After hearing about my father’s death and the mysterious ghost, I returned to my room and looked up information on Juliette DiLustro. There wasn’t much to find, aside from the fact that she was married to Dante DiLustro, who was one of the four Kingpins in the Syndicate. A search for Luciano Vitale and his wife didn’t produce much more aside from a few photos in Entertainment Weekly.
The next search topic was even less productive. Ghost. I worked on my laptop, trying to uncover any clue as to who or what the ghost was. I’d been trying for hours when a message came in from a new unknown number.
I pulled out my phone and unlocked it, expecting it to be from my earlier mystery acquaintance. Frowning, I read the message a second time.
If you keep looking for me, you won’t like what you find. I wasn’t one of the most lethal men in the underworld for naught.
I gave my head a subtle shake. There was only one explanation that fit. The Ghost must have sent this. But who was he? Was he even a he? I attempted to reply to the message, but it bounced back. Whoever sent it must not have known me well. Now I was even more curious. I hadn’t been able to trace the line back to any of Mother’s associates. It kept circulating on loop, never leaving the D.C. area.
I hadn’t learned the source of the message or any details about the Ghost. However, I did learn about this event, meaning my efforts weren’t completely in vain.
So here I was back in D.C., crashing a party in enemy territory, and there was no guarantee I’d make it out alive. Mother was busy who-knew-where with who-knew-what.
It was all the better, because it allowed me to pursue my own leads, which now put me in a favorable position in a casino owned by the Tijuana cartel.
It was stupid as fuck, but I couldn’t ignore my sense of responsibility. It weighed me down like the excess baggage I’d carried around since my twin’s death. Hell, maybe even since I’d learned of our family’s sins.
I glanced around the well-lit terrace, seeing faces that the FBI would run over each other to get their hands on. Criminals mingling without a care in the world, vacant-looking women on their arms. Mostly underage. Mostly under the influence.
Some database maneuvering secured my name on the list of invitees—not without a handsome fee, of course.
The scene made me sick. My fingers itched to grab my handgun and start shooting, but I had a target in mind, so I wouldn’t let myself get trigger-happy.
The breeze carried the music through the terrace, the bass and sound of slot machines mixing into a rhythm that seemed to drive more than a few drunks to dance beneath the tacky strobe lights.
I stood in the corner, watching people and their ridiculous greed. For profit and power, while choosing ignorance over integrity. No matter though, because tonight, all these girls paraded around would be set free.
Cool air swept through the night and licked at my skin, fragrant with sex, alcohol, and sin. The sound of rowdy laughter drew my attention, and I spotted a gray-haired man in the northern corner of the terrace, surrounded by sinister-looking men.
I swallowed.
There was no need for introductions to understand who stood in the opposite corner. Santiago Tijuana, whose deceased son had gone after Sailor McHale after she married Raphael Santos. The idiot.
Santiago Tijuana Sr. was back to being the head of the cartel in Cuba, his rap sheet rivaling that of any dictator. His cold-blooded attitude and cruelty kept him on every agency’s radar, but the man was too smart to be caught red-handed.
My gaze traveled over him and a tattoo on his hand caught my eye. It matched the one I’d seen back on the hand of the gorgeous green-eyed man at the hotel. The same tattoo had been carved on the stranger’s left hand—a weird symbol in the mouth of a skull.
What were the odds?
It was then that I spotted that very stranger. He towered over everyone, his physique so imposing I wondered how I hadn’t spotted him sooner. Taking a full step back into the shadows, I kept my gaze on him. If he spotted me, it’d be game over.
Who was he?
The answer was clear. He was a member of the Tijuana cartel. Shame, I thought, I’ll have to kill him. I studied him, wearing a sleek gray three-piece suit. His muscular frame was attractive. His dark, slicked-back hair was styled to perfection, but it was his striking green eyes that would likely have women falling over themselves. And then there was his face, bone structure cut from steel and not a single emotion giving his thoughts away.
Discreetly positioning my phone, I snapped a photo, hoping the facial recognition program I’d built would help identify him later. If I didn’t kill him today.
For almost thirty minutes, I watched the group of men without being too obvious and waited for them to move. When they left, the women who roamed the party would be ushered into their quarters and then presented to others for their pleasure. I’d only have a small window to rescue them, twenty minutes max.
Finally, the men dispersed, and I was on the move. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The slit in my long black gown was perfect for accessing the knives and handgun strapped to my thighs. I feared I didn’t bring enough weapons, but it was too late now.
I made my way to the room I knew was in the south wing of this building, sticking to the shadows. I’d done my research and knew there was a servants’ hallway that would allow me to get to my destination without being spotted.
My eyes darted around the area. Clutching the hem of my dress, I sped down the glittery hallway and took the first side door. Once in the hallway, I slipped my heels off and picked them up, making a run for it.
Reaching the south side of the building, I stopped and took a deep breath before pulling out my handgun. I’d sent a note to Nico Morrelli via the dark web. He’d taken care of the last batch of women; I knew he’d take care of these.
Trafficked girls ready for retrieval. Five minutes. East Capitol Street.
I didn’t bother waiting for a reply.
I reached for the doorknob, my heart pounding, and attempted to push it open.
“Fuck,” I whispered. It was locked, but I’d anticipated as much. Reaching into my hair, I pulled out a hairpin. With a steady hand, it took me less than a minute to unlock the door. “Open sesame.”
I pushed it open and looked around. Whispers and murmurs escalated, scared faces and tearstained cheeks littering the entire room.
“Hello, ladies,” I greeted them. “Want to leave?”
Gasps filled the space, and as one, they all nodded. “Good,” I murmured. “Leave everything behind—we don’t have much time. Come this way and take the staircase on the left. Run like the devil is on your heels to East Capitol Street. First right when you exit this building. A team will be waiting for you and will take you to safety. Got it?”
Another round of nods, and then pandemonium erupted.
Just as the last girl turned the corner, disappearing from view, the visitor’s door opened. It all happened in a split second. My back slammed into a wall, stealing the breath from my lungs. My left hand holding the gun was pushed against the wall, restrained by a tight grip, and a blade was pressed against my throat.
“Where the fuck are the women?” a man with a buzz cut and an earpiece hanging from his headset grunted.
The sharp tip of his blade pierced my neck, stinging. “How the fuck should I know?” I hissed, praying he wouldn’t send an alert.
I needed to buy time, get this fucker off of me so I could blow his brains out and get out of here.
His grip on the knife tightened, his knuckles turning white. Fuck, just one nudge and I’d be dead. I used every bit of strength I had left to push him off.