Let Me Burn by Elodie Colt
Nathan
Las Vegas.
For most, America’s playground.
For me, another gigantic Silent Sins room—just the opposite of dark. An excessive dreamland for adults, segregated from the outside world, and built for the sole purpose to indulge in your desires. You can be and do whatever you want, but walk out the door, and you’ll find yourself in the middle of no-man’s-land.
I don’t want Vincent anywhere near this place. He’s always had a knack for gambling, and gathering from the way his eyes lit up when our limousine passed yet another flashy casino, I’ll have to keep him on a tight leash before he wastes away at a Blackjack table and goes all-in with his last month’s salary.
We are in matching attire today—both in a black three-piece with shiny lapels, polished shoes, and perfectly groomed hair. I loosen my bowtie to keep it from squeezing my Adam’s apple. The white shirt underneath my suit jacket sticks to my skin, sweaty on my back and armpits despite the air conditioning cooling down the building to South Pole temperature.
Vincent grins like a five-year-old who just received ten scoops of ice cream when we join the crowd at the Las Vegas convention center. Three million square feet of modern architecture with more exhibit halls than you can explore in a day, and about as many security guards as the White House. Everything is big, extravagant, and glittery, made for the sole purpose to show off the wealth of the upper crust that hovers like a bad smell in the air.
The first hour flies by in a blur. Some brown-nosing here, some swapping business cards there, and always posing for the next reporter fishing out his camera. The whole elite has gathered here—rich businessmen with escorts, renowned politicians with trophy wives, and glitzy starlets from the Hollywood horizon. They have all come to spend their millions on gems that needed a dozen poor men to sweat blood and unearth them from the pits of the most hazardous mines. By the time we’re done soft-soaping about half of the attendants, my wrist hurts from all the handshaking, and my face stings from flashing smiles nonstop.
Usually, I enjoy this show. There’s no better place to find the rarest gems and most extraordinary jewels. But today, not even Beyoncé’s five-million, emerald cut diamond engagement ring in a platinum split-shank setting could stir my blood.
Fumbling with my pendant, I cast a glance at my watch. Hopefully, the auction will be over in two hours. I still have to meet with Aiko for the trade.
“The auction is about to start,” Vincent says, nodding to the grand entrance where six security guys are busy channeling the crowd through the door. “Let’s go.”
Sighing, I follow Vincent into the colossal hall packed with hundreds of plush, wine-red seats, and I roll my eyes when the old lady in front of me needs a whole minute to place her butt down.
When we reach our row, Vincent extends a hand to let me go first. I glance at the number on the golden plate attached to the backrest and grimace.
“Very funny,” I mutter, parking my ass on seat number six in the sixth row.
He chuckles, sitting down next to me. “Not my doing, I swear. Brooke booked the tickets.”
Entwining my hands, I scan the people occupying the rows in front of us. I’m not surprised to find Aiko in one of the VIP spots, trying to catch my gaze with an uncertain smile. I give her a glassy stare before I pull the event brochure from my breast pocket and fake interest in flipping through the pages.
Throughout the next two hours, I try to keep my focus on the lots and the auctioneer who’s sweating like mad underneath the bright spotlights and uses a tissue every three seconds to dab his slick forehead. Vincent acquires a pretty Harry Winston Burma Ruby diamond ring and some more pieces that make him a million dollars poorer in a matter of minutes while I expand our watch collection with smaller investments in Rolex, Breitling, and Piaget—also six-hundred thousand in total, but who’s counting, right?
When the auction is over, we sign the papers and arrange for the goods to be shipped to the gallery.
“What the heck is that?” I nod to the gold (yes, gold, not golden) credit card Vincent swipes over the scanner. “The Black Card not fancy enough for you anymore?”
Grinning, he taps a knuckle on the flashy piece. “An exclusive credit card from Russia’s Sberbank Kazakhstan.”
“There are diamonds on it,” I grumble with a nod to the gems embedded in the material.
“Yep, twenty-six to be exact, 0.17 carat. Whoever wants to rob me would be sixty-thousand dollars richer just by nicking the card.”
I shake my head as we make our way back into the grand hall. “How did you get your hands on that one?”
