She nods again. “Yeah.”
“Vincent?”
“No,” she mumbles. “Much worse.”
I go with the natural second guess. “Ish?”
She clings tighter to me at the sound of his name, answering my question without any words.
For a few minutes, we sit there silently, each lost in our own thoughts. I wonder if it was Ish or Madden—who I now know is the guy she’s been seeing recently—that she was imagining during the first part of the dream. Then, I’m curious why she considers Ish much worse, since he’s obviously not a threat to her anymore. She made sure of that.
“Why?” The word tumbles from my mouth before I can think.
She tilts her head back to peer up at me through her wet, spiky eyelashes. “Why what?”
Our eyes meet, a cerulean collision that momentarily steals my breath. Her resemblance to Darya is even greater cradled in my arms. I swallow hard before finding the words. “Why do you consider Ish ‘much worse’ than his father?”
She doesn’t even blink. “Because those you love always have the power to hurt you the most.”
“Smart girl,” I reply. There’s a hint of surprise in my voice, but it’s not because of her answer; it’s due to this sudden shift in the atmosphere between us. I’m not sure what it is, or quite how to describe it, but it’s different. We’re different. For some reason, I find myself hoping we stay this way. I meant it when I told her I won’t let anything happen to her. She’s not only under my watch, but she’s my responsibility, and that makes my chest swell a little.
Using my hand to cradle the back of her neck, I gently guide her head back down to lie on my chest and rest my chin on her forehead. “Get some more sleep, kotyonok. I promise I’ll keep you safe.”
THE EARLY MORNING SUN FILTERS through the sheer curtains drawn across the window, providing a warm glow in the downtown Chicago hotel room. Unfortunately, as I sit on the plush king-sized bed, drinking a cup of coffee while reading old newspaper articles online, I feel anything but warm inside. After reading the details of Blake’s life as Bryleigh, the blood running through my veins is as cold as an arctic glacier. Colder even.
Thinking about what she was forced to endure—the things she must’ve witnessed, and even worse, experienced—makes me downright murderous. Maybe it was a good thing I didn’t find Vincent Ricci yesterday on my initial recon mission here in the Windy City. I probably would’ve woken up in a sterile prison cell this morning, instead of the Hilton.
A knock at the door temporarily interrupts my homicidal thoughts, and I slide off the mattress to let the room service attendant in, throwing a t-shirt on with my pajama pants before opening the door. I’m not even sure why I ordered food in the first place. It holds no appeal; my appetite vanished with Blake. Sleep evades me as well. I either dream of my sweet girl being with me, only to wake to the nightmare she’s not, or I dream of the horrifying events she suffered through that brought her to California to begin with.
“Good morning, Mr. Decker,” a young man dressed in a standard hotel polo and slacks greets me cheerily. “Where would you like me to set your breakfast?”
I motion him inside with my hand and shrug. “Wherever. The bed is fine.”
He lowers the tray on top of the comforter then turns around and hands me the charge slip to sign. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
Scribbling my name along the bottom line after I add in the tip, I shake my head and mutter under my breath, “Not unless you can tell me where I can find Vincent Ricci.”
I don’t intend for him to hear the remark, and I especially don’t expect him to answer me, but as I hand over the leather bill folder, he tilts his chin with curiosity and looks me straight in the eye. “Are you serious? Do you really want to know where to find him?”
“E-e-excuse me?” I stutter, feeling my eyes grow wide with disbelief. “Do you really know where he is?”
The kid, who’s probably in his early twenties, nods nervously. “Well, I don’t know exactly where he is, but a friend of mine used to work at this shop over on the south side of town, a place that sells aftermarket car stuff, and he said Vincent and his boys hang out there a lot. I’m not sure if he owns it or what, but Nick mentioned him a few times. Maybe you could try . . .”
“Yes!” I exclaim, mentally berating myself for not thinking of this before. Of course the guy would have other businesses, probably to launder mafia money through. I was so caught up in retracing Blake’s life yesterday—running into dead end after dead end—that I failed to take a step back and look at the bigger picture. “What’s the name of the place?”
“Capo Car Creations. It’s on Northcutt Avenue, but be careful, man,” he warns. “Those aren’t the kinds of people you want to go looking for trouble with.”
Waving him off, I pad across the carpet to the nightstand and pull a hundred dollar bill out of my wallet. “Yeah, no worries. I know exactly who they are,” I reply, shoving the additional tip in his hand. “Thanks for the info. I really appreciate it.”
For a split second, he stares hesitantly down at the cash then smartly shoves it into his pocket. “Anytime, Mr. Decker. Let me know if you need anything else.”
He gives me a quick nod before turning around to leave the room. Thirty minutes later, after I’ve picked at my breakfast, showered, and dressed for the day, I’m climbing into the backseat of a taxi with a ball of nervous energy bouncing around in my gut. I’ve got only one destination in mind.
“Capo Car Creations. 819 Northcutt Avenue.”
A bell tied to the glass door leading into the shop chimes loudly as I step inside, announcing my presence. A group of three guys dressed in navy mechanic coveralls are huddled around the register area in what seems like a deep conversation, and after a quick glance in my direction, they all turn right back around, assuming I’m just a regular customer.
To not build suspicions right off the bat, I meander up and down the aisles for a little while, pretending to check out the various car stereo accessories on display. I try a couple of times to eavesdrop on their discussion that seems to be growing more intense by the moment, but each time I draw near the front of the store, they lower their voices to a whisper.
After the only other customer in the store pays for his purchases and leaves, I decide to make my move before anyone else comes in. As I approach the men, I ball my hands into tight fists by my sides then release them, over and over, as I attempt to reign in the frenzied adrenaline surging through me.
“Can I help you find something you’re looking for?” the tallest of the trio asks casually while the other two step off to the side, still engrossed in their heated conversation. According to the patch sewn on his shirt, his name is Tony.
Clearing my throat, I nod. “Yeah, actually, I think you can. I’m looking for Vincent Ricci. Is he here today?”
The moment I say his name, an eerie silence falls over the place, and three sets of cagey brown eyes are fixed directly on me. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear there’s a red laser beam pointed directly in the center of my forehead.
Tony slams his hands down on the counter and leans toward me, his brow pinched together with clear suspicion. “Who’s asking?”
“I am,” I answer, stepping closer to him. My heart is beating wildly in my chest, but I refuse to let this guy intimidate me. “Madden Decker.”
In a blur of action, the next thing I know, one of the other men is behind me with one brawny arm wrapped around my neck and the other holding a switchblade to my throat. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he growls in my ear. “You must be as stupid as that little cunt of a girlfriend you got.”