“You’re thinking about what happened out there, aren’t you?” she asked.
Yeah, let’s go with that. “It was pretty?—”
She put a finger over his mouth. “Don’t say amazing. That can never happen again. You know that, right?”
He nodded. But what he really wanted to do was suck that finger into his mouth. Fortunately, she pulled it away before he could again give in to dangerous impulses.
She stepped back and waved for him to follow her. “I’ll show you what I have.”
I’ve already seen it, babe, and it is amazing. But she meant evidence. Down, boy. He didn’t need for her to see his growing attraction, one he shouldn’t be having in the first place. Evidence. Murders. Get on board.
He cataloged her home, small, but clean and uncluttered. There was nothing overly feminine, but it had a softness to the colors, the comfy couch, and the paintings of flower-filled courtyards in what looked like Italy.
His gaze went to a chair at a small desk in her living room, and he made a beeline over to examine the envelope-flap-shaped back of it with his hands. “You have an Arne Jacobsen Series 7.” He flipped it over and looked at the bottom. “Made by Fritz Hansen in the sixties.”
She observed him with the nonplussed expression one might have if he’d opened her fridge and helped himself to a beer. “It’s a chair. From a thrift sale.”
He scoffed. “A chair. It’s a classic. I have a 1966 Swan in my formal living room. That’s a sofa to the uninitiated.” She was clearly uninitiated in the realm of vintage furniture. He rose and waved his fingers in the direction she’d been going in. “Carry on.”
She pushed the door open and passed a cluttered desk. Bins marked Bills and Invoices contained a few slips of paper; the Processed, Now File bin was nearly full. Sketches of what he thought were jewelry designs covered a drafting board. Beautiful designs, including a dragon with its tail wrapped around a gemstone.
He had a hard time reconciling all the aspects of Violet Castanega. Dragon. Entrepreneur. Vulnerable woman. Dismissed, yet proud enough to keep her chin up as she’d left headquarters under the scorn of everyone there. No tail between her legs, this one. How many other sides did she possess?
Well, that sensual creature who’d gotten him totally hot was an interesting one.
She led him to a map of South Florida on the wall with the different clan territories outlined in blue. Her wet hair hung to her mid-back, leaving a damp spot on her tank top.
She pointed to the squares just south of Florida City and Homestead. Each square had a family name with which he was familiar. Her map also sported tacks, though not as many as Ferro’s.
“Your commander knows about the murders,” she said.
“Apparently. But this is the first I’ve heard about them.” Was another Vega assigned to investigate? Then why was he dispatched to take out Violet? It didn’t make sense. “I’m never privy to any case but the ones I’m assigned to.”
She contemplated that, maybe the kind of cases those might be. Like killing people. “And the Guard knows but isn’t doing a damned thing about it.”
“Historically, we’ve not been especially welcome here.”
Her expression softened. “True. So, they’re sitting back and watching us wipe one another out. Nice.”
Population control. He’d heard that term more than once, and now it seemed despicable.
She turned back to the map. “This was where the first murder occurred.”
“Hence, the number one next to it. Clever.”
She shot him an exasperated look. “I know I need to keep it simple for you Vegas.”
He snorted, because that was usually the Crescent sentiment when discussing the Fringers. And while he’d seen plenty of them with nary a lick of sense, Violet had been well educated. She might have been an alligator wrestling champion—and he believed it—but she used words like summarily dismissed. She wasn’t dumb marsh trash.
“As long as you don’t go any higher than eleven, I’m fine.” That earned him a smile, brief though it was. Holy hell, the sight of it, white, even teeth and faint dimples at her cheeks…he focused on the map again.
“How familiar are you with the Fringe clans?” she asked.
“Somewhat.”
“There have been three murders, unprovoked as far as I can tell. And three retaliatory murders. So, here’s the thing: if I wanted to start a war in the Fringe, I would stir up trouble between the families who hate one another most. The Augusts found a handkerchief belonging to one of the Spearses’ boys. Bobby wasn’t the brightest bulb, but he was generally a good kid. If he decided for whatever reason to sneak onto August property and kill the matriarch, which would be hugely risky and unwarranted, why the hell would he leave evidence behind?”
“I could never pretend to understand how things work here. But yeah, it would make sense that he’d be very, very careful.”
