Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter One
Consequence
The Confidence Game
Book Two
Rachel Higginson
[email protected] Rachel Higginson 2018
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Copy Editing by Amy Donnelly of Alchemy and Words
Cover Design by Caedus Design Co.
Other Romances by Rachel Higginson
The Five Stages of Falling in Love (Adult Second Chance Romance)
Every Wrong Reason (Adult Second Chance Romance)
Bet on Us (Bet on Love Series)
Bet on Me (Bet on Love Series)
The Opposite of You (Opposites Attract)
The Difference Between Us (Opposites Attract)
The Problem with Him (Opposites Attract) coming June, 2018
Keep up with Rachel on her Newsletter
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Sarah Jo,
To best friendships and earring businesses
And inappropriate husbands.
Don’t worry, no characters thus far have
Been based off Sherman.
There are always future books however…
Chapter One
Sayer
Fifteen Years Ago
Doubt niggled, squeezing my gut, forcing me to question my choices. I hated it. I hated the greasy feeling sloshing around in the pit of my stomach. Hesitation halted my stilted limbs and slowed my footsteps.
The door in front of me seemed to stretch to the dark sky overhead. The damp, ivy covered walls felt like they were closing in on me, trapping me in a prison I wasn’t ready to face yet.
Letting out a slow, measured breath I balled my hands into fists and reminded myself that this was my only option for survival. I’d made my bed, and now I had to lie in it.
For however long my life lasted.
Wrapping my knuckles against the back entrance to a Russian-run bar in the middle of downtown DC, I swallowed the lump of fear and my uncertainty. The gritty taste in my mouth remained.
“What?” a gigantic tank of a man asked when the metal door creaked open.
The opened door let out a gust of warm air that smelled like booze and sweat. It reminded me of my old man and I had to plant my feet to restrain myself from involuntarily bolting.
“I want to see the bosses,” I declared boldly.
The ogre’s mouth split into a scary smile, revealing rows of gold teeth and a fat, gray tongue. My request was amusing enough that he didn’t bother playing games with me. I obviously wasn’t an FBI informant or slimy CI. I wasn’t wearing a wire. He knew exactly where I came from—the gutter.
He clicked his tongue between his teeth and lips. “And what does a street rat like you want with the pakhan?”
His thick accent made it hard for me to understand him, but I got the gist of what he asked. “I have information”—I told him and quickly added— “Important information.”
His smile disappeared. “Yeah? How about you tell to me and I relay message to pakhan.”
I shook my head. No fucking way. I give this guy the goods, I’ll never have another chance to get inside. This had to come from me. And it had to go straight to the top. “I tell the bosses. Nobody else.”
He spat a string of curses in a foreign language I assumed was Russian. “I’m no playing games, shithead. And you no getting inside. Give me fucking information or get lost.” When I hesitated, he added, “You have three seconds.”
“It’s about the Irish,” I blurted, desperate to have him hear me out. “And a huge fucking shipment of guns.” I rubbed my tongue on the roof of the mouth. The curse word felt awkward and foreign in my mouth. Up until six months ago, I wouldn’t have used it out of respect for my mom. But since I’d been living on the streets, I’d learned there were certain kinds of people in the world who only responded to a specific way of talking. If I wanted to be taken seriously I needed to get comfortable with their language.
Besides, it wasn’t like I was sheltered or some shit. Thirteen years of living with my dad had taught me how to survive on the streets—I could survive the Russian mob or the fucking epicenter of hell.
The meathead’s curiosity was piqued. “And what does piece of scum like you know of fucking Irish?”
I tilted my head to rub my cheek against my bony shoulder. “I know that I’ve been working with them for two months. I know that they’re expecting a container next month. I know that the guns that were supposed to be inside were delayed because their customs officer was arrested, so the crates were put on a separate, smaller ship, making them arrive two weeks ahead of time. I know that if you know the place they’re coming in at you could beat the Irish and grab them for yourselves.”
His jaw ticked, revealing speculation and anger. “And how the fuck do you know this?”
“Because I know it. Now are you going to let me in to talk to the bosses? Or am I taking this information to the Italians?”
“Fucking Italians.” He pursed his lips and spit. I flexed my entire body and held perfectly still. I couldn’t let this guy see me flinch. He was just the gatekeeper, but if I slipped in front of him he wouldn’t take me seriously and I’d lose my one shot at getting inside.
I was tough, and I’d prove it here and now.
