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“You’re knackered, so I’ll pardon your insolence, Burt the Butler. I must get to Luxury’s shop.” I look around for the keys.
Burt blocks the door, stance stiffened. “Then if you honestly care for her, hire a detail. Monica, Paul, and the team will continue to unearth the truth. We’ll find another filthy hobby. Case closed.”
“You want to know why this isn’t a closed case?” I ask, pulling into loafers.
“Youclaimedthe mark’s daughter.”
“Have you forgotten yourself?” Burt’s acting out of character, more bloody paternal than usual.
“Yes! I’ve forgotten every tool, every edict, every duty-bound requirement!” He follows me to the living room where I grab a stack of files off the coffee table.
“This is why I’m . . . I’m not prepared to leave her.” I shove the papers in his hands. While Burt patrolled the Whitsons, I forwent sleep to pore over the files Monica sent last night. “This is why I overslept.”
Burt opens the manila envelope containing key detective notes from the NYPD database. He gasps, ruffling through pictures of a female’s mutilated body. “Ghastly! Who is this, and what has it got to do with us?”
“Gina Whitson. Luxury’s mother.”
Burt scours each angle, livid at the thought of someone accosting Luxury’s mother. As a royal butler, his sole duty is my well-being and livelihood. He’s been compliant for my entire thirty-four years of life, but the little minx pulls at Burt’s heartstrings too.
“Who’s responsible for such . . . such?” Burt balks, his voice holding a slight tremor.
“Dr. Charles Everhart.”
“Who is he?”
“I’d wager all the wealth acquired by House of Tudor that this wanker put a hit out on the good doctor’s life,” I reply, backing away. “The second I returned from watch, I meant to get some rest, mate. I had an epiphany. Monica looked into Gina Whitson’s murder, and this arsehole was the police’s primary suspect. There was no robbery at the home. Nothing unaccounted for.”
“Was he ever charged with her murder?”
“Well, no. Any evidence was circumstantial at best. He wasn’t even mentioned in the media or to the family as a person of interest. But there’s more. Everhart attended the same university as Whitson, shared the same courses, passions. Perhaps Mrs. Whitson caught the arsehole riffling through the doctor’s home office.”
“Hmmm.” Burt slumps down into a chair in thought.
“Now, I must get to Luxury. That Customer Servicetosserhas yet to strike. My Little One and Aliyah can’t defend themselves.”
Burt hesitates. “Miss Whitson was alone. I’m exhausted. However, if you give the order, I’ll hire the best security detail for—”
“You’re relieved!” I slam the door.
Aliyah’s not a prompt person; however, she’s never this late. I press the button to the lift then tug into my leather jacket to conceal the 9mm. While the elevator descends, a call comes in from Monica, “Vic. . . .is . . .in town—”
“What?” I tap the mobile.
“Sidorov.”Crackle.“Sighted.”Crackle. “New York.”
Sidorov!
Fuck.
Sidorov was a hitman formostof the Russian bratvas and factions. The bastard cares not of aliases, and all of X-Member knows him by name. Rumor has it, the wanker rampaged through Europe to catch the attention of the Resnovs.
He honed his sadistic side.
Not a single Resnov ever returned his call.
Now, X-Member assignments are hisholiday. That Customer Servicetossersent him.
A single lad.