“Sanzhar Sharipova. I’ve promised him a private gallery tour with Nick next week.”
“Yeah, Brooke told me he’s going to visit—”
“Nathan Crawford,” a female voice drawls from behind me, and I turn around.
A woman in a dark-blue sheath dress with a camera in her hands approaches us, a mass of caramel, wavy hair flowing around her shoulders. The sight of her leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. Camille Anderson—bold, tenacious, and annoyingly resourceful. She’s as nosy as Susan’s old Chihuahua, always snooping around for the next scandal to publish in her crap-ass tabloid. She has made fucking me over a habit ever since I gave her a knock-back.
“And the famous Vincent Crawford,” she adds with a confident smile. “Camille Anderson, reporter at the New York Post.”
Vincent regards her for a moment. “Your name sounds familiar. Have we done an interview before?”
“Nope,” I throw in, clasping my hands behind my back and rocking on my heels. “She wrote that extensive story about me attacking a guy and attempting to steal his watch.”
Her brown, wide-set eyes veer over to me, but she keeps her smile plastered on her pretty face. “Come on, Nathan. You knew the consequences before you bopped a beer bottle over his head in public. Instagram is ruthless.”
“But I didn’t pick his pockets,” I argue, adamant to make my point here. “The story you wrote was bullshit.”
Vincent clasps my elbow from behind, squeezing it in warning.
She shrugs. “People love family dramas. You know, like father, like son…”
My hands clench, but before I can tell her where to stick her fucking tabloid, Vincent beats me to it.
“People also love family reunions,” he says, pulling me closer. “How about you write a story about that? If I like it, I might consider sending you a bracelet with real diamonds on it.” He nods to the fake bangle on her wrist. “A piece from Tiffany, perhaps?”
She pouts, considering his offer for a moment before she snaps a picture of the two of us smiling into the camera. The flash of light is still branded into my retinas when Aiko joins our trio, edging closer to me as if eager to feature in the next picture.
A slow, triumphant smile builds on Camille’s face. “Oh, I didn’t know you two were still an item.”
She lifts her camera again, but I snatch out my hand and lower it.
“We aren’t,” I declare before something scandal-worthy bubbles out of Aiko’s mouth. “If you’d excuse us, we have some business to discuss.”
I shoot Vincent a look, silently communicating to lend me a hand and see to it that Camille doesn’t fill an entire Pinterest board with pictures of us. We retreat to a somewhat quiet corner behind the Cartier booth at the end of the hall.
“Don’t make such a face,” Aiko says when I unfurl a scowl. “I wasn’t about to ruin your reputation or anything.”
She places a hand on her hip, the Harry Winston danglers on her ears swinging with the movement. She’s wearing a cherry-red mermaid dress adorned with sequins in the shape of leaves. A pretty piece if it weren’t for the fact that it reminds me of Ella’s Halloween costume.
I nod to the clutch in her hand. “You’ve got the Van Cleef necklace?”
Her lips flatline for a moment before she opens the zipper of her Prada clutch and retrieves a rectangular, black box the size of my hand. I take it and peek inside. 4.5 carat sparkle back at me, attached to a pretty, twisted chain. Lifting my chin, I snap it shut.
Aiko cocks her head. “Why do you look as if you’ve expected to find a fake piece in there? Don’t you trust me on this?”
My stare is flinty when I fish out a velvet box from my suit pocket, this one a tenth in size of the one Aiko just handed over.
“You literally screwed all over my trust three years ago.” I press the box into her hand.
“Nathan, I—”
She stops when I crane my neck to peek over her shoulder. A familiar mop of gray hair caught my eye, and I mumble a goodbye, not giving Aiko the time of the day.
Carl is busy pouring on the charm, the pretty blonde next to him laughing and suggestively jutting out her chest when I butt into their conversation.
I grab his shoulder, my fingers clawing into his light-gray silk suit. “We need to talk.”
My commanding tone leaves no room for objections, and the distraught look on his face tells me he knows that I have to pick a bone with him. After mumbling an excuse to the blonde, we retreat into a quiet corner, away from the commotion.
“Explain,” I gruff out.
Sighing, he pushes up his glasses. “My hands were tied, Nathan. I promised Vincent to keep it under wraps.”
