Page 64 of The Leader

And suddenly, all pieces of the puzzle fit neatly together.Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

Oscar turned away from her, tousling his hair, then pointed a finger at her.

“I have a scoop for you right here, Harvey. Write it down. Every black smudge on Giovanni Detta’s wife. Just like you wanted.”

Harvey puffed out more smoke. The small room that looked like it stemmed from the Jazz era, was quickly becoming misty.

“A scoop on his wife? What the fuck would I do with that? You promised me an exclusive on the San Francisco underworld!”

“Oh, but to understand how the underworld works, you have to understand what makes them tick. How a man would do anything to protect his family name. Anything.” Oscar’s lip curled up. “But first, let me tell you about what happened to Jocelyn and Mary Rossi a decade ago.”

Jazzy’s head snapped up. For a second, she didn’t feel the throbbing pain in her cheek, or the bone-wrenching fear of being in the clutches of a madman. She felt disgust and shame. “Don’t…”

Oscar laughed. “Oh yes, you vicious little slut.” Then, as if it gave him great joy, he started to unfold her dirty laundry.

How had Oscar found out? She thought her grandfather had buried any files on that night. Then again, when you had the resources, it probably wasn’t too difficult to find out anything about anyone.

“Please don’t,” she whispered.

A part of her hated herself for the pleading tone in her voice. She hated it because it made her sound weak, and also a hypocrite. Such a damn hypocrite for telling Mary that she’d done nothing wrong, that no seven-year-old would invite a man to her bed. All the while, feeling guilty herself for letting Marco touch her. If she made it out of this alive, she was going to see a damn shrink.

When Oscar finished commemorating the story of the worst night of her life, Harvey looked baffled.

“That’s your big, dirty secret on Detta’s wife? That she was abused as a child and stabbed her attacker. Really?”

Oscar looked as if he wanted to say more, but then another knock sounded on the door.

The reporter jumped up once again and lit another cigarette. For a crime journalist, Jazzy found him acting very skittish.

“Guess this is your first time being an accomplice to a kidnapping, huh?” she said, giving Harvey a glare.

His mouth opened and closed like a fish before he turned back to Oscar. “Who’s at the door?”

A nasty smile appeared on Oscar’s face. “That would be Kristoff Romanov.”

Harvey’s jaw dropped. “You called the head of the Russian crime syndicate? Jesus, fuck! Are you insane? That man is a beast. A stone-cold killer. He will never, ever dignify himself to come over here. It’s like asking Al Capone to take care of a pest problem for you. You’re going to get us killed!”

When the man in question howeverdidwalk in—by himself, as far as Jazzy could tell—a bone-wrenching fear coursed through her system.

Kristoff Romanov had tall, dark, and dangerous plastered all over his big frame. Romanov’s shoulder-length strands of hair gave him a surprisingly young and rakish look. He wore a dark custom-made suit like Gio, but that was about where the similarities stopped. Romanov’s eyes were cold and flat and the oddest shade of green.

For some reason, she had expected him to be ugly and wearing a striped suit, almost a caricature-looking bad guy. Except he wasn’t, if she didn’t count the absolute chill in his eyes.

Oscar approached him tentatively, looking like a puppy searching for his master’s approval. “You came alone.”

“You sound surprised, Bianchi. Yet this is what you requested, no? Now, show me this great deal you have for me.”

If words could be turned into meteorological conditions, Romanov’s words would come out as icicles.

Not caricature-looking, but he did have the heavy Russian accent. Which was probably a ridiculous thing to focus on, since there were more pressing issues to concentrate on. Like, how she was going to get out of here alive.

“You know, they call my husband Black Ice,” she said. “But I have a feeling he has nothing on you.”

Romanov cocked a brow at that. “I will take that as a compliment, Mrs. Detta.”

“You know who she is?” Harvey chimed in.

Romanov’s eyes narrowed at the reporter, who was trying to disappear against the ugly brown wallpaper.

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