Caroline’s voice drifted through my head, bolstering my courage, boosting my adrenaline. Make them realize you’re valuable. She’d offered the advice like a last-minute question. She’d wanted to save me from the streets. She’d wanted to rescue me from the assholes that had hired me. But she’d done something better instead.
She’d given me something to live for—seeing her again.
“How do you know any of that?” the bouncer demanded. “How I know you not a little spy sent by someone else? The Irish could have sent you. The Italians could have sent you. The politsiya could be messing with us.”
“How about you let the bosses decide that? Pretty sure those questions are
above your pay grade.”
I expected him to punch me in the face, but he threw his head back and laughed instead. “How old are you, kid?”
I had no reason to lie. Although I probably should have anyway. “Thirteen.”
“Fucking balls for kid of thirteen.”
I shrugged. “Are you going to let me in or what?”
“Fuck it.” He continued to grumble, but pushed the door open so I could walk inside.
Repressing the relieved smile playing at the corners of my mouth, I inhaled the sticky sweet stench of the bar and tried not to gag. God, I hated places like this. I hated the loud mouth men yelling at each other from across the room. I hated the pounding music that never ended. I hated the women that worked here, dressing in as little as possible and letting the drunk ass men put their hands all over them.
This bar was too close to home. And it took everything in me not to bolt. I wanted to run away from this place like I wanted to run from my past. I wanted to head back to the mission house that had given me a hot chocolate and offered a warm bed to sleep in.
Bile rose in my throat and I banished the manipulative thoughts before they could take root. That idyllic dream would lead one place—to child services. And they would send me back to foster care.
There was only one thing on this godforsaken planet worse than my old man and that was foster care.
Fuck that.
I’d take the Russians before I’d ever let them send me back.
Hell, I’d even stay with the Irish before I let that happen.
I followed the goon through the bar and toward a darkened staircase. Everyone we passed sent curious looks my way, but my new friend didn’t offer any explanations. I appreciated his discretion, even if he was trying to keep the number of witnesses to a minimum.
At the top of the stairs, we took the single hallway to the farthest closed door. I ignored the sounds coming from the other rooms as we walked past and the occasional screams of both pleasure and pain.
Eyes wide open, I reminded myself. I was stepping into this world fully aware of what I was getting into. I was choosing a life of crime, immorality… sin. This was my life, and for the first time ever, I was deciding how I wanted to live it.
My guide pounded his meaty fist against the door until someone on the other side called out a terse, “Come in.”
The door opened, and the goon shoved me through it. “This kid says he can get next shipment of Irish guns. Says he wants trade something for it.”
I hadn’t said that. A wave of gratitude washed through me for this nameless stranger. I knew enough about the world that I could recognize this for what it was—a future favor I would be expected to make right. I was grateful enough to be okay with owing this guy one.
The cool, calculated gazes of three well-dressed men turned to me. The bosses. I had never seen them in person before, but it was obvious who they were. The entire room was practically bowed in their presence.
I’d overheard the Irish talk about them enough to know there were three of them and they were brothers. Dymetrus was the muscle in the family. He controlled the enforcers and handled the punishments. Aleksander—the brains. He made the money decisions and ran the businesses. And Roman—the boss of bosses. He was the face of the family, the oldest brother and the end all be all of the Russian mafia in this city.
It was Roman I would have to convince.
It was Roman I would have to survive.
And there he sat, directly across the room from me, at the head of the table, his brothers to both sides of him, his closest men in chairs bordering the large room. His hair was black and slick-looking, like oil personified. He was groomed to perfection and his tailored suit was worth more than my life.
I hated him immediately.
He had everything I wanted and didn’t have. Money, power, security, a place to sleep. Something settled inside me, dropping to my gut like the cornerstone laid for a new building, the stone the rest of the foundation would be built on. Or the seed of a mighty oak that took root and began the arduous task of growing, developing, becoming something bigger, better and more permanent.
I decided then and there that I wanted everything Roman had. Not just the money and the clothes and the material possessions—I wanted the job too. I wanted the power. I wanted his empire.
And today was the first step to getting it.
“Speak, child,” he ordered, his voice heavy with Russian inflection. “Tell us your tale.”
His black eyes glinted in the low light, sparking with curiosity and mystery. I held his gaze and ignored the buzzing of nerves threatening to make me puke. “I did a job for you two months ago. It was an electronics store. I climbed up a wall and turned off security cameras, then hid in a space between two walls and jumped the driver of a delivery truck when he stepped out of the cab.”
