2
Brandon
Philadelphia, Center City
“Howwasyourdrivefrom Missouri?”
Maria Donato, the real estate agent who’d hooked me up with my apartment, had the raspy voice of a pack-a-day smoker and a strong Philly accent. The portly woman in her late fifties wheezed louder with each step as we approached the third floor.
“Roadwork in Columbus, but otherwise uneventful.”
She glanced over her shoulder, leaning heavily on the handrail for support. Her being two stairs above me brought us eye to eye. “And what brings you to Philly?”
“Work.” I shot Maria my most charming smile and hoped against all odds that’d be the end of her questions.
A strange combination of tobacco and an overpowering floral scent hit me as I followed her along the hallway. When we reached the door to my apartment, the real estate agent flicked her salt-and-pepper waves over her shoulders before digging a set of keys from her bag. “What kind of work did you say you were in?”
I hadn’t. “I’m a consultant.”
“Oh.” She nodded, likely having no clue what that meant. The vague title had the desired result.
Maria opened the door, revealing the modest apartment. “You’ve got two bedrooms, one bathroom, open-floor-plan living area. The kitchen has updated appliances. Do you like to cook?” She gave me a raised-brow grin.
“Sure. Sometimes.” I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jeans while walking farther inside. Beige carpet floors, a small balcony overlooking the street. It was simple, but it would do. I didn’t need anything fancy.
She waggled a gnarled finger. “You look like a man who can cook. I bet the ladies love that.” Her eyes ran over me. “You got a girlfriend coming to stay?”
“No.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Also no.”
“It’s the twenty-twenties. I gotta ask.” Maria shrugged and belly laughed her way to the kitchen. “Just so you know, if anyone else moves in, we’ll have to add their name to the lease.”
“Copy that.” If she noticed my slip into military speech, she didn’t let it show. It’d been two years since my discharge from Team Zulu, but old habits died hard. My time with the black-operations unit almost felt like another lifetime than the one I now lived in the civilian world.
We walked through the apartment, Maria testing appliances and flicking on light switches along the way. “No pets, of course. The super’s number is in the information sheet I gave you.”
I checked the power outlets in the spare bedroom. There’d be enough to run my equipment—just. The window-mounted AC unit looked recently replaced. I switched it on to check if it worked. “Was my request to install additional security to the front door approved?”
“Yes. And I understand your concerns.” She shook her head. “This city has a nasty reputation, but I can assure you this is a safe neighborhood.” We headed back to the living area. “If you remove the security system when you leave, you’ll have to repair the walls to their original condition or you’ll lose your damage deposit.”
“Not a problem.”
“If you need someone to show you around, my daughter lives a few blocks from here. She’s studying business at Wharton.” She flashed me a proud mom grin, and it surprised me she didn’t whip out a photo or ten.
“That won’t be necessary. I’m familiar with the city.” Although I wished I’d never set foot in Pennsylvania. Being back here dug up dark memories from two years ago when my younger sister Janie had gone missing. I’d quit Team Zulu to search for her, starting at the last place she’d been seen alive—a subway station in Center City.
Six weeks after she disappeared, her body washed up on a beach in the south of France. Janie hadn’t even owned a passport. Driven by my family’s devastation and the need for answers, I’d continued hunting those responsible. Giving up wasn’t an option, even though nothing would bring Janie back.
I’d spent two years tracking, searching, questioning every piece of intel, and doubting each decision I’d made. With my training and experience, I should’ve found her within days. I’d done it countless times before and never had a problem. Why was my sister the only person I’d failed to find?
Human trafficking was the most likely scenario. The local authorities and Interpol were useless. And despite my self-taught hacking skills and army-funded intelligence training, every lead I uncovered dwindled to a dead end. Until two days ago, when I’d discovered a disturbing trend leading me right back to Philly.
It pointed to the Mafia having the information I needed, but short of showing up at Vixens and demanding to know what had happened to Janie, I was hamstrung. Where the Wolf Street Mob was concerned, I needed to operate smart, not go in all guns blazing.
So I’d formed a new plan. Make myself useful to the Mob, get inside their clubhouse, and find answers from within.