I shiver, excitement darting up my spine. “Safe word.”
HIs chuckle is rich and dark. He makes a tsking noise. “Bad girl. Get in your car. Drive back to my place and take your clothes off.”
My pussy turns liquid at the authority in his voice. I never knew I had a switch that could be flipped so quickly. I’ve gone from zero to horned up in about two seconds flat. Never mind that it’s the middle of the day, and I have a boatload of homework I ought to do.
“Yes, sir.” I crawl off his lap and out of the car. Leaning my head back in, I say, “Safe word.”
Carlo laughs again.
I shut the door and climb in the BMW my father bought me as a high school graduation present, tossing my purse onto the pile of stuff sitting in the passenger seat. Tomorrow I’ll clean my car. If my jail-keeper gives me permission to leave his apartment, that is.
Detective Michael Bailey wakes to the low buzz of his phone alarm at five a.m. He flicks it off and rolls out of bed. His wife’s side is already empty, which means she’s up with the baby again. Slipping on a pair of running shorts and a t-shirt, he pads out in search of them.
He finds them in the rocking chair in the living room, both his girls sleeping peacefully. Staring down at his daughter’s tiny, angelic face and his wife’s tender one, his chest constricts as love mixes with the sharp fear of losing them. Having a family changed everything for him. They are too sweet, too precious to lose. The contrast between their innocence and the horrors he sees on the street stuns him. Sometimes it seems like he lives dual lives—the hardened undercover cop working to bust open a sex slave ring and the man who has to put it all away when he comes home to them at night.
Jasmine sighs and makes a sucking motion in her sleep—air-nursing they like to call it. Her little cheeks have filled out since birth, and her thighs are starting to get chunky, too. Samantha calls her a “yummy baby” and pretends to eat her fat feet.
He resists the urge to drop kisses on both their heads, not wanting to wake Jasmine after Sam worked to put her back to sleep. He sticks his feet in his running shoes in the foyer and steps outside the house to sit on the stoop and tie the laces.
The air feels humid, but at least it’s still cool at this hour. Standing up, he skips the warm-ups and goes straight to running, settling into a rhythm that brings focus to his thoughts.
His investigation of Alexei Kaloshov still hasn’t yielded the location of the sex slaves nor who’s next up the chain in the Russian mafiya. He heard a rumor they are coming from Chicago, but there is no proof of anything.
None of his attempts to make contact and attempt to purchase a slave have panned out. He still doesn’t understand how he was made at the LaTorre’s high-roller game, and that worries him. Is his identity known with them?
He runs until his thoughts have run out, and nothing but the sidewalk and the rhythm of his feet striking the concrete remain in his awareness. Until he circles back to his house and sees an elegantly-dressed man leaning against a Mercedes SUV outside his front door. His body goes cold.
He has no weapon—his gun is still locked safely inside. Inside! If anything has happened to Jasmine and Samantha…
Grinding his teeth, he approaches the figure, making out the face of mobster Carlo Romano, underboss of the LaTorre family.
Carlo remains leaning against the car, his posture relaxed. He removes his hands from his trouser pockets and flips them open. “I’ll keep them where you can see them, if you do the same.”
He eyes the guy, wishing to hell he had a weapon. “What are you doing here?” He doesn’t pretend to be anything but the cop he is.
“What were you after?”
Fuck. His investigation has nothing to do with the LaTorre family, other than their association with Alexei Kaloshov. He presses his lips together, not sure how to answer.
“You after my game?”
“No.” That question he could answer directly.
“Then what? One of the guys there?”
“Obviously I can’t share any information about an investigation with you.”
“You showed up at my game. Now I’m involved. I need to know who you’re after and why.”
“Why? So you can warn them?”
Carlo shakes his head. “No. So I can get rid of them. I don’t need the heat.”
The arrogance of the interrogation isn’t lost on him nor is the implied threat of Carlo showing up within spitting distance of his family. Yet he finds a grudging respect for the man for coming straight to him for answers. The LaTorre family is still honor-bound. A throwback to a previous generation of mobsters, they’ve been steadily working themselves into legitimate business while the rest of organized crime has taken over the drug and flesh trade, and their practices have become more and more heinous.