landlord never really knows how many people live in a unit. And looks can be changed.”
“Yes, but unless your Tamara Parker gained two hundred pounds and changed her skin color, I think we’ve hit another dead end. She gave you a fake name, and she’s not using it anymore.”
His sigh was so frustrated he almost sounded human. But I’d been fooled by that too many times to let my guard down now. “What about him?”
“Nothing new.” I shrugged. “I get a faint tug from the middle name, but without more to go on, I can’t even tell what direction he’s in, much less how far away he is. He could be across the country, or across the street. We’re going to have to approach this from another angle.” Damned if I know what angle, though …
“Agreed.” Ruben blinked, then met my gaze with fresh determination, and I realized he was about to change the subject. “Why were you on High Street in the middle of the night?” he asked.
He was like a damn spider—his eyes were everywhere. “I was on a job. Got time and a half.”
“From Adam Rawlinson?”
“Yes.”
His frown deepened, and suddenly I wanted the laughter back. “I don’t like you working for him.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what you like.”
His hand flew, and pain exploded in the corner of my mouth. My head rocked to the side and I tasted blood. But it was an openhanded blow, intended to make a point, not to truly hurt me. “Respect, Olivia. It’s what this syndicate is founded on.”
Funny, I thought the syndicate was founded on money. And blood. And ironclad bonds of indentured servitude.
I tasted the cut on the inside of my lip. I could hit him back—I’d certainly done it before—but if I left a mark, he’d have to beat the shit out of me so everyone else could see what happens when you disrespect Ruben Cavazos. And I was done being an object lesson.
“If I didn’t respect your abilities, you wouldn’t be here,” he continued, and the irony in that fact stung worse than my lip. Was this the reward for being good at my job? Ruben crossed his arms over his chest and stared at me like he might a crossword puzzle beyond his vocabulary. “But I don’t know why you bother with these penny-ante jobs.”
I rolled my eyes. “You don’t know a lot of things.”
“I know you haven’t set foot in your apartment in more than a year.”
“It’s your apartment. Mine is the one I pay rent on.” On the south side. In a building owned by one of the few men in the city who owed loyalty to neither Tower nor Cavazos. The south fork was as close as I could get to Switzerland.
“I understand that you threw away every cent in your bank account.”
“My bank account is fine.” If a little malnourished. “And the account you set up wasn’t thrown away. The money was donated in your name.” I’d withdrawn the five-figure balance in cash and given it to the Catholic-run homeless shelter around the corner from my office. “Sister Theresa thanks you for your generosity.”
His grip tightened on the edge of his desk, and I held my breath. I was poking a lion with a stick, and one of these days he would bite me in half. I knew that. But I wasn’t going to just roll over and play dead for him.
That was his wife’s job.
Besides, as long as he still needed me, he wasn’t going to kill me, and we both knew it. “Olivia …” he warned.
“I’m not going to stop working, and you can’t make me.”
Cavazos stood and pulled me up by one arm. I didn’t bother resisting—the sooner we got this over with, the sooner I could start Tracking Shen’s killer. With Cam. But thinking about him must have shown on my face, because Ruben’s grip tightened and he pushed me around the chair.
“You want to work? Fine. I have a job for you.” He kept walking—kept pushing—until my back hit the darkly paneled wall. “One of my staff Binders is missing,” he whispered, leaning toward my neck. “Along with the contracts he was working on. I need them back. Rapido.”
“Can’t,” I said, as his warm lips brushed the skin just below my earlobe. “I just booked a new client. She’s already paid the retainer.” Thank goodness.
“This is important. And it pays well.”
It took most of my concentration to ignore how good his mouth felt, and that pissed me off. I didn’t want him to feel good. “I don’t want your money.” I wedged my hands between us and shoved him back. “I don’t want anything from you.”
“You want me to keep my word, don’t you?” he taunted, and my heart pounded painfully, though I recognized the empty threat.
“You don’t have any choice about that.”
He leaned into me again and slid his hands beneath my jacket, pushing it off my shoulders and halfway down my arms, until they were pinned by the material. “And you don’t have any choice about this.”
I’d had a choice, once. A year and a half ago. It was a tough one. No good options at all. I’d chosen the lesser of several evils, but in that moment, with his hands pushing my jacket off, his mouth on my skin, the evil I’d chosen didn’t feel very lesser.
I closed my eyes and tried not to react, not to feel, and when that didn’t work, I pretended. I’d gotten pretty good at that in the past eighteen months. At pretending they were someone else’s hands, and lips, and eyes. Pretending it was okay to enjoy it, because I was with someone I wanted.
Those were the only moments I let myself think about Cam—about what I’d walked away from—because those were the only moments when remembering the past hurt less than living in the present.
The door flew open, and so did my eyes. Michaela stared at us, shaking in a fury so strong the coffee mug clattered against the full pot on her tray.
“Out!” Cavazos thundered, whirling to glare at her while I stared at my jacket on the floor, mortified, and pissed off, and struggling to breathe.
She set the tray on the credenza, then backed into the hall and slammed the door. I flinched. “Why do you do this to her?” I groaned. “You told her to bring me a drink.”
“She delayed her entrance on purpose for dramatic effect.”
“Well, can you blame her?” I enjoyed throwing his own words back at him, but he didn’t seem to remember saying them. He just turned back to me with that hunger in his eyes, edged with an anger that seemed to serve as fuel for the fire.
“My marriage is complicated,” he whispered into my ear, his cheek brushing mine. “She punishes me, I punish her, and the cycle continues.”
“What do you punish each other for?”
“For living.”
“That’s
