Page 10 of Sweet Deception (Irish Kings #4)

Chapter Eight

“Piro?” I push open the door to my third-floor Brooklyn apartment, making that kissing sound with my lips. “Come here, kitty.”

In all his beautiful glory, my orange stray pops out from under the coffee table in my den. He wanders over, and I scoop him up, petting his face with my pointer finger. According to the vet, he’s a little over a year old, but he’s small, so I still call him a kitten.

“Miss me, little guy?” I sigh, falling back against my front door to close it and turning the lock with my free hand.

I’m glad to be home but so defeated by how the Vegas adventure went that I slide down to the floor, holding Piro in my arms while taking a minute to regroup.

When my plane landed, I went straight to Maya’s to check in and ended up spending a couple of days with her.

This is my first time reuniting with my kitty since I left.

I always leave plenty of extra water and food out, just in case of emergency, but I missed my furbaby.

Wasn’t too long ago that I found Piro starving in a cardboard box.

In the rain. I brought him home and found a good vet, but he still hasn’t grown much since I quasi-adopted him.

He’s very adventurous and likes to climb out onto the fire escape and go on his own quests out in the city streets.

It freaks me out, if I’m being honest, though he always returns.

I got so scared the first time he left my apartment on his own, but he’s wild at heart. Like a tiger stuck in the body of a tiny cat. He has to roam.

My apartment—a two-bedroom in a converted brownstone, decorated with a soft mocha-colored couch, a wooden two-seater dining set, and a few random paintings I bought from the flea market down the street—is worlds apart from the opulent suite where I left Darren. It’s comforting to be home.

Once I’ve showered, I pull on my comfiest pair of dark sweats and climb onto my bed with my hacking laptop. Now that I’m finally home, it’s time to get back to work—even if sleeping for a week sounds like absolute paradise.

I need to purge the sights and sounds of that mafia man from my mind.

I sit cross-legged against my headboard while my fingers soar across my keyboard. I run every decryption program in my arsenal against the stolen phone data.

Every so often, my thoughts stubbornly drift back to that last night in Vegas. To the heat of his hands. The calculated precision of his touch. The way he filled me up and lit my entire body up with pleasure?—

“ Nyet !” Setting the laptop aside, I spring to my feet and begin to perform some of my old ballet stretches. Anything to distract my horny brain from further torture and soothe my obviously overwrought hormones.

Instead of reveling in the phantom sensations of Darren’s touch, I need to clear my mind and focus on what’s important.

A ping from my missing person alert board draws my attention back to the laptop.

I set it up two weeks ago after the police gaslit Maya and told her that she must have been mistaken about what she saw, for reasons only they know. The memory still angers me enough to break something with my bare hands.

I’ve seen that same dismissal too many times since I began helping women escape dangerous situations. And it never ceases to enrage me.

Clicking open the alert, I scan the contents. Something cold slinks down my spine as I read.

Three more women…

They all disappeared after callbacks with a modeling agency. I pull up their photos and arrange them beside Lucy’s.

All young, all beautiful, all vanished within hours of their “big break.”

Yes, the modeling agency she described seemed a bit sketchy, but there’s a vast difference between sketchy and operating some kind of human trafficking ring. I never imagined Lucy could be mixed up in anything as grotesque as this.

The way the cops dismissed her case so quickly infuriates me.

If there’s a powerful mafia family in New York City with a few cops in their pocket, my money would be on the Kings. That’s why I went through the trouble of finding out about the Vegas wedding and infiltrating it. The Kings were the only breadcrumb I could think to follow.

But the alert I’m reading completely rearranges the picture in my head.

The number of victims…

The size of this case just exploded.

Whoever’s behind this, they’re organized. Professional.

I start to clock other alarming patterns as I delve deeper into the alert, which has hyperlinked articles attached.

As I do, I’m reminded of the despicable stories I’ve heard at domestic violence shelters. Women being coerced into unspeakable situations, including so-called “summits,” where they’d be showcased for private collectors.

My stomach knots and twists when I think of Lucy on an auction block, scared and alone. Hands coiling back into fists, fire blazing hot behind my sternum, I try to gulp down my rage.

What are we going to do? What am I going to do?

Now that this seems bigger than a simple case of abduction, maybe even bigger than the mafia, how do I—one woman on a mission—make a difference?

How am I going to get our darling girl back? And the other missing women too.

How am I going to find them?

My laptop chimes, mocking me with another failed decryption attempt.

I give that a rest, choosing instead to dig deeper into the modeling agency connections. One name I keep seeing over and over again flags my attention.

It’s a Russian name. Just like mine.

Someone called Sophia Kovaleva.

Whipping open a fresh browser, I type her name in.

Almost immediately, a chill runs over me as I find Kovaleva’s perfectly curated social media presence.

Photoshopped selfies of her standing next to important people.

Expensive charity galas.

Exclusive political events.

Modeling success stories.

#Girlboss posts.

This woman’s been reeling others in for the traffickers. She’s supposedly the director of the agency mentioned by Lucy and other missing models.

The picture’s getting clearer. And uglier.

Not only was Lucy’s abduction organized and not an isolated incident…it was also well-funded.

This woman, Sophia Kovaleva, or whoever she really is…is almost certainly being rewarded handsomely for her services. I need to find out who’s paying her.

The Kings definitely have the kind of money to bankroll an operation like this, but I won’t know if they’re responsible until I crack Darren’s phone.

A few other families came up in my research of who might be involved. Maybe I should take another glance at the Petrov Bratva, the De Luca Mafia, maybe even the Agnellis…

My phone buzzes. Maya.

I pick up on the first ring.

“I just got a text.” Her voice shakes.

I leap off the bed.

“It says to forget about Lucy, or…” She chokes on a sob.

“Or what?” Anger and despair close around my heart like an iron fist.

“Or I’ll only see her again in pieces.” She hiccups, the sobs coming harder over the line. “The number’s blocked, but there’s a photo attached. It’s Lucy, Nika. She looks…so scared.”

“Get somewhere safe.” I slip into the practiced instructions I’ve given dozens of women caught up in deadly situations.

“Not your apartment, not a friend’s place, nowhere they might think to search.

Remember that contact I told you about? Mrs. Guseva?

Get to her shop. She’ll give you cash, a burner, and set you up with a secure place. Don’t touch your regular accounts.”

“ Oh, god …” Maya wails.

I pause a moment while she cries. I’ve never been great at this part. Surviving my life requires emotional detachment, a defense mechanism I’ve carefully crafted over the years to spare myself from disappointment and pain. But this…

This will hurt no matter what.

I take another deep abdominal breath and do my best to comfort my friend. “I know this seems extreme, but this is how I’ve helped other women.”

“I know.” I can almost see her nodding. “I’ll go now.”

“Text me when you’re safe. And, Maya? Hurry.”

The line goes dead.

My laptop pings again.

Another decryption failure.