“Are you serious?” I hiss, trying to keep my voice low. “He was in prison for more than a decade, leaving his family to fend for themselves. You were there. You know what I went through when the job as CEO of Crawford Crescent was thrown into my face. Best buddies or not, after that shit he pulled, I figured your loyalty was to me.”
“Don’t put the blame on me, Nathan. Vincent was crushed when he found out about that child, knowing he would never get to see it. It wasn’t exactly a secret he wanted to share in jail, and as the years went by, it vanished into oblivion.”
I shake my head, averting my gaze.
“I wanted to tell you,” he adds. “But then you would have told Nick, and he would have told Brooke. It would have broken her heart.”
“Well, you can cut the act now. Brooke has known from the beginning.”
Carl blinks at me. “What?”
“Who do you think told me? She knew about his child. The woman he’d knocked up sent her a letter after she found out that Vincent was married. She wanted Brooke to know that her husband had been cheating on her and left him with the child he was never going to meet.”
Carl goes completely still, his shoulders slumping. Judging from his glassy eyes, it just hit him that the woman he’s been secretly in love with for years had been loyal to a man who’s broken her heart so many times, it’s a wonder she’s still got some pieces left inside her chest.
His daunted look takes the wind from my sails, and I sigh.
“I’m sorry, but I have to go.” I slap his back. “Stop shouldering Vincent’s burdens. I respect your friendship, but you don’t owe him anything.”
What an exemplary son I am, fighting against Vincent behind his back while he’s trying his damnedest to make up for his mistakes.
Don’t feel sorry for him. He made his choices, and you have to carry the can for them.
One hour later, after Vincent and I have switched our suits for day-off wear, we slide into our rental and leave the strip behind us to meet Vincent’s guy.
I pull his business card from my jeans pocket to check his address. James Burke, licensed private investigator at JB Security, California. I’ve read his CV. Fuck, that guy is a different caliber. Degrees in criminal justice and computer science, background in the military, and spy for the US government. He’s one of those people you need to pull off a 150-million-worth-in-diamonds heist, I think when I peek at Vincent maneuvering the car through the early evening traffic.
I glance back at the guy’s name printed on the card, trying to ignore the pangs of remorse. He’s the last ace in my hole. The last line I’ve vowed never to cross.
‘How far are you willing to go?’
As far as I need to, if that’s what it takes to protect Ella. Luka Sokolov will stop at nothing to get back to her, and I will stop at nothing to snatch her away from under his nose. The end justifies the means, right? So, why does it feel as if I’m about to make a huge mistake?
I drag my lip through my teeth. As soon as I hand that guy Ella’s name, there’s no turning back. She would never forgive me for putting a spy on her, not after everything her stalker has put her through.
‘As if I need another shadow attached to my ass,’she’d said when I offered to send her bodyguards.
Vincent slides the car to a halt in front of a dirty, double-story building. The withered plants jammed together underneath the burned-out neon sign doesn’t exactly invite you in to spend the night in this ramshackle motel, but from what Vincent told me, James Burke is as reclusive and private as they come. Staying off the grid is his job, so I guess he chose the right place to keep a low profile.
Vincent kills the engine, and we step out into the Las Vegas spring heat steaming off the asphalt in waves. We halt in front of the many identical, red doors. I frown. Not number six. Oddly, the white ‘9’ hanging on the chipped paint rubs me the wrong way.
Vincent lifts his hand to knock, but the door swings open before his knuckles hit the wood. A blond guy about my size appears in the doorway, a burning cigarette dangling from his lips. He sends Vincent a glassy stare before he jerks his head in a come-in motion, and retracts inside without sparing me a glance. Vincent, unperturbed by his reticent demeanor, gestures for me to follow him.
And just as I step over the threshold, the white number nine unhinges from its top screw to do a pendulum swing. I huff in relief. Here’s your lucky number six. Not a bad omen, then.
My shoes crunch on the stained carpet as I walk into the dim motel room. Light leaks through the sun-bleached curtains, the air thick with stale cigarette smoke and last night’s takeout. The air conditioning rattles on the low ceiling, blowing a cool breeze over my neck.
James perches his hip against the only table in the room, his expression dead-serious as he cuts his eyes toward Vincent.
