Bloody Heart: A Second Chance Mafia Romance (Brutal Birthright Book 4)

I can’t be certain whether the sniper is local or not, but I believe he is.

It’s not easy to transport that kind of equipment internationally. Better to use a local shooter—if you can find anyone with the skills to handle a job like that.

And I do think an arrogant fuck like Kenwood would order the hit somewhere he could see it. What’s the fun of having an enemy murdered if you can’t watch the fall-out?

I’m pretty sure that gunpowder was a nitrocellulose propellant. Du Pont manufactures it in a plant in Delaware. That type of powder is less common than it used to be, when Du Pont was the main supplier for the military.

That makes me think the sniper is either old, or they have some attachment to that particular mix. I wonder if the propellant was supplied to any other group, besides the army?

Other than that, I don’t have any leads.

Except the note.

I know who you are.

What does it mean? It was obviously left for me by the shooter. I’m sure he was pissed that I fucked up his job. He won’t get paid, since Solomon didn’t go down.

But why the note? If he found my house and he wanted revenge, he could have just hidden in the bushes and take a shot at me.

I know who you are.

Was he just letting me know he tracked me down? It wouldn’t have been all that hard to do—the botched assassination attempt was all over the news. Against my preferences, Yafeu Solomon openly identified me as the person who intervened. Finding my house would have been simple.

No, the message means more than that.

I know who you are.

He’s talking about my time in the military. I was part of the second wave of soldiers sent back overseas after the Islamic State seized swaths of Iraq and Syria. We worked with the Iraqi forces to retake Mosul, Anbar, and Fallujah.

Snipers were crucial, since most of the fighting took place in urban environments. We covered the ground troops while they surged through the cities, clearing building after building.

Sometimes rival snipers had their own perches, and we had to triangulate, set up smoke screens, and try to flush them out. If we were the forward guard, the sniper battles lasted for days.

I had a hundred and sixty-two confirmed kills. The army gave me a Silver Star and Three Bronze Stars.

None of that means a fuckin’ thing to me. But it means something to other people. Maybe to this other sniper.

He’s decided we’re antagonists. Rivals.

I take his bullet out of my pocket and roll it between my fingers again. He left that for me as a warning.

I try to think what his next move will be. Attacking Solomon again? Attacking me?

I’m seething with frustration. I don’t know this man—so I can’t guess how he thinks.

The only way to figure out who he is, is to figure out who hired him. So for that reason, I do need to visit Roland Kenwood.

We don’t exactly move in the same circles. While there’s some overlap with Callum Griffin and the politicians Kenwood keeps in his pocket, the rest of his connections are among the famous faces of Chicago. Kenwood is a “star-fucker,” for lack of a better term. He’s known for throwing glitzy and glamorous parties, stuffed with musicians, athletes, models, and, of course, writers.

Kenwood’s publishing house specializes in memoirs. He’s put out several of the bestselling autobiographies of the last decade, including those of the last two presidents.

That’s why I think I might actually need Simone after all.

I’m not famous—not even close. But she is.

Even if Kenwood hates Yafeu Solomon with every fiber of his being, Simone could get into one of his parties. She’d be the crown jewel of the event—one of the most famous faces on the planet.

I don’t like the idea. First, because every second I spend around her is pure torture. And second, because Kenwood is dangerous. I already hate the fact that Simone is spending time with her father while he’s got a target painted on his back. The thought of bringing her right into the lion’s den makes me sick.

But I don’t see any way around it.

I text her, because I don’t think I can stomach hearing her voice over the phone.

Roland Kenwood is throwing a party tomorrow night. You want to come with me?

Simone responds immediately:

I’m in.

We pull up to the gates of Kenwood’s estate in River North. I can already hear the thumping dance music coming from the house, though I can’t see anything through the thick stands of trees.

The security guards scan the list, unimpressed by the Ferrari I rented for the night. I was hoping they’d just wave me through if they saw me in a four-hundred-thousand-dollar car.

No such luck. They peer in the window at me, scowling.

“You’re not on the list,” one of them grunts.

Simone leans forward. She’s looking stunning in a silver minidress that clings to her frame. Her hair is a cloud of curls around her face. It makes her features look particularly soft, young, and feminine.

“Are you sure?” she says, in her gentle, cultured voice. “I think Mr. Kenwood was particularly looking forward to meeting me. You know who I am, don’t you?”

“I do,” the second guard says quickly. “I still have my Sports Illustrated with you on the cover.”

Simone gives him her most charming smile. I know she’s just getting us through the gates, but it makes me burn with jealousy to see her looking up at him with those cat-like eyes, her thick lashes fluttering.

“That’s so sweet!” she says. “I wish you had it here. I’d sign it for you.”

“I’ll let Mr. Kenwood know you’re on your way up,” the guard says politely.

“Thank you!” Simone says, blowing him a kiss.

I put the car in drive, barely waiting for the gates to part before I roar through. I can feel the back of my neck burning. Simone is even more gorgeous now than when I knew her. I wonder if I could stand being with her, the way that men drool over her everywhere she goes. Those guards couldn’t keep their jaws shut. It made me want to jump out of the car and beat the shit out of both of them. And Simone’s not even mine.

