, but my mind is racing. What is he talking about?

"You are a pretty, blonde American." He
tsks
, then looks at the clock on the wall, then back to me. "Now, if you were a woman fleeing Syria? Romania, Brazil? I could put you in a box and literally ship you anywhere in the world. It's not fair, is it? You were born with such pale skin and such yellow hair, and it makes the world—the media—more concerned about what would happen if
you
were kidnapped. And yet, women all over the world—they are taken every day. And does the world care?"

I can't tell if I should answer or not. He's insane. And he holds my life in his hands. "I care," I say. "A lot of people care."

He laughs. "You care
now
, because you are one of them. But before, I couldn't just kidnap you. I mean, I
could
have. My men were in your house. Your classroom. They followed you all over the city." He leans forward and grins salaciously, his eyes raking over my body. "I even put cameras in your shower. Not because I had to, though I'm sure Chase Masters lost his mind when I sent him proof of life."

I can't speak now. I can barely breathe.

"It's a troublesome thing to kidnap a pretty, American girl. But it's much easier if she leaves the country of her own accord. Tells all her friends she's so happy here, in Paris. And then she disappears, perhaps before going on a weekend trip to Italy? To Amsterdam? Tell me, Miss Sinclair, which city would you choose? It really doesn't matter. We could make anything up. And it will just be a sad mystery, when she is never found."

"Who are you?" I gasp. "Why are you doing this?"

He stands, his dark brown eyes fairly dancing with excitement. "Yes, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sergey Vasiliev. And while this means nothing to you, it will mean everything to Chase Masters.”

I stop breathing for one second. Two. “Chase? Who’s that?”

Sergey bursts out laughing. “Oh, Miss Sinclair, you are so adorably transparent. But we have some time before he arrives. I will play along. Who is Chase Masters?”

The fire crackles. The men move around the edge of the room, gun-toting shadows in my peripheral vision. Sergey raises his hand, points one finger toward the ceiling.

“Chase Masters is, one: the father of your unborn child. And I hate to be the bearer of bad news, my dear, but that is how your infant will remain: unborn. Because, two: Chase Masters is a murderer who has remained free for far too long. That ends tonight. He’s coming to rescue you—but of course—he will not. He should play it safe. Stay away. He knows he’s outnumbered. But he’ll come for you, no matter what.”

“He won’t,” I say, hoping I’m right. “We aren’t together. And he doesn’t want this child—he doesn’t even
know
about the pregnancy.”

“Oh, but he does. I told him. And he will come, because he is a fool. He thinks he can protect himself the same way he always has: by working alone, in the shadows. He walks alone, he works alone. He has survived this long, so he will assume he can rescue you—alone.”

Sergey gestures to the armed men filling the room. Then he leans forward and whispers, like he’s sharing a very special Christmas secret. “He will even die alone. But only after he watches you suffer and perish, first.”