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23

Cameron

Lou’smeatyfistthumpedon the door. “Got the McKenzie woman, boss.”

“Bring her in,” came a man’s voice from inside.

Lou opened the door and shoved me through.

My gaze shot to the man sitting with impeccable posture behind a solid wood desk. Franky Russo. Even out of the pizza commercial costume, he still looked nothing like a mob boss. At least not like any I’d seen in movies.

With neatly combed salt-and-pepper hair, thin, wire-framed spectacles, and hands clasped together on the desk before him, Franky looked more like a middle-aged accountant than a mobster. A gray knit vest sat over his crisp white shirt, and aside from a crooked nose that was too long for his face, his features were unremarkable. Although taller and broader in real life, he didn’t give off an immediate sense of danger. Yet Shep’s warnings rang in my ears. To underestimate this man would be a huge mistake.

I took in my surroundings. This room had a totally different vibe from the rest of the club. Decorated with dark hardwood floors and gray walls, the space resembled something from a stately mansion. Franky’s immaculate mahogany desk was either rarely used, or he was anal about keeping it clutter free. Probably the latter. Three things sat upon it: a landline phone, an antique mantle clock, and a delicate bonsai in a black ceramic pot.

Unlike the stench of stale beer and cigar smoke on the lower level, the only odor in this room was the lingering scent of furniture polish. On one side of the office were built-in cabinets filled with books. The opposite wall had several TVs streaming direct feeds from the club’s security cameras. No sign of Shep on any of them.

Franky gestured to a black leather tub chair. “Have a seat, Ms. McKenzie.” He didn’t even sound like the guy from the commercials. Where had the Philly accent gone? His articulate voice made me wonder if he’d been educated at an elite school, or was this businesslike manner a learned skill? Either way, his cool tone and expressionless face sent a shiver through me.

I remembered what Shep told me about the mob boss. That he wore many masks depending on the situation. Very few ever saw therealFranky, and if you did, you might not live to tell anyone about it. Which Franky did I talk to now?

Lowering myself into the chair, I willed my lungs to slow down so I didn’t hyperventilate. If I had any hope of negotiating, I needed to compose myself. I was here, after all, and not dead. Yet.

“This isn’t my preferred place to meet, but given the confronting nature of our business today, I’m forced to conduct it here.”

Unsettled by Franky’s assessing stare, I instead glanced at the cabinets where a single framed photo, the only personal touch in the office, sat among the stacked tomes. Beside it was a pair of worn white boxing gloves. I squinted at the photo of a young muscle-bound boxer bleeding from a cut above his puffy eye and holding a huge, gold title belt above his head. Wait… was that—

“Yes, that’s me,” said Franky, answering my unspoken question.

My gaze returned to the mob boss. “You were a boxer?”

“I like to think I still am. Once a fighter, always a fighter. There is no changing who we are at our core.” Franky shifted his hands from the desk to place them in his lap. “I was the youngest boxer to take the Pennsylvania cruiserweight title. I can still remember the sound of Mad Dog Malone’s jaw breaking when I knocked him out in the third round. The blow put him in hospital for a month, left him with ongoing seizures, and ended his career.”

A chill swept through me at Franky’s callous retelling of something so brutal. He didn’t seem remorseful. Hell, he didn’t even seem proud of his actions like I assumed someone as vile as Franky might. Rather, he didn’t seem to feel anything at all, and that was scarier than the alternatives.

I held Franky’s stare. His eyes were the deepest shade of blue I’d ever seen. So dark they were almost black.

“Where’s Shep?” I asked, working hard to smooth the quaver in my voice.

He gestured to the video screens. “See for yourself.”

One TV showed two huge bouncers, the men we’d passed at the back entrance, hauling a barely conscious Shep into view and dumping him onto a chair in the middle of a room. Two buckets sat to one side.

I covered my mouth, and a pained cry slipped from my throat.

The one sporting a flame-red crewcut cuffed Shep’s hands behind his back and roped his ankles to the chair legs. His head lolled from side to side as he tried to gain control of his body. What the hell were they going to do to him? I had a sickening idea I already knew the answer. The urge to heave up the meager contents of my gut was unbearable.

“Your brother is more resilient and foolish than I gave him credit for. He still refuses to answer questions despite our… persuasive methods.” Franky interrupted my troubling thoughts, only to supply me with fresh ones.

He confirmed my fears. They had Justin. What had they done to him? “Is he alive?”

“Yes. For now.” Franky adjusted his glasses. “Although I’m unsure I have any further use for him since he’s being rather unhelpful.”

My skin prickled.Dammit, Justin. Why hadn’t he given Franky what he wanted from the get-go so we didn’t all have to suffer?

Franky angled his head toward the screen where Shep sat motionless. “Now, we find out how informative Mr. Shepherd can be.”

“Please don’t hurt him!” I blurted. “Shep was only trying to help me.” Perhaps begging for his life would make no difference, but I also couldn’t stop myself.