Roman’s head tilted to the side. “I thought you were going to tell me about where I can find Irish guns.”
“I want a job,” I told him evenly. “If I tell you about the guns, I want to work for you.”
“It sounds as though you’re already working for me,” Roman countered. “And the Irish. And who knows who else.”
I shook my head, realizing I needed to slow down. “I don’t want to be a six. I want to be one of you.” I jerked my chin toward the bouncer. “I want to be bratva.”
Roman’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a child.”
“I’m about to help you take out the Irish,” I reminded him.
“What did the Irish do to make you hate them so much?” Roman’s brother asked. Judging by his trimmed beard and glasses, I pegged him as Aleksander, but I couldn’t be sure. “Why are you here tattling on them as though we are your mother and they have picked on you at school?”
I shook my head again. They weren’t getting it. “I never wanted to be Irish,” I explained. “Since the job I did with you two months ago, I’ve only wanted to be Russian.”
“Then you should have stayed working for us,” Roman sighed. “Now we can’t trust you. Now we assume you are an Irish spy and we should send you back to them with your tail between your legs.”
“Or in a body bag,” Dymetrus murmured.
Heat rushed to my brain and I felt my face turn red. “I’m not a spy. I went to the Irish to find you something to take them out. That’s all. I never wanted to work for them.”
The three brothers stared at me. “Did someone tell you to do that?” Roman asked. He turned to his other brother. “Who was in charge of that job? Who would give advice of that nature to this… child?”
Dymetrus snorted. “Leon Valero ran point as I remember. We needed his daughter on the inside. He didn’t do a half bad job of it, but Leon’s not kind enough to recruit a kid.”
Daughter. I wondered if they meant Caroline. I filed that information away. “It wasn’t Leon,” I interrupted, tensing as I waited for their response. “It’s not important who told me what to do. Besides, they didn’t say specifically to get work from the Irish, just that I needed to do something to prove my worth to stay. I want to stay, so I did something to prove my worth. That’s all. I’m not an Irish spy. They probably won’t even notice I’m gone. I was just a six for them. A six that happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
“What is your name?” Roman asked when I expected him to demand more information.
Nerves pinged through me again, my stomach tightening into a twisted ball. “Sayer.” I cleared my throat. “Sayer Wesley.”
Roman sat back in his chair. “How do I know that name?” He turned to his brother again. “Why is that name familiar?”
“His father was a cop,” Aleksander offered. “He’s dead now.”
Recognition flashed in Roman’s eyes. “Suicide.”
I scanned the room for the closest trash can, convinced I was going to puke. Thankfully, I hadn’t eaten anything today so there was nothing in my stomach. I managed to nod.
Roman shared a look with his
brothers before turning his black eyes back to me. “It’s time you told us everything, Sayer Wesley. Starting with how a dead cop’s kid ends up trying to defect from the family his dear papa used to work for.”
“My dad might’ve been Irish, but I hated him. I want nothing to do with his family. I want nothing to do with the Irish.” I spit the words out as promises. Anger bubbled beneath my skin, fury ready to be unleashed in my fisted hands.
“You say that here,” Roman countered calmly. “But what about to them? Maybe you say the same things about the Russians to them. Surely they expect you to carry on his legacy. Surely they expect another dirty cop? Or at the very least a loyal soldier.”
I ground my teeth together. “Then this will set them straight.”
My tone and the severity of my expression and eyes must have finally convinced them I was telling the truth. Roman sat back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “And how can we trust someone that hates his father so much? Family means something to us.”
“Family means something to me too. I just want to be able to choose who my family is. I want to decide who I call brother and who I swear my life to. The Irish don’t get that honor. My fucking dad didn’t get that honor.”
“And you think guns are enough?” Roman was still calm and unruffled. “You think one ship full of guns is enough to turn your Irish blood Russian?”
I struggled to swallow past the baseball-sized lump in my throat. “Yes.”
“You’re wrong,” Roman said with a small, amused smile. “But it’s a start.”
His words were a fatal blow delivering crushing disappointment that felt like total destruction. I hadn’t realized how much I had hoped that this would be easy or how desperately I needed them to give me what I wanted. I had nowhere else to go. I had no backup plan. I had no other options. “A-a start?”
“Who told you that you needed to prove yourself to become bratva?” Roman demanded in a tone I knew better than to argue with.