Page 5 of Consort of the Crime Queen

"A friendship," he finishes for me quickly. "And that was just an old man looking to be more useful than he currently is."

That's straight-up bullshit. Johnny the Gentleman is an important advisor to the head of the Bianchi Family. He's still neck-deep in the business, and I'm tired of all the euphemisms. "Do you have her?"

He regards me with those keen eyes that have seen decades of this life we lead—the life that chews you up and spits you out if you're not careful enough or cruel enough or smart enough to survive it.

"I assure you," he says evenly, "I've had no hand in whatever trouble has befallen your…associate."

I lean toward him, elbow on the table, and let my jacket fall open to show my gun in its holster. "And why should I believe you?"

"Because if I had taken her," he says, quietly but with meaning, "you'd never have found me to ask."

I hold his gaze for a moment to see if I can read his face. And I find, to my own surprise, that I believe him.

"Then help me," I say before pride can choke the words in my throat.

A flicker of surprise crosses his features before he schools them back into neutrality. "The fearsome Hades is asking for help?" His tone is almost amused, but not mocking—never mocking.

"Yes," I admit through gritted teeth. "I need help." The word tastes like bile but desperation overshadows pride. "Help me—and I'll consider it a personal favor."

He consider that, then nods once, decisively. "If it's within my power to assist you, then yes, I will."

Relief floods me—a dangerous sensation when nothing is yet resolved—but it's there nonetheless. For a moment we simply look at each other—two killers acknowledging an unexpected truce.

"Thank you," I say at last, the words unfamiliar but necessary.

He inclines his head again—a gentleman even now—and then reaches into his inner pocket and slides a card across the table toward me. "Call if you need anything. I'll ask around in the meantime."

My hand hovers over the card for a moment before snatching it up swiftly and tucking it away. Allies are rare in this world we've built from blood and secrets; one does not dismiss them lightly—even those found under strange circumstances.

"Be subtle," I tell him. "This can't get out."

"And what name will I give?" he asks. "For when I'm asking around."

"Her name is…" I have to pause and swallow. "Aurora."

I can see his eyebrows go up. He knows the history there, obviously. He might be in town on vacation, but he got the lay of the land pretty damn fast, is my guess. He knows exactly who Aurora is and what she was meant to be.

My brother's victim.

"I see," he says, his voice uncharacteristically grave. "In that case, I will make every effort. I don't like to see innocents taken advantage of by those who live with violence and cruelty." He pauses. "I must tell you, though—if I find her, and she does not wish to be returned to you…" He trails off before adding, "Well, this budding friendship between us might be over before it starts."

"You're an honorable man," I tell him. "Aurora will wish to return. I have no doubt of that." I rise from our table without another word.

But the drive back to Elysium finds me replaying Johnny's words over and over in my head. What if Aurora really doesn't want to return? She might have been taken against her will—certainly the bank account I created for her has not been touched—but that doesn't mean she intended to return to Elysium.

I might have been working on a false assumption, just like I was so certain at first that Nero had taken her. And now I'm back to square one. Because if not Nero, and if not Johnny, then…

Who?

CHAPTER 4

Aurora

I wake slowly, my mind still foggy with sleep. The soft mattress cradles me and for a moment I imagine I'm back in my suite at Elysium. But as awareness returns, dread creeps in. I open my eyes.

This isn't my bed. It's not any bed I've known before.

The room is large, almost grand, with heavy brocade curtains and dark mahogany furniture. Old fashioned and it smells…stuffy. When my gaze lands on an old man sitting vigil in the corner, watching me, my breath stops along with my heart, before sputtering on.

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