Mob Mistress. Sheri WhiteFeather

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      “Are you okay?” she asked.

      “That’s a stupid question,” he snapped. The digital clock on the nightstand displayed blurry red numbers. He had no idea what time it was, what day it was.

      She moved closer, and he struggled to focus, to see her more clearly, but the runaway-carousel motion hadn’t stopped.

      When she touched him, placing a cool hand against his cheek, his heart bumped his chest.

      “Is the medication making you nauseous?” she asked.

      “Just dizzy.” He tried to breathe in her scent, but she wasn’t wearing a fragrance. Everything about her remained a mystery. “Are you a nurse?”

      “No. But I saw them carry you in here, and I heard them talking about you. I could tell you were drugged.” She removed her hand from his cheek, her featherlight touch fading. “I assume they’ve given you a couple of doses since then.”

      “How long have I been here?”

      “Since yesterday. They said that you were important to them. That they’re not going to hurt you.”

      “Who are they?” he asked, praying that she was being honest. That she wasn’t part of the conspiracy.

      “The West Coast Family,” she responded.

      “What?” Confused, he gazed at her hazy image.

      “The media calls them the Hollywood Mob.”

      His befuddled brain kicked into gear. “The Halloways? That’s who did this to me?”

      “Yes.” She sat on the edge of his bed, rustling the pricey sheets. “How well do you know them?”

      “I don’t know them at all. My uncle testified against Denny Halloway, their old boss, but that was ages ago. Twenty-nine years or so.”

      “Really?” She sounded surprised. “So that means Reed Blackwood is your uncle?”

      “He’s my mother’s brother.” Justin frowned, wondering why Reed’s name came so easily to her. “He went into the witness protection program.”

      “Yes, I know. I read about him in old newspaper clippings.”

      He stalled, analyzing her response. If she were closely associated with the mob, she would have known about Reed firsthand.

      “My uncle has never been part of my life,” he said, admitting that he was scarcely related to the other man. “I was about a year old when he went into the program. He means nothing to me, and I mean nothing to him.” He paused, curious about his surroundings. “Is this the Halloways’ house?”

      “Yes. You’re in their mansion. In West L.A.”

      He contemplated what they’d done with his truck, if they’d hidden it somewhere. Surely they hadn’t left it at the Texas diner where he’d been abducted.

      “Do they have a private plane?” he asked.

      “Yes.”

      “Do you think that’s how they brought me here?”

      “Probably.”

      When a sudden beat pulsed between them, he lifted his hand and attempted to touch her the way she’d touched him. For a split second, she seemed to sway closer to him. Then she pulled back, and he came up empty.

      “Why did you sneak into my room? Why are you giving me information?”

      “Because I want you to help me later.”

      He wanted to trust her. He wanted to believe that she was being sincere. But who the hell knew? “With what?” He squinted at her. Her hair was long and thick, he decided. Falling past her shoulders. Either that or the shifting shadows were playing tricks on his eyes.

      “I can’t tell you. Not now.”

      “Can you least tell me your first name?”

      “No.”

      “Why not?”

      “I need to be careful. I’m telling you things I’m not supposed to know.” She stood up, leaving him alone on the bed. “There’s something going on with a dead baby.”

      His blood drained from his face. He could feel the sudden clamminess of his skin.

      Her voice went quieter, even more hushed. He had to lean forward to hear her.

      “A baby’s bones were discovered about a month ago. It was a newborn, buried in a makeshift coffin. Its death was never registered.” She exhaled a fragile-sounding breath. “The Halloways think it’s connected to you.”

      His stomach clenched. “I don’t understand.”

      “Neither do I. But supposedly that baby has been dead for as long as you’ve been alive.”

      His mind reeled. “Who discovered it? And where was it found?”

      “I don’t know. But it was buried with a toy identical to one you had when you were little. A musical pony.”

      Justin went back to his childhood. He remembered his pony. His mom still had it somewhere. But she kept all sorts of sentimental stuff. “How do the Halloways know the toy was identical to mine?”

      “I have no idea. I’m only repeating what I heard.”

      He made a face. An infant decomposing for thirty years was a ghastly image, especially with a stuffed pony that played a lullaby by its side. “Does Reed have anything to do with the baby? Did they mention him?”

      “I didn’t hear anyone say his name.”

      “Who was having this conversation?” he asked, keeping his voice as low, as cautious as hers. “Exactly who did you eavesdrop on?”

      “Denny Halloway’s sons. Brian and his brother, Richard. They were talking to their security chief.”

      Justin pictured her skulking in a doorway, straining to hear their cryptic words. “Is Brian the boss?”

      “Yes, and Richard is the underboss. But I only picked up bits and pieces of what they were saying.”

      “That they aren’t going to hurt me? That I’m important to them?” His thoughts scattered. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

      She hesitated, and he wondered if his question had given her goose bumps. He imagined her running her hands over her arms, up and down chilled skin.

      “Do you?” she finally asked.

      “Traditional Cherokees do,” he responded.

      “Are you Cherokee?”

      “I’m a quarter-blood. From my father’s side.” СКАЧАТЬ