Scorcher, p.1
Scorcher, page 1
SCORCHER
EMPIRE CITY BOOK 2
S.E. WARREN
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Did you enjoy this book?
About the Author
Scorcher
[Scor-cher]
Noun
Scorcher - A policeman or detective who makes arrests
To Neil, my best friend and partner in crime. Charlie and Everett have got nothing on us.
CHAPTER ONE
CHARLIE
Across the open bay, the sound of jazz tangled through my hair in the wind. The light of the New York skyline dripped out into the water, stretching until it was so close, I could almost reach out and scoop it into my palm. A creature of darkness, I had always craved the light.
“Hey, beautiful, what are you doing out here in the dark?” Lazlo’s voice pulled me from my thoughts, and I could almost feel my feet landing back into reality. He settled up against the railing beside me.
“I needed some air.” I needed a lot of things. I supposed air was as good an excuse as any.
Just on the other side of the deck, a small ballroom drifted across the bay, carrying the most exclusive party on the Atlantic coast and with it, the city’s most notorious gangsters. And though the yacht had been established as a safe zone—a no-man’s-land, so to speak—I’d had to come along under the guise of being Lazlo’s date. To everyone but the Cristianis, Charlene Seville was a ghost, and Charlie was even less than that.
A cold gust of wind spread goosebumps across my bare arms, and Lazlo shrugged his jacket off without a second thought and draped it around my shoulders. His hand lingered just a moment too long on my back before he leaned up against the railing beside me again. Most days he tried his best to give me some semblance of space. He rarely touched me without invitation—and he never received invitation. But every so often, he seemed to entertain the idea that he still had a chance.
He didn’t. He would never be the man who held my heart.
“I love the ocean,” he said quietly against the wind. A gentle smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “It’s unpredictable and beautiful.”
“I’m sure.” No matter how hard I tried to stop it, the sarcasm still waterlogged my voice as it came out. Lazlo shot me an exasperated look and pushed away from the railing toward the door. The sound of his steps was drowned beneath the roaring jazz coming from inside.
He stopped at the door and held it open, waiting expectantly. “We’re about to begin, Esther.”
Showtime.
I tore the jacket from my shoulders and tossed it into his face, savouring his surprised expression the moment before it made contact.
“Quit trying to make me wear your jacket. I’m not a coat rack.” Without waiting, I strode off toward the door.
The ballroom erupted as I stepped inside. Warm, golden light glinted off every surface: the chandeliers, diamond rings, crystal champagne flutes. Richard Cristiani’s Midas touch. I sifted through the crowd, blending in and weaving seamlessly through the dance floor. Flappers and their pinstriped counterparts spun around me, their fringed dresses grazing my arms as I passed by.
The evening was meant to be a celebration of freedom. The Mistress was dead. New York was finally off her leash…and ready for a new one. The thought of celebrating made my skin crawl.
Smoothly, I emerged on the other side of the dance floor and stopped at a set of dark French doors. Lazlo stepped up beside me and made a show of wrapping his arm over my shoulder. He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, reinforcing the facade of a happy couple, and then rapped his knuckles against the door.
I couldn’t see them, but I felt prowling eyes fall on us the moment the door swung open to the dimly lit room. The stench of smoke and money welcomed us in.
Inside, the room centred around a long board table. The ocean churned outside the floor-to-ceiling window at the other end. The table was filled on either side by the members of the New York City Organized Crime Commission—the board of family heads who controlled New York City. Until only six months ago, they had been nothing more than managers in the vast expanse that had been the Mistress’s organization…and now they were all fighting for the same promotion.
Richard Cristiani stood at the head of the table, his back to the churning ocean. He waved his son in, and I followed along dutifully. Lazlo settled into the seat at his father’s right, having earned himself a seat at the table. His brothers, Dante and Lucas, took up station behind their father, sending the message that they were the enforcers of the family. Dante watched me as he usually did—with hungry eyes, a predator watching his prey—while Lucas regarded me with cool apathy as I took up my post standing behind Lazlo.
Richard watched me with icy curiosity. He was wondering how long it would take for me to break. His gaze transformed into a telling look. Any wrong moves, one word out of line, and you are out. No mercy. No second chances. Even Lazlo can’t expect me to give shelter to a stray dog if it bites.
“Who’s the girl?” Douglas Tognetti asked from across the table. A fading cigarette hung from his lip for a moment before he slipped it into the crook of his fingers and ran the meat of his palm against his neatly greased hair. As the head of the Tognetti family, Douglas controlled a large portion of the docks. He had men on every ship coming in or out of the city.
“She’s not your concern,” Lazlo stated matter-of-factly, though I could see the muscles in his shoulders tense through his jacket.
“Oh…sorry, Your Highness. I guess I just didn’t realize we were allowed to bring our dates to our business dealings,” Tognetti mocked, elbowing his neighbours for support. They shifted away from either side of him, backing out of the crossfire.