Doesn’t matter. That’s not an option anymore.

Simone made it pretty clear nine years ago how she feels about me.

I’m not ever giving her another chance to rip my heart out and stomp on it. I barely survived the last time.

We speed up to the house. Simone lets out a little gasp when she sees it. I don’t think she’s impressed—the place is just outrageous. It’s the most ostentatious mansion I’ve ever seen. It looks like it would be better suited to Bel Air than Chicago.

It’s a white Greco-Roman monstrosity, like three mansions stacked on top of each other. A jumble of pillars and scrolls, archways and pass-throughs. The semi-circular driveway centers around a gargantuan fountain, bigger than the Trevi fountain in Rome. Water spurts from the mouths of dolphins, while several mermaids cling to the burly arms and legs of King Triton.

I pull up next to the fountain so the valet can take my keys.

“Oh my god,” Simone whispers, getting out of the car.

“Welcome,” the valet says. “Head through the main level. The party is throughout the house and on the back grounds.”

More cars are pulling in behind us. Each one is a super-car worth $250k or more. Some kid who looks all of twenty-one climbs out of a Lamborghini. He’s dressed in a tropical-printed silk shirt and matching trousers, with about twenty gold chains slung around his neck. He’s wearing mirrored sunglasses despite the fact that it’s ten o’clock at night.

“I don’t think this is going to be my kind of party,” I say to Simone.

“What’s your kind of party?” she asks me, eyebrow raised.

“Well . . .” Now that I think about it, I guess no kind of party.

“Maybe a pint of Guinness, an hour at the batting cages, and a drive along the lakeshore,” Simone says, with a small smile.

That would be the perfect day for me.

It disturbs me how easily Simone listed that off. Just like how she remembered my preferences in coffee. It makes me feel raw and exposed.

Sometimes I tell myself that the intense connection I felt to Simone was all in my mind. That it couldn’t have been real, or she never would have left.

Then she proves that she really did understand me, and that fucks with my head. It fucks with the story I told myself to explain how she could cut me off so easy.

I know I’m glowering at her. I can tell by the way she shrinks back from me, the smile fading off her face.

“Let’s go in the house,” I say.

“Sure,” Simone replies in a small voice.

I don’t take her arm, but I stick close to her as we enter Kenwood’s mansion. The lights are low, and I don’t know who’s going to be here.

The music is loud and thudding, shaking the walls and rattling the art on the walls. While the exterior of the house is faux-antique, the interior is all fluorescent pop-art, Lucite furniture, pinball machines, and gaudy sculptures that look like giant red lips, glittery guitars, and chrome balloon animals.

The guests are equally garish. Half the outfits would look more at home at a circus than a party, but I see enough brand-names to know it’s all expensive.

“Is this what’s fashionable now?” I mutter to Simone.

“I guess, if you’ve got the money for it,” Simone says. She nods her head toward a young woman wearing a skin-tight mini dress and a pair of thigh-high blue fur boots. “Those boots are four thousand dollars. They’re from the Versace fall line that hasn’t even been released yet.”

“Huh. I thought she skinned a Muppet.”

Simone laughs. “Well, expensive doesn’t always mean attractive.”

I remember that Simone wanted to design her own clothes, once upon a time.

“Did you ever end up going to Parsons?” I ask her.

She shakes her head. “No. I never did.”

“Why not?”

“Oh . . .” she sighs. “Work and . . . other things got in the way.”

“Other things” meaning her parents, probably.

“I do make sketches of designs sometimes . . .” Simone says. “I have a whole notebook full of them.”

Without thinking, I say, “I’d like to see them.”

“You would?”

She’s looking up at me with the most heartbreaking expression on her face. Why, why, why the FUCK does she care what I think? I don’t understand her. How can she be so callous with me, and yet so vulnerable?

“We better get going,” I say roughly. “In case those guards really do call Kenwood.”

“Right,” Simone says, dropping her eyes. “Of course.”

The house is packed with partygoers, especially on the main level. Looking out into the backyard, we can see dozens of people lounging around the pool, swimming, or soaking in the hot tub. Some look like they fell in the pool with their clothes on, while others are half or fully naked.

The whole place reeks of alcohol. There’s liquor absolutely everywhere, plus a cornucopia of party drugs, right out in the open. I see a group of young women mixing up a bowlful of pills, then taking a handful each and washing it down with cognac.

Some of the girls look extremely young. Especially the ones hired to work the party. They’re dressed like guests, in mini-dresses, crop tops, booty shorts, and heels, but it’s clear from the way they prowl the party, finding older men and sitting down in their laps, that they’ve been hired as entertainment.

Simone watches them, frowning.

“How old do you think they are?” she says, looking at one particularly youthful redhead with her hair in pigtails.

“I have no idea,” I say. “Kenwood definitely has a reputation. I’m guessing he wouldn’t be stupid enough to bring in anybody under eighteen here in the city. But they say when he flies guests out to his boat . . . he brings in girls as young as twelve.”