“I have to say, I was surprised to hear from you again.” His tone is nonchalant, but the underlying contempt is hard to miss.
I fix a stare at Vincent who rolls his jaw.
“I would have checked in sooner but alas, I had fourteen years to serve,” is his eloquent comeback.
It’s clear as daylight that the two have a past, and it’s hovering in the air like gas ready to explode.
James scratches his stubble. “You’ve barely signed the release papers, and you’re already about to get yourself into trouble again.”
“Nothing crooked this time,” Vincent says. “We just need your observation skills.”
James utters a scornful chuckle, jamming his cigarette butt into an overloaded ashtray on the table.
“I won’t do shit for you, Crawford,” he deadpans. “Last time almost got me behind bars, too.”
“And yet you’re still a free man, just with a few more million dollars to cushion your bank account,” Vincent counters dryly.
“I don’t owe you anything.”
He jerks his head to me, and James casts me a bleak glance. “This is my son, Nathan. Hear him out, that’s all I’m asking.”
Crossing his arms, he pins me with a heavy, probing stare that seems to be his default setting. I keep my face devoid of any emotion, hoping to look as impervious as him.
“Alright,” he says. “Let’s hear it.”
I pull a wrinkled picture from the back pocket of my jeans. It’s a shot from one of the cameras in the gallery when Ella had attended the exhibition to do the Russian interpretation. I slap it onto the table next to him. Slowly turning his head, he drops his gaze to the picture.
“Ella Jenkins,” I say, knowing I have to cut to the chase with this guy before he loses interest. “Her life is in danger, and I need to find her.”
Hooking one ankle over the other, he grabs a crumpled cigarette packet from the table and leisurely fishes out a stem. “Clarify danger.”
“She’s been running from a stalker for years. We chased him out of the city, but we have reason to believe that he came back.”
James lights his cigarette and puffs out the smoke. “I don’t do hitman jobs for civilians.”
“I don’t want you to kill anyone,” I say with a frown, trying not to dwell on his words. No killing for civilians, but killing for the government? A comforting thought. “I just want to know where she is so I can see to her safety. She left her apartment, destroyed her phone, and erased all traces. I need help to track her down before her stalker makes his move. Maybe tail her for a few days, see what she’s up to…”
Taking another pull from his cigarette, his dull gaze travels back to me. He remains silent for a full minute.
“So, can you help me?” I ask when my patience comes to an end.
He puffs out the smoke in his lungs, hitting me with a cloud of tobacco stench. “Of course, I can. The question is, are you aware of the consequences?”
“Consequences?”
He exchanges an ominous look with Vincent before he swings his gaze back to me. “I won’t just be a shadow. I will be a ghost, pervasive as the air she breathes. Jobs like these are not just an invasion of privacy. I will see what she sees, hear what she hears, fuck who she fucks.”
My hands clench into fists, but unsurprisingly, he remains unfazed by my lethal glare.
“By the end, I will know more about her than you want me to know.”
The hell you will.
I prowl my way closer to him, my jaw locked in anger. If he thinks his I-can-kill-you-in-a-heartbeat attitude intimidates me, he’s dead wrong.
“You get as close as you need to but not one inch closer.” I breathe the words in a tone that issues a deadly warning. “You don’t talk to her, you don’t touch her, you don’t butt into her life, especially not her sex life. You don’t intervene in anything unless she’s in danger. Are we clear about that?”
This time, he blows the cigarette smoke directly into my face, but I don’t blink despite the sting in my eyes.
“Crystal.” He flings his cigarette butt into the ashtray, and it’s the first time a hint of a smile lifts the corner of his lips. “Six thousand, half upfront, exclusive of travel expenses, accommodations, etc. I’ll book a flight for the day after tomorrow. Got to finish another job first.”
A job that seems to require some heavy weaponry gathering from the rifle case in a corner with a dozen packages of ammunition stacked next to it. Seriously, it wouldn’t surprise me if I’d find a hidden shelf in the wall with an array of guns like in TheMatrix.
He offers me his hand. “Deal?”
I look down at it and shake it. “Deal.”
And just like that, the last line I’ve drawn so carefully goes up in smoke.