Page 11 of Any Means Necessary

“It’s not good for my business when things get messy. And getting involved with Liam is always messy.”

“I guess that makes sense,” she comments thoughtfully, her head tilting to one side as she regards me. “That’s fine though, he’s not my type. I don’t date anyone prettier than me.”

The idea that Liam is more attractive than Lexie in any way is laughable. But there’s no need to correct her. From what I’ve seen, Lexie is very comfortable in her generously voluptuous body.

As she should.

“I have another meeting coming in half an hour.” I change the subject before I decide to ask her what her type is. Walking over to the fridge, I pull out a chilled bottle of water.

“I’m leaving to get my nails done, so you’ll have the place to yourself for the next few hours,” she assures me. Leaning my shoulder against the fridge, my eyes move down to her freshly painted toes.

“You just did your nails. Or do you just like the fumes?”

“I’m going to get a manicure,” she says, wiggling her unpolished fingers at me. “So I had to paint my toes or else the nail techs will judge me for having crusty feet.” Her tone while explaining the impractical logic makes it sound like the most reasonable thing in the world. I don’t argue.

Lexie hops down from the stool, smoothing her pretty little dress over dangerous curves, and slips on a pair of sandals. When she steps around me to grab her purse from the counter, I’m surrounded by a delicious scent. It’s light and citrus, and smells like heaven. And, like a moth to a flame, I’m stepping closer.

She smells really fucking good.

Oblivious to the magnetism pulling me towards her, Lexie chirps a goodbye to me before heading out the door. My eyes don’t leave her until she’s out the front door, silently thanking whoever invented short pink sundresses.

My next meeting is due to arrive in less than twenty minutes, which gives me time to change. Normally I don’t care to style myself for my clientele, but working with political figures comes with a certain dress code. And right now I’m not dressed the part.

Stepping into my closet, I’m greeted by black and white. Black pants, suit coats, dress shirts, shoes, socks. A small section holds the crisp white shirts in stark contrast to the rest of my wardrobe. Black and white, the only colors I wear—save a stray pair of charcoal gray lounge pants or workout shorts.

White is clear, unforgiving. It shows every flaw, every element that touches it—and in some cases what resides beneath it. White is disarming honesty, authority. It’s a weapon I carry when it suits me.

Black is the opposite side of the same coin. Black keeps your secrets, sharing nothing but silence. The sharp darkness easily swallows the evidence of your wrongdoings—disguising your weaknesses, hiding your intentions. Taking over all other colors, black is domination and control. I usually wear black, it’s who I am.

But right now calls for white.

Stripping off the black dress shirt, I replace it with a crisp white one, buttoning the front and the cuffs to hide my tattoos. If you look closely enough, you can see the dark ink on my skin through the light material. The only people who can get close enough to notice already know who I am. Everyone else gets to see who I show them.

***

“Senator’s here, boss,” Roscoe says from the doorway of my office. I nod to him, ready for the men waiting to be allowed entrance.

“Bring them in,” I say. Roscoe steps aside to let three men enter before following them in and closing the door. The two black suits are lackeys, glorified bodyguards who remain standing along the wall on either side of the door. Roscoe moves to stand diligently behind me as I rise from my office sofa to greet the man who brought me back to the city.

“Russo.” The suit he’s wearing is flashy, designer, and far more expensive than any elected official should be able to afford. US Senator of New York Richard Harris flaunts his importance any way he can. He extends his hand, the gaudy Rolex on his wrist catching the light—something I’m sure is intentional.

“Senator.” I accept his hand, shaking it firmly. “I hear you have a problem.” Walking around my desk, I get comfortable in my chair. “It must be a pretty big one if we couldn’t have this conversation over the phone. So here I am.”

Harris smoothly unbuttons his suit coat and sits opposite me, but I notice how his hand trembles ever so slightly. Something has him rattled, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. “I pulled a lot of strings to get your name, and I know your success rate. The fact that no one talks about you tells me you’re exactly who I need.”

“Are you going to tell me this problem? Mind reading has never been my preferred form of communication.”

“My daughter Lottie—Charlotte—was taken.” He clears his throat when his voice breaks with emotion. “She’s eight years old.”

“When and where?” I ask.

“Yesterday morning. Every Saturday her nanny takes her to a violin lesson, and they stop at an ice cream truck on their way home. An aggressive junkie looking for cash harassed the nanny. When she turned around, Lottie was gone.”

“You’re sure she was taken? Sometimes kids wander off.”

“Not Lottie,” Richard snaps, his stress getting the better of him. He reigns in the emotion, smoothing down his tie. “She knows better than to do something like that. Someone has her.”

“Any contact? Ransom demands?”

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