Lazlo shot him a look that could sever bones.
“Enough.” Richard interrupted before Lazlo had the opportunity to cut that suggestive grin off of Tognetti’s face and cram it down his throat. “Ms. Esther Daniels is a guest of my family. She brings significant talents and expertise to the table and has graciously agreed to partner with the Cristiani organization. She will be respected.”
Tognetti’s face sank into a deep shade of red. He jutted his beefy finger in Richard’s direction just across the table from where Lazlo and I were positioned. “Who do you think you are, telling me what to do?”
Richard’s gaze flicked toward me, and I heard the instruction without a word uttered from his mouth. Suppressing the bored huff in my chest, I lifted an elegant hand to the razor-sharp hatpin tucked into my hair and flicked it lazily toward Tognetti. The pin thunked into the hardwood table less than a hair from his finger. A single drop of blood echoed onto the table. Tognetti’s bodyguard lurched forward, reaching for his gun, and a dozen other hands shifted to their firearms. Tognetti halted his guard with a single gesture, but his eyes remained plastered on Richards.
“Tognetti, might I suggest you take a moment to collect yourself so we may continue our business?” Richard said calmly, his voice like a slow-spreading frost.
I afforded myself the small pleasure of watching Tognetti’s expression flicker from shock to outrage and finally to submission. The other attendees around the table seemed to be getting the same enjoyment out of it. Missy Gleason—madam underground, queen of the harlots, and head of the Cartier family—hid an amused smile behind a violently pink cocktail.
“Let us begin.” Richard stood and rose to his full height. His shoulders cast a wide shadow over the table. “We are here to discuss the rising tension between our families in the wake of the Mistress’s recent passing. She has left behind a vacancy to be filled.”
Richard’s gaze froze over the table, and a bead of sweat trickled down my spine. “Our streets are painted with the blood of your feuds, and with every day that passes, the strong web that Agatha Estrella maintained is unravelling. If we do not act quickly, all that we have will dissipate.”
“If you do not mind me asking, what exactly did you have in mind?” Missy asked, twirling her drink in her hands.
“Have you ever heard the phrase capo dei capi, Miss Gleason?” Richard asked, leaning forward onto his knuckles.
Capo dei capi. The boss of bosses. An established head of the organized crime world. It was a dangerous proposition. The Mistress had not been elected; she had not been chosen. She had taken the job through brute force. The thought of the commission settling on a single head to lead them was ambitious, to say the least.
“And who would you have fill that role?” Dennis Hoyt cut into the conversation. Hoyt had been a politician before his descent into the organized crime world, and in many respects he still was. His cleft chin, deep dimples, and unnaturally green eyes gave me the impression of a wolf in sheep’s clothing, luring you in, making you comfortable until you put your guard down for the jaws of death to snap down on your neck. He gazed with pruned patience at Richard now.
The Cristiani family were outsiders in New York City. They ruled with a spiked-iron fist in Boston, and their influence had begun to spread to New York long before I bargained my life and the life of my…partner in exchange for helping them take over the New York City crime syndicate. The intention was for Lazlo to be given the city as a test of his abilities while Richard and his murderous sons returned to Boston, waiting in the shadows to pull the strings. That was what I expected when Richard rose to his full height, gathering every eye in the room.
“I will be the capo dei capi.” It was a statement with no room for question.
During the rumble of surprise that spread across the table, Lazlo began to rise, outrage openly painted on his face. Across the table, Lucas’s eyes flashed a cold warning. Instinctively, I placed firm a hand on Lazlo’s shoulder, pushing him back to his seat before he drew anyone else’s attention. Lazlo and I had our problems, but it didn’t mean I wanted to see him hurt—or killed—for going against his father. And there was no doubt in my mind that that’s exactly what would happen if he said a word.
Vikas Moire, representative for Edmund Gess, the head of the Cornelius family, finished a long drag of his cigar before smothering it in his ashtray. “With all due respect, Cristiani, you are not one of us. You have no claim to that position. What makes you think the commission will go along with this?”
The room froze, waiting for Richard’s response. The New York City skyline glistened off the ocean, silhouetting him as he regarded the group. His eyes, like blue flames, seemed to burn away all air in the room as he spoke. “I have claim to the office because I have the means to hold it, Moire. So, your options are clear: You can submit, or you can be eradicated. The choice is yours.”
If the threat had not been clear before, it was now. Each member at the table had a bodyguard, and in the split second it took for his words to register, every one of them drew their gun. On reflex, my own hand hovered over the gun tucked against my thigh.
Richard didn’t flinch. His impassive, cold gaze remained on Moire, seeming to wait for submission.
“Come now, gentlemen. You wouldn’t break the hallowed agreement of our treaty, would you? On a ship full of your families and esteemed guests? Surely you have more decorum than that.”
