garlicky smell of his breath.
Even the dark hues of the back end of the warehouse shimmered in heavy blacks and grays, the absence ofcolor a stark reminder of the people who operated in the shadowy recesses of human depravity.
They were going to kill her.
Refusing to give in to the wellspring of despair that waited in the wings of her mind, she focused again on the information she’d learned earlier from her colleague Melanie.
A meeting had been planned for over a week between two of the city’s biggest crime families, with their respective bosses most assuredly in attendance. Her gaze drifted around the room, confirming the information had been one hundred percent accurate.
Some sort of secret deal was in the works to amass more power between them. Again, she processed what she’d managed to hear before she’d been caught in the basement, just underneath where she now stood captive. Melanie’s information had been spot on.
So how had the thug currently holding her and his partner found her, hidden away in a dark corner behind a row of moldering boxes?
Wincing as Garlic Breath tightened his grip on her neck, she fought to keep her calm.
Fought to use the rational mind she prided herself on to figure it out.
Was it a bad tip?
She’d always been obsessively diligent in checking tips, no matter the source. Even the most trusted adviser could give bad information or be set up to give bad information. Worse, she knew even those with the best motivations could be lured with the temptation of something more rewarding.
But Melanie?
Any way she looked at it, Finley couldn’t make the facts add up. Melanie was a trust fund baby who had a passion for the law and the justice she and her fellow attorneys brought to the city. She was Ivy League and
magna cum laude
all the way.
It just didn’t add up.
Which means, if it wasn’t Melanie, who set her up?
The grip on her neck tightened once more, the lack of air instantly pulling her from her thoughts to the pressing matter of her life.
Cold, lifeless hazel eyes bored into hers as one of the mobsters stood over her. “Ms. McCrae, I’m going to give you one more chance to tell me what you were doing in the basement of this building.”
Right
. Like she’d tell
them
. The last time she checked, crime investigation wasn’t in her job description. And while she usually avoided overt behavior that screamed she was too stupid to keep her job—or live, for that matter—she hadn’t been able to resist investigating this tip.
Something
big
was going on.
Finley took in the mobster’s gaze and abstractly remembered that her grandfather had had hazel eyes. With small flecks of gold and a dark rim around the irises. He’d been warm and fun, with a perpetual smile on his face whenever she was in his presence.
“Now, Ms. McCrae!” A gun jabbed into her stomach and the warm memory of her grandfather faded away as cold, harsh reality replaced it.
She was going to die.
Grey’s stomach clenched as he pushed past Drake toward the door. How had she gotten in there?
And how in fucking hell had she gotten past him? She’d been perched on her favorite bar stool in Equinox half an hour ago.
With steady patience and a calm he didn’t feel, Grey cracked the door a fraction of an inch and peered into the common area of the warehouse, taking stock of the players.
Although everyone was dressed in matching silk suits and expensive Italian loafers, the sides were clear, almost like an invisible line ran down the center of the room. And while the two sides might be enemies, all the players were aligned in their focus as one of the lower-level goons held Finley in his arms, a gun against her side.
She was dressed in running clothes—what Grey could only assume was her disguise for getting close to the warehouse. The long legs he’d admired in her fitted pencil skirts were even more impressive in runner’s shorts, but the skimpy attire made her look even more
Even the dark hues of the back end of the warehouse shimmered in heavy blacks and grays, the absence ofcolor a stark reminder of the people who operated in the shadowy recesses of human depravity.
They were going to kill her.
Refusing to give in to the wellspring of despair that waited in the wings of her mind, she focused again on the information she’d learned earlier from her colleague Melanie.
A meeting had been planned for over a week between two of the city’s biggest crime families, with their respective bosses most assuredly in attendance. Her gaze drifted around the room, confirming the information had been one hundred percent accurate.
Some sort of secret deal was in the works to amass more power between them. Again, she processed what she’d managed to hear before she’d been caught in the basement, just underneath where she now stood captive. Melanie’s information had been spot on.
So how had the thug currently holding her and his partner found her, hidden away in a dark corner behind a row of moldering boxes?
Wincing as Garlic Breath tightened his grip on her neck, she fought to keep her calm.
Fought to use the rational mind she prided herself on to figure it out.
Was it a bad tip?
She’d always been obsessively diligent in checking tips, no matter the source. Even the most trusted adviser could give bad information or be set up to give bad information. Worse, she knew even those with the best motivations could be lured with the temptation of something more rewarding.
But Melanie?
Any way she looked at it, Finley couldn’t make the facts add up. Melanie was a trust fund baby who had a passion for the law and the justice she and her fellow attorneys brought to the city. She was Ivy League and
magna cum laude
all the way.
It just didn’t add up.
Which means, if it wasn’t Melanie, who set her up?
The grip on her neck tightened once more, the lack of air instantly pulling her from her thoughts to the pressing matter of her life.
Cold, lifeless hazel eyes bored into hers as one of the mobsters stood over her. “Ms. McCrae, I’m going to give you one more chance to tell me what you were doing in the basement of this building.”
Right
. Like she’d tell
them
. The last time she checked, crime investigation wasn’t in her job description. And while she usually avoided overt behavior that screamed she was too stupid to keep her job—or live, for that matter—she hadn’t been able to resist investigating this tip.
Something
big
was going on.
Finley took in the mobster’s gaze and abstractly remembered that her grandfather had had hazel eyes. With small flecks of gold and a dark rim around the irises. He’d been warm and fun, with a perpetual smile on his face whenever she was in his presence.
“Now, Ms. McCrae!” A gun jabbed into her stomach and the warm memory of her grandfather faded away as cold, harsh reality replaced it.
She was going to die.
Grey’s stomach clenched as he pushed past Drake toward the door. How had she gotten in there?
And how in fucking hell had she gotten past him? She’d been perched on her favorite bar stool in Equinox half an hour ago.
With steady patience and a calm he didn’t feel, Grey cracked the door a fraction of an inch and peered into the common area of the warehouse, taking stock of the players.
Although everyone was dressed in matching silk suits and expensive Italian loafers, the sides were clear, almost like an invisible line ran down the center of the room. And while the two sides might be enemies, all the players were aligned in their focus as one of the lower-level goons held Finley in his arms, a gun against her side.
She was dressed in running clothes—what Grey could only assume was her disguise for getting close to the warehouse. The long legs he’d admired in her fitted pencil skirts were even more impressive in runner’s shorts, but the skimpy attire made her look even more
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