“That makes me want to throw up,” Simone says coldly.

“I agree.”

“I had three aunts,” she says, quietly. “My father’s older sisters. They thought they were getting jobs as maids. Then they disappeared. Tata thinks they might have been trafficked. He looked for them for years, but never found them. That’s why he started the Freedom Foundation.”

I didn’t know that. I assumed Yafeu was using charity work like most wealthy people do—to enhance his status and connections. I didn’t realize he had such a personal connection to the issue. It actually makes me feel sorry for him. For a moment, at least.

Simone looks around the party with renewed focus. “What now?” she asks me. “What do we do?”

“Well . . .” I haven’t seen Kenwood anywhere yet. “I guess I want to snoop around his house. Try to find his office, or a laptop or iPad. See if I can access it, or steal it and have somebody smarter hack into it.”

“Alright,” Simone says nervously. I know she wants to help me, but this is where we cross the line from party-crashers to criminals. She’s probably never broken the law in her life.

We climb the wide, curving staircase to the upper floor. All the lights are off up here, probably to dissuade partygoers from coming up. I have to yank Simone into the nearest room, to avoid a guard prowling past.

There are guards all over this place. Unless Kenwood hired extra security for the party, he’s pretty fucking paranoid. Which means he has something to hide.

Simone and I start to search the rooms. She keeps watch outside the door, while I look through each space in turn.

Kenwood has all kinds of weird stuff up here.

First, we find a massive billiards room with fifty or more taxidermy heads on the wall. They’re all exotic animals, some that I couldn’t even name. Their glass eyes look down blankly over cheetah-printed chairs and zebra-striped chaises.

Next to that, a room that appears to be an exact replica of the Star Trek Enterprise bridge. I don’t know what purpose it serves for Kenwood. I can only assume he comes in here and sits in the captain’s chair, and stares at the wall painted to look like outer space.

“That’s just creepy,” Simone whispers, peering through the doorway.

“What?”

She points. There are hidden cameras in two corners of the room. In the next room as well. Probably all over the house.

“We better hurry up,” I tell her. “He might have spotted us already.”

Simone follows me further down the hallway. We haven’t seen anything that looks like an office yet. Just a guest room, a bathroom, and another guest room.

“Come on,” I mutter to Simone. “Let’s check the doors at the end of the hall.”

She’s right next to me, not touching me, but walking so close that I can feel her body heat on my bare arm. It’s colder on this upper level than it was downstairs. I can hear the air conditioner whirring. And I can see Simone’s nipples poking through the shiny silver material of her dress. I look away quickly.

“Wait here,” I say to her as we reach the double doors at the end of the hall. “If you hear anyone, come find me.”

I slip inside what looks like Kenwood’s master suite.

I walk across an acre of carpet. Kenwood’s room looks like it was designed by Liberace. His bed is up on a raised circular dais, bookended by hanging curtains and two massive vases of hothouse flowers. I can smell their heavy perfume from here. Everything is tasseled, gilded, or mirrored. The whole ceiling is a mirror, as well as several of the walls, which gives the room a creepy funhouse feeling. I keep catching glimpses of my reflection from different angles, and it makes me jump every time, thinking there might be someone else in here.

I start searching Kenwood’s nightstand and drawers, looking for an extra phone, tablet, or laptop. I look behind the paintings for a safe. I’m not as good at cracking locks as Nero, but I might be able to get a safe open, given enough time.

Over in the sitting area, I see a whole wall full of photos of Kenwood shaking hands with famous people. He’s got mayors, governors, senators, and presidents, all giving him that weird shoulder-clapping handshake they seem to love.

Then dozens more pictures of Kenwood with actors, singers, models, CEOs, and athletes. He’s even got a shot with an astronaut, signed and everything. I doubt Kenwood is actually friends with all these people, but it’s obvious he’s a collector. Obsessed with shining bright by standing in other people’s spotlights.

When I come to what I think is Kenwood’s closet, I get a surprise. Behind the door is a little room with a single chair. The whole wall is stacked with monitors, and each monitor shows one of the camera feeds from the house. There are cameras in every room, except the one I’m occupying currently. That includes the half-dozen guest rooms scattered throughout the house.

I’m assuming the guests aren’t told. Because right now, I could watch several different couples fucking, or the threesome currently taking place in the hot tub. If I was a lecherous fuck like Kenwood.

I’m guessing that’s how he gets his jollies—sitting here watching the girls he hired servicing his wealthy friends. Or maybe he uses the footage for blackmail. That would explain how he managed to wiggle out of the charges brought against him by the Freedom Foundation and the Chicago PD.

The computer connected to the monitors is encrypted. But I could grab the hard drive. I know plenty of people who could break into that thing, given several hours and the right financial incentive. Hell, I bet Nero could do it.

I unplug the drive and tuck it in the front of my jeans, under my t-shirt. It’s not a great hiding spot, but it’ll do for now.

I head back to the doors, wondering if I should tell Simone I got what we came for, or if we should keep snooping around.

But when I slip back out into the hallway, Simone is nowhere to be seen.

She’s completely disappeared.