Page 42 of Dimitri
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to work out.” He follows my fast pace down the hall. “Roxanne saw him around Slice of Salt the night Audrey was kidnapped.”
“Shit.” Rocco drags a hand across tired eyes before pushing out a set of words I never anticipated for him to speak—especially when it comes to Roxanne. “Are you sure we can trust her? Maybe you should hold back for a moment and take a good look at the evidence.”
I freeze partway down the hallway before glaring at him with steely, annoyed eyes. He forced Roxanne into my life believing she could help me get Fien back, and now he’s asking me to tug on the reins just as things get interesting. Is he brain dead?
“I’m not saying she’s untrustworthy. I just need you to be cautious.” When his roundabout excuse fails to hit its mark, he tries straight-up honesty instead. “Smith sent me to collect Roxanne’s sketchpad from her apartment as per your request.” That was what I texted Smith about earlier. I didn’t want Roxanne knowing how fascinated I was to see if I had featured in her dreams, so I didn’t vocalize my needs. I sent them via a text message. “There was more than one sketchpad. They went back years. This one is from when she was in primary school.” He thrusts a cheap, flip notepad into my chest. “From the dates, I’m guessing she was around eight or nine.”
The already brisk cantor of my heart jumps up a notch when I flick through the extensive collection of drawings. Although Roxanne’s talent isn’t at the level it is now, there’s no denying she was a skilled artist even back then. But the thing is, the sketches are too graphic for a child, far too erotic. The images only adults should see, and even then, they’d be paying top dollar to see them. I know this because my empire was built on this type of filth.
After handing the notepad back to Rocco, I ask, “Roxanne said her drawings are based on dreams. Could that have been the case back then?” My question is a woeful waste of time. I’ve never seen Fien in the flesh, but even I know this type of behavior isn’t normal for a child.
Rocco shifts from foot to foot while nervously breathing out of his nose. “Smith said her mother dropped her off to live with her parents when she was only a child.” He lowers his eyes to the notepad holding graphic images of couples in various stages of raunchy sex. “Could this be the reason?”
I shrug, truly unsure. The information Smith unearthed about Roxanne’s family months ago reveals her parents are fucked in the head, but come on, this is beyond that. You can be dependent on drugs, but that doesn’t stop you knowing the difference between right and wrong. A parent is supposed to protect their child, they’re supposed to love them like no one else can. They arenotsupposed to make them a mental case like my father did me.
Although my jaw is tight and the wish to kill is doubling the width of my veins, I can’t let this slide. “What if she isn’t wrong, Rocco? What if she did see Roberto that night? If I ignore that, and it turns out she was telling the truth, I’ll never forgive myself. I need to know if she saw Roberto. I need to know if he’s a part of this.” I bounce my eyes between Rocco’s. I’m incapable of recognizing the man glancing back at me but I know one day he will eventually expose himself. “Then once I know, I’ll deal withthis. I’ll makethisright.” The way I say ‘this’ reveals who I am speaking about. “Just not until Fien is home. She has to come first, Rocco. She should have always come first.”
“All right,” he agrees with a frantic bob of his head. “Tell me what you need and where you need it, and I’ll get it there for you.”
I slap his shoulder, grateful for his understanding. “I need the jet fueled and ready to go. It’s time to head back to New York.”
* * *
I halt flicking through one of Roxanne’s many sketchpads when Rocco enters the plane without her. Although something isn’t sitting right with my stomach, the longer I peruse Roxanne’s collection of artwork, the more my curiosity is piqued. There are no faces on the people she sketched during her childhood, no identifiable marks or features that would help Smith track them down. There are just arms, torsos, legs, and pelvises in various stages of movement. The detail of each piece is so vivid, I can imagine the positions each couple made during their intricate tryst.
If I were unaware the sketches were drawn by a child, I’d purchase every one of them like a crazed collector, aware the artist would be big one day. But since I know that isn’t the case, I’m tempted to burn them all until they’re nothing but chunks of charcoal Roxanne could use to start all over again.
With my emotions not knowing which way to swing, I place the overloaded notepad into my suitcase before raising my eyes to Rocco. “Where’s Roxanne?”
My head slants to hide the tick of my jaw when he answers, “She isn’t coming.”
“What do you mean she isn’t coming? She doesn’t have a choice.” I drift my eyes to the Range Rover parked at the side of the plane. I know Roxanne is sitting inside of it because not only did I buckle her into the seat in more ways than one before our thirty-mile trip, the lights illuminating the hangar are shining into the back seat, lighting up Roxanne’s already bright hair.
My eyes rocket back to Rocco when he mutters, “She said she’d rather be buried in a shallow ditch than forced into a sex trafficking circuit.” When shock crosses my features, he chuckles out a breathy laugh. “Think about it, Dimi. She has a point. How is nearly every white American female lured into the trade these days? Fancy mansion, top-of-the