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Chapter Eleven
Jo
I blink my eyes open,wincing at the thudding pain in my temple. Whoever wielded that club was a strong son of a bitch.
Peering around the room, I amend my assessment. Whoever wielded that club was a strong and seriously fucked up son of a bitch.
I’m sitting in what looks like a 19h century safe room—thick, plastered walls and hard planed floors covered with a sound deadening rubber mat, and there’s a sharp cant to the ceiling that makes me think I have to be in one of the eaves of the attic. I can see at a glance that the heavy oak door has about five reinforced locks on it, which makes my heart sink. Whoever stuck me here, planned on me staying here awhile.
I’ve never explored this deeply into the corners of the brownstone, but it definitely feels familiar. Probably because it’s stuffed with Jo Prescott memorabilia.
“What the hell,” I mutter, turning on the low cot. I haven’t been restrained in any way, but I’m momentarily stunned to inaction as I take in the layers of school papers, photos, newspaper clippings and yearbook pages coating the walls, every last stuffed animal I’ve ever discarded since I was maybe three years old. There are shelves worth of toys and—perhaps most disturbingly of all—rows and rows of piled up clothing. “What is this place?”
“I call it Jo’s closet,” comes an unnervingly familiar voice. I turn so sharply my head pounds in protest, and I wince as I reach up to the goose egg forming on my temple.
“Geno?” I demand, unwilling to believe my eyes.
“At your service,” the old man grins. He’s perched on a stool in the shadows like some sort of avenging gnome, and I fight not to flinch back as he leans forward, though he’s all the way across the room. “Like I’ve been at your service from the day you were born, and that’s the truth. Everything I’ve done—everything—has been for you. I’m not going to see you throw it away.”
I squint, trying to focus. “What are you talking about?”
“That slick bastard you’ve taken to your bed, is what I’m talking about. Ever since you started sniffing around the Alliance, I knew he was going to be trouble. You have a type, and he’s it.”
I try not to grimace at the idea of this guy knowing anything about what type of man I’m attracted to, but Geno keeps going.
“You don’t need the Alliance though. I didn’t spend all that time in Navy intelligence to not know my way around computers, even computers as fancy as yours.”
“Wait, what?” I stare. I have no data on Geno’s life before he came to this house—because I hadn’t been born yet. “The Navy?”
“You think I’ve been a handyman my whole life? Hell no. I retired from the Navy twenty-five years ago, and you know what I did before that? I was a spy for my country. No one even knew I was there when I was on a job. But I watched, and I listened, and I used what I learned. Like I’ve been using what I learned from your fancy surveillance equipment to build a nice little nest egg for you and the family. You don’t need the Alliance, Jo-Jo. You’ve got me.”
This all sounds like a bad dream, but something deep inside me warns me not to show my disbelief. Quinn’s words come rolling back to me. Data can’t protect you, sweetheart. Not the way good instincts can. The data I have on Geno Markson is that he’s a quiet, efficient, respectful handyman who I barely realize is around—because stuff just gets fixed. But my current instincts and his own words and actions are proving out something far different. No one even knew I was there.
I clear my throat and offer him a smile. “Well, I gotta hand it to you, it looks like your Navy training served you well. If you’ve been using my surveillance equipment, you left absolutely no trace.”
“That’s because I didn’t have to touch a damned thing,” he says, grinning broadly. “I just dropped in through the vent, easy as you please, and drew up a chair. I watched and I listened and I told my contacts on the outside what I learned. We made deals. Lots of deals, and the money started rolling in. They’ve paid me well for being their eyes and ears.”
My lungs seem incapable of drawing in a deep breath anymore. “You…you sold information on the Alliance,” I say, hardly able to believe my ears. All the video footage I’ve captured on the families, the data I’ve tracked, all of it scrolling across open screens for anyone to see.
What have I done?
“Yup,” Geno crows. “Dumb stuff at first, but there’s a market for everything. And I was going to hand it all to you, too—except then you pulled a fast one and spread your legs for that piece of Irish shit with the fancy car. Talk about the mother lode. And, I’m not gonna lie, it pissed me off. You’re better than—”
“Geno!” Despite my caution, this is too much. “Do not tell me you sold the footage of Quinn and me that you stole.”
“Not yet, but it’s clear you’re not the woman I thought you were. The woman I wanted you to be, your whole life. My woman.”
His accusation makes me want to squirm, but I fight back my rising hysteria. “What do you want, Geno?”
He points at me. “You—on the bed, spread wide for me like you were for that asshole. Then maybe, maybe I won’t make premium mint dollar for the best porn you’ve ever—”
At that moment, the light overhead flickers, and we both look up.
“What the…?” Geno mutters, and he swipes for his phone. But before he can even check the system, the whole house alarm goes off and a violent crash booms below us—loud enough that it sounds like an entire wall has caved in.
“What in the hell!” Geno roars, his focus on me completely diverted to his first great love—the Prescott brownstone. He pounds across the room, throws the locks and flings open the door—
And gets flattened by one very pissed off Irishman with a head full steam.
