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“Very helpful,” I say under my breath, attention focused on one letterhead in particular. “Send all of this to me, will you? I want to run diagnostics and get a better handle on who this ‘Mama’ person truly is. Find her weaknesses so we can attack them.”
“Right-o.”
“Thoughts?”
I frown at Ilya. “From what I already know about her, there is no way that she could have started this club on her own, but I couldn’t find any investors. No paper trails, at least. She got the money and the club from somewhere or someone, but I don’t know the details yet.”
“You’ll uncover it all.”
Of course, I will. That’s what I’m great at.
Ilya turns back to Garen. “Do you think Sin knows anything?”
Garen looks up from his phone, one brow hiked. “Doubtful, mate. I mean, she could be hiding it, but I don’t believe so. She’s very open in conversation.”
“Speaking of ‘open,’” I muse, “what did you do in there for all those hours?”
“Jealous?”
“Yes.” Why lie?
Garen mercifully doesn’t laugh. I can feel his understanding in our bond. “Honestly, we talked. A lot. And had a cuddle.”
Color me shocked. Yet, the idea of holding Sin in my arms, stroking her hair, providing her comfort and safety, nearly makes me purr.
I have to uncover all of Mama’s secrets and get Sin out of there as soon as possible.
Chapter Sixteen
Ilya
“She should be here any minute.”
I nod at Cade, who puts his phone on the table in front of him, just beside his coffee. I sip mine, strong, black, and more delicious than it has any right to be. Garen devours a pastry, then wipes the crumbs from his chest before sipping from his mug, its contents almost white from cream and sugar.
The bakery is called Fatima’s, and its Cuban culinary and baked offerings all smell amazing, but my appetite is absent today in the light of what may or may not happen during this meeting.
The bell at the entrance jingles.
“There she is.”
I follow Cade’s line of sight and spot an older woman with a scarf over her head, big, dark sunglasses covering half her face, and wearing a long coat. Her head moves erratically around the room until she spots us and walks straight over, sitting at the only empty chair at our table. As she does. Cade pretends to turn off his phone, but I know my brother. He’s recording the conversation.
“Gentlemen.” Her voice is stronger than I’d expect for someone who appears so frightened.
“Ms. Stevens. Thank you for coming.”
She nods at Cade, a small frown forming on her pink lips. “I’d like to make this quick.”
“Of course,” I croon, watch her eyes shift behind her dark lenses.
“You want to know about Cordelia Tremayne.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cade confirms. “The woman they call ‘Mama.’”
Ms. Stevens snorts, her head shaking, a humorless smile stretching across her face. “Fitting, for the least maternal woman on the face of the planet. What do you want to know?”
“Can you tell us a bit about her? Where she came from and how she came to own that club of hers?”
