Page 15 of Savage Hearts

I watch with growing irritation as he embraces the slovenly waif. If she’d only get out of the way, I could get on with it. I’ve been crouched in this crumbling church belfry for hours already.

Sweat is pouring down my neck. My thighs are starting to cramp. The air reeks of mold and mouse droppings, intensified by the sweltering heat.

I can’t wait to get back to Moscow. To the cold and the darkness, far away from this tropical hellhole. Everything is so bright here. So colorful. So cheerful. I hate it.

The woman standing off to one side of Declan and the new arrival is Sloane. I recognize her from the picture Kazimir gave me. She’s tall, curvy, and unmistakable, watching the new girl with hesitancy.

Dismissing her, I turn my attention back to Declan.

He sets the waif back onto her feet, but I still don’t have a clear shot. She’s standing too close to him. Then he picks her up and…

I move my face away from the scope, blink to clear my vision, then squint into the scope again.

I wasn’t mistaken.

He threw the waif over his shoulder.

Now he’s swaggering back to the mansion, holding Sloane’s hand while simultaneously carrying another woman upside down. The trio disappears inside together.

I sit back onto my heels and think.

The girl obviously isn’t a refugee. Perhaps a domestic worker? A new maid? By the cool way Sloane greeted her, they didn’t appear acquainted, so that would make sense. It seemed as if it were the first time they’d met.

But the way Declan embraced her with such distinct enthusiasm… The way he was so familiar in handling her, tossing her over his shoulder like a possession…

Ah.

She’s a whore.

A girl so poor and disadvantaged, she has to sell herself to kinky rich couples for money to eat.

“Fucking Irish,” I mutter, disgusted.

I think of my dead brother and the sad-looking waif in the baggy sweatpants, both of them victims of the vicious Mob king.

Then, seething, I settle in again to wait for another shot. That bastard can’t stay inside forever.

FIVE

RILEY

The inside of the estate/castle/palace/whatever is even more impressive than the outside.

Everything is made of marble, crystal, or polished mahogany. Blank-eyed Grecian statues lurk in lit alcoves in the walls. Expensive bric-a-brac decorates every available surface. Plush Turkish rugs muffle our footsteps, while white linen curtains draped in front of floor-to-ceiling windows billow and fold in the languid sea breeze.

I gape at all the glamour right side up, because Declan set me back onto my feet as soon as we came indoors.

I still haven’t forgiven him for it.

I trail behind him and Sloane as they lead me to the guest room where I’ll be staying. It probably has its own pool. “So, Declan. What kind of work do you do?”

He and Sloane exchange a glance. He says, “International relations.”

Outside the windows, a pair of armed guards prowl by. “Really? That’s interesting. I saw this Denzel Washington movie one timewhere he told people he was in international relations, but he actually worked for the CIA. Do you work for the CIA?”

He scoffs. “They wish.”

“The FBI?”