Page 11 of Devil's Iris
“Which I’ve already told him won’t happen.” I’m only entertaining him because he’s dangling information about Katherine Pierce’s whereabouts in my face.
But Senator Julian DeMarco is a persistent fucker who thinks that introducing me to his daughter will somehow change my mind—despite already shoving several pictures of her at meagainst my will.
He’s even tried to make me talk to her on the phone a few times. If she’d been in the States, I’m pretty sure he would’ve just dragged her straight into my office. Though according to my intel, she flew in a few days ago, so I guess my time evading her is officially up.
My brothers and I have been looking for Katie—Emily’s close friend—for a couple of weeks now, ever since she disappeared from the hospital after getting shot because of Emily’s attempt to protect us. Thanks to her, we found out the former FBI director, Stacey Rodrigues, is a dirty crook using Emily and the Russians to frame us for her crimes. Katie helped Emily bring the woman down, but both of them got shot in the process—and then Katie vanished.
Julian caught wind of how desperate we are to find her in one piece, and now he’s trying to use that information to broker a deal—a marriage between his only daughter and me to foster a deeper connection for his reelection and future presidential ambitions.
Sure, now that my brothers are all settled into blissfulmatrimony, I’ll admit I've been thinking of marriage myself. But Katie’s whereabouts are only worth so much. I’m not locking myself into the ball and chain just to find her.
“Just don’t be late,” Sandro says, hanging up.
As if I’m ever late for anything.
I skim through the file I have on Eric, type up some additional details on my laptop, then print them out, organizing them into a folder and tucking it into my briefcase. Done with that for now, I head home to change for dinner, hoping tonight is the night Julian DeMarco will finally come clean about what he knows regarding Katie.
The moment I step out of my car onto the cobblestone driveway of Julian’s estate, I sigh, bracing myself for yet another performance. Nothing gets under my skin quite like mingling with the political class. They’re a different breed of shady—oozing deceit, and their hypocrisy reeks worse than rotting fish.
The mansion is a blatant show of power—a spacious brownstone in the middle of Clinton Hill, with wrought iron gates polished to a high gloss. Two uniformed staff open the wide double doors of the front entrance before I can even reach for the handle, their smiles stretched too tight to be real.
Another uniformed staff member meets me in the grand foyer and silently escorts me towards the back of the house, where the ballroom is already packed. I glance at my watch. Nine on the dot. The event was set to start at nine—did these ass-kissers get here an hour early just to suck up? Typical.
The staffer disappears behind me, shutting the door. I scan the room, recognizing a few familiar faces—judges, real estate moguls, and even a few high-ranking cops. All here for a piece of Julian. Every single one of them would sell their mother for ataste of power. Too bad the judge presiding over Turner’s case isn’t one of them. That might have made this dinner slightly worth enduring.
Julian is right in the thick of it, chuckling with a group of people, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, navy suit tailored to him. The ostentatious gold cufflinks that have become his signature flash with every sweep of his arm as he gestures animatedly.
His eyes catch mine, and just like that, he lights up like he’s spotted his golden ticket. He raises his glass in my direction with a smug little head tilt. A silent invitation.Here we go.
I weave through the crowd, sidestepping waiters in impeccable black uniforms gliding across the room, silver trays balanced effortlessly, offering champagne and hors d'oeuvres.
“You made it,” Julian grins, shaking my hand when I reach him.
“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.” I return the smile, the one I’ve perfected for nights like this, already scanning the vaguely familiar faces gathered around him.
“You remember Remington, don’t you? He was the judge on that case you won last month.” Julian gestures towards an older man with salt-and-pepper hair, and my gaze sharpens even as I resist the urge to remind him I haven’t lost a case in almost a decade.
“You were quite ruthless as usual, Romero. You impressed me,” Remington says, extending a hand.
I chuckle politely as I shake his hand, flipping through the stack of cases I won last month, trying to place him. “A real pleasure to meet again like this.” Then it clicks—State v. Kyla. The abused wife whose deadbeat husband’s body turned up in the Hudson.
I’m about to say more when a flash of copper yanks my attention across the room.
There she is—my mystery woman—gliding through the crowd like a damn mirage, tray of hors d'oeuvres in hand.
She’s a waitress?
6
LENI
I steal a glance at Fred from the corner of my eye and scoot a little closer as our small luxury bus weaves through the streets of Clinton Hill. This is one of Brooklyn’s most affluent neighborhoods, and damn, it shows. No wonder the pay is so high. Whoever’s hosting this event must be some celebrity or politician—those are usually the only people who live around here. The person is also the one who provided this fancy bus.
“So, I’ve been thinking, Fred,” I start.
“No. I already hired someone else to take your spot at the diner, so you can’t possibly get your job back, Leni.”
I glance around at the other servers scattered throughout the bus—four guys and three women—but they’re all lost in their own worlds. Nobody’s paying attention to Fred crushing my soul. “You don’t even know if that’s what I was going to say.”