The threat was effective. Sure, they could kill Richard, but what’s to say their guests would be unharmed and that there weren’t hitmen mixed in with the crowd? Furthermore, it was against the code. There was a treaty in place; there was to be no killing tonight. One by one, guns returned to their holsters.
At last, Richard sank back into his seat at the head of the table, satisfied. “Lovely. Now that we’ve set the expectation, I look forward to our continued partnerships. Please, enjoy the rest of the evening. We have so much to celebrate.”
Tognetti stood abruptly, his chair nearly tumbling to the ground. His face was almost blue with rage. “This conversation isn’t over, Cristiani. I’m done having someone else call the shots.”
With that, he stormed out of the room. Hesitantly, the rest of the commission followed suit until it was only the Cristiani boys, their father, and me. My hand still sat on Lazlo’s shoulder, and I could feel the tension building under my fingers. Subtly, I slid my hand away and let it fall to my side. Despite my best efforts, the movement drew Richard’s eye, and he regarded his youngest son with a chilling disinterest.
“You have something you would like to say, Lazlo?”
At his sides and below the table, Lazlo’s fists clenched until his knuckles glowed ghostly white. “No, Father.”
“Excellent. You may go.” He waved his son away without a second thought.
I followed Lazlo from the room, glad to put a door and a wall and a crowd between myself and the Cristiani gentlemen. Lazlo disappeared momentarily through the throng of writhing dancers. I should have let him go. Our history gave me every right to hate him, and sometimes I thought I still did. And yet my eyes still found a way to tune into him anytime he was in the room, and I gave in to the voice telling me to go after him when he emerged on the other side of the crowd and stepped back out onto the deck.
The door muted the warbling trumpets as I stepped out and let it close behind me. Lazlo was sitting along the edge, his legs dangling over the side and his arms resting on the lower railing. He raked a trembling hand through his hair as he glanced over his shoulder. He forced a gentle smile, but I knew that look. He was teetering along a line.
“You okay?” I asked, settling down beside him. It was nice to get some weight off my feet for once.
“I’m fine. Nothing more than a little wounded pride,” he admitted. “I should have seen it coming. It’s been a year. If he was ever going to hand over the keys, he would have done it months ago. A heads-up might have been nice, though.”
“You can’t keep the power if you walk around telling people the plan, Laz,” I reminded him, giving his shoulder a nudge for good measure. To my surprise, he let out a weak laugh, smiling into his hands. I felt a frown drawing my brows together.
“What’s so funny?”
“You…are so contradictory.” The way he said it almost sounded like an endearment. “One minute you can’t look at me, you can’t stand for me to touch you, I can’t call you Charlie, and I absolutely can’t get a word alone with you…and then something like this happens and you’re out here at my side, using a nickname I had almost managed to forget.”
He turned his gaze to me, and I could feel that defensive wall between us chipping. Sometimes, in moments like this, it was hard to hold on to the pain that kept me from trusting him. But he had hurt me, betrayed me, and led me into a trap set by his brothers. I wasn’t going to forget that so easily. I hadn’t gotten this far in life by not learning from my mistakes.
“You’re right,” I agreed, drawing my arms back in, putting distance between us. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t bother to look hurt. Surely, he expected it by now. He simply stared out at the ocean, his arms folded over the railing and his expression growing more tired by the moment. “Don’t mention it, Charlene.”
“Why don’t you go inside? Enjoy the rest of the party,” I suggested half-heartedly.
“Why don’t you?” he rebutted.
“Touché.”
The frozen spray of the ocean misted against my legs, and I sucked in a cold breath. Without a thought, Lazlo pulled his jacket off again and draped it over my shoulders, despite my threatening glare. Against my best judgment, I allowed myself to nestle into the phantom warmth. What harm could a jacket do?
He made no further movements, no attempts to reach out or draw me closer. We sat in the quiet, listening to the ocean and the waves and the roaring jazz drifting across them, carrying us on a path we could not change.
EVERETT
On the ground level of New York City, by the time the sun sifts through your broken window shades, it’s nothing more than a murky glow and a bad reminder of another day passing. That murky glow was only just now spilling across the desk of my living-room-cum-office at half past eleven. Taking a gulp of my day-old arctic coffee, I propped my feet up on the desk and waited. My client was late.
Granted, Cassandra Pella was a wealthy woman whose only trips to the ground level had been excursions to the exclusive underground speakeasies and her first visit to my office. In all reality, she was probably still trying to gather the courage to leave her glistening 1920s-inspired speeder. It didn’t matter. I had all the time in the world and nowhere to be.
Another several minutes passed, and I yanked the bottom drawer of my second-hand desk open to retrieve one of the bottles hidden there. I poured a generous helping of Bourbon into my coffee. I was gonna need it when Cassandra arrived.
At that moment, a hesitant knock sounded on the door.
Speak of the devil…
“It’s open,” I croaked, choking down the last drop of my coffee. The door creaked open and in stepped my client.
