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Twelve
Damian squaredhis shoulders and kept his eyes alert as he continued down the street. He could have chosen another of the neighborhoods they’d targeted for tips on Stefano’s whereabouts. Omonia held too many memories, and none of themgood.
Every man he saw might have been party to Aria’s imprisonment. Every restaurant might have been the source of the cold food she was fed. He listened to the sound of the busy street — the cars and sirens and shouts — and wondered if they were the same sounds Aria had heard from the tiny dungeon in the months she’d been heldcaptive.
But he wouldn’t let it beat him. Wouldn’t let it keep him from the important work of finding one of the men responsible for what had been done toher.
He let it fuel his rage instead. Let it kindle the embers that glowed hot in his body, ready to spark to life at everyturn.
There was only one thing that would quiet the fury boiling in his blood — and that was moreblood.
Stefano Anastos’blood.
Malcolm Gatti’sblood.
He would see the streets run with it and then he and Aria would begin again inpeace.
He made a point of letting his jacket flip open every now and then to reveal the weapon holstered at his side. Stefano’s men were undoubtedly in the neighborhood even if the man himself wasn’t. The show of potential force would deter the ones looking for trouble to ease theirboredom.
Nothing would deter theothers.
He stepped into a bakery on a busy corner. The warm, yeasty scent was a respite from the smell of the city, and he approached the glass case with interest, studying the pastries and rolls as he waited for a man in a white apron to finish ringing up the purchases of a woman with graying hair and a too-smallcoat.
He’d spent the last three hours wandering into businesses they’d targeted as likely assets of the Anastos operation — bars that might be fronts for bookmaking, strip clubs that were probably used to launder money, storefronts that were likely targets for protectionmoney.
He’d slipped thousands of American dollars to countless men and women, asking subtly about Stefano. So far he hadn’t had any luck, but he wasn’t discouraged. If Anastos had gone to the trouble to stay off the digital grid, it only stood to reason he would be equally careful inperson.
It might take time to get a solid lead, but they would findit.
He wondered how Locke and Derek were doing in Metaxourgeio, another of the city’s crime-laden neighborhoods known for being under Anastos’control.
The man in the apron turned to him, saying something in Greek. Damian cursed his lack of proficiency in thelanguage.
“No Greek,” Damian said. “English?”
The man nodded, smiled. “English! How can Ihelp?”
Damian pointed at a thick square of baklava in the case and held up two fingers. “Please.”
The man started wrapping the pastry and Damian’s gaze was drawn to movement in the doorway behind the counter. A young woman studied him with darkeyes.
“More?” the man asked as he set the bag on thecounter.
“No, thank you.” Damian pushed a couple bills toward him. Then added a couple more. “Does Stefano Anastos prefer baklava,too?”
A wall quickly came down over the man’s face. He took the money with a nervous laugh. “Only little English. Not muchEnglish.”
Damian reached for the baklava and held up a folded stack of bills, shielded by his body from the window at the front of the store. “No one willknow.”
The girl in the doorway shifted nervously on her feet and the man turned, loosing a stream of angry Greek that sent her scurrying out of sight back through thedoorway.
“You go!” the man said to Damian, making a waving motion as he glanced at the street beyond the window. “You gonow!”
Damian added a couple more bills to the wad in his hand. “NoAnastos?”
He glanced at the money in Damian’s hand and licked his lips before he shook his head. “No! You go!Now!”
Damian backed away, slipping the money into his pocket as he lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, okay. I go, but someone in this neighborhood is going to take this money. It might as well beyou.”
He stepped onto the street and bit into the baklava. The man had wanted the money. He’d just been scared, which was understandable with a monster likeAnastos.
Damian would come back if he didn’t get a break soon. He surveyed the businesses lining the street, his gaze coming to rest on a narrow doorway that looked like the entrance to a divebar.
He brushed the crumbs off his hands and startedwalking.
