Page 140 of Nothing More

“I do, yes.” His look turned considering. “You and yourbrothers” – he didn’t say the word mockingly, per se, but put an unnecessary emphasis on it – “are friends with the police now, aren’t you?”

Again, that sense of danger came. The warning.Trap, trap, trap. He schooled his features and said, “No.” Firm, definite, end-of.

Come on, the look said, this time. “The detective. The blonde girl.”

“How do you know about her?”

“I told you before: it’s my business to know things.” His gaze was expectant, like old times.

Toly had no feelings about Melissa Dixon one way or another. He thought she was a little tightly wound, and that she tried to cover it with a boss bitch attitude – not too dissimilar from Raven, in that respect, but Melissa struggled with it a bit while Raven was a polished pro – but she had her uses as far as the club went. She hadn’t ratted any of them out to the police, and even if he didn’t trust her fully yet, he thought she was an overall asset to the Dogs, rather than a major liability.

He didn’t feel any sort of loyalty to her; no tug of protectiveness, the way he did with Raven. She didn’t feel like a person who washis. It was nothing personal that kept him from offering her up; she was a club resource, and not one Maverick would want him to share with the likes of Misha.

But Misha wasn’t going to be deterred by silence. “The detective,” he repeated. “She could help us.”

Toly wasn’t able to bite back a sigh, a sharp breath through his nose that betrayed the fast, agitated thump of his heart. “How could she help us? By telling her boss where to arrest us?”

Unimpressed, Misha said, “I know she works for the Lean Dogs. She would work for you if you went to her with this – she’s already helping, isn’t she? So don’t tell her I’m involved. Tell her to look into disappearances. See if anyone has reported getting a body part in the mail. Someone in the city has gone to the police about this man, and she can find out for you.”

“She doesn’t work for the club.”

Misha blinked. “What do you call it then?”

Toly gestured vaguely. “Helps, I guess. Does favors.”

“And what’s to keep her from arresting you all?”

“She’s a member’s old lady.”

“And you think that’s sufficient?” Misha’s lips compressed, and his tone shifted to that of a parent explaining something very basic to a child. “This woman detective can be useful, yes. She might even help you. She might even be an ‘old lady.’” He actually did air quotes with his fingers. “But if your president trusts her with the secrets of your club, he’s a fool.”

Toly frowned at him. “That’s not really any of your business.”

“No,” Misha agreed, “it isn’t. Consider this advice from a friend: the police are the enemy. You can use them, but they can never use you. Do you understand? Letting her be close to one of you, letting her hear and see things that she shouldn’t – that’s dangerous. An enemy is always an enemy, even when it’s being helpful. She should never be trusted.”

Toly tried to imagine telling Pongo this. For a happy guy, he could glare with the best of them when his buttons were pushed; for him, Dixon was a giant red button withDo Not Pushemblazoned on it.

Then he tried to imagine calling Maverick a fool for trusting her. For trusting Pongo – for trusting all of them. Old ladies were sacred to the Lean Dogs. Family came first, no matter what form it took. No one dating or married to a Dog could ever be seen as an enemy.

He said, “But you want me to go to her for help.”

“No. I want you to use her for information.” He turned away, shaking his head, and cranked the engine. “I thought you knew the difference between those two things, Toly. You ought to: I taught you better than to trust outsiders.”

Toly couldn’t remember Misha ever chastising him, not even when he’d been young and green and just finding his footing with the bratva. There had been silence, and there had been nods of approval. But never this – never regret at having failed to educate him.

He didn’t want it to be…but it was quietly devastating in its own, twisted way.

Twenty-Seven

The Skype call connected, and Michelle’s face filled Raven’s laptop screen.

“Look at you,” Raven said, cross-legged on her (borrowed) bed and toweling her hair dry.

When she got back to the flat, she’d found a note from Toly on the fridge –at gym, back 4 dinner– and, once she ensured Cass was settled with art and armed babysitters in the next room, had changed into her swimsuit and gone to do laps in the pool. The Olympic-sized, heated, blissfully free of other swimmers pool. The moment she’d knifed into the water, and begun her first stroke, she’d realized how much she’d missed it. Back in London, three flats ago, her building had boasted a pool like this, and she’d done laps every morning at five, before work. It was a habit she needed to get back into.

Now, pleasantly spent and freshly showered, she was only a little upset that Toly very clearly hadn’t been at the gym, and was in fact somewhere out there in the city doing something he didn’t want any of them to know about. A talk with Chelle had seemed a better option than uncorking a fresh bottle of wine.

On screen, Michelle was looking much better rested than the last time they’d spoken, her hair clean and blown out, lashes black with mascara and lips pink with applied color. She even had on a cute top, blue stripes that brought out her eyes, and without a baby or toddler in sight.

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