She bites her lip while a blush explodes on her cheeks.
I have a sharp memory, too.
“Not much,” she admits. “But it didn’t sound exciting in here today.” She walks to the mini fridge across the room, grabs an iced tea from the door, and returns with it. “Heard some laughs.”
“The hits weren’t successful. Not by a long shot.” I run my fingers through my hair, mussing it repeatedly. “We’ve got some money, but we don’t have anything of real value. A couple of hundred bucks per place in fucking New York City. Something’s up.”
“What places did you hit?”
I push the folder toward her. She wastes no time opening it and studying the page, eyes widening while she reads through the list. Her nose wrinkles slightly—she must have noticed the same bar as me.
But she doesn’t mention it.
She shakes her head and sets the list down. “These places aren’t going to give you anything because they’re too obvious.”
“They’re the places most likely to have all his money because he runs them.”
“No, he’s probably funneling money through something else—either a Mob-controlled bank or something less conspicuous.”
Careful what you think. “We can’t knock a Mob-controlled bank, Liya. Those are guarded to the fucking teeth.”
And there are rules, even among thieves.
“That’s going to be your best bet.”
“I don’t want to bet on that.”
She hums curiously and sets the list down. “I know some of these bars, but what about the other places like the buildings? Do you have a map of them?”
“Yeah, I have one on my phone.”
“Can I see it?”
I pull out my phone and open Google Maps. When I hand it to her, I pull out one of the chairs for her to sit in. She silently plops into the chair while squinting at the screen.
Her demeanor doesn’t change as I slip into the chair next to her. Her nostrils flare slightly from concentration, pupils blown out to absorb every detail possible from the map. Her brain works quickly to connect the dots, and I let my attention drift as she churns the information in her pretty little head.
I’ve noticed that her mouth pouts slightly while she’s distracted. Though the laughing lines around her lips deepen with reflection, the rest of her face is smooth, skin soft from careful attention over the years. She worked for a monster who made it abundantly clear that her earnings depended on her appearance—so, of course her skin is flawless.
The way her brows furrow with interest instead of concern this time draws a smile over my stony surface.
She’s damn cute when she’s thinking.
When her tongue pokes at the edge of her lip, I pictureallthe other faces she makes.
She’s cuter when she’s coming.
Her triumphant squeak breaks my thoughts. “I’ve got it.” She sets my phone on the table and slides it close enough that I have to lean toward her to see the screen. “I know where he might be hiding the real money—art galleries.”
Maybe all that thinking might have blown a fuse in her head.
I snort with disbelief. “Why would a guy like Cardona shove money into art galleries?”
“Because it’s the place no one thinks to look.”
I shake my head. “I’m not sold. How do you know?”
“One of my economic classes in college taught me that art has been appreciating in value more than any other asset,” she explains. “It’s suspected—though it hasn’t been proven—that the money is mostly criminal money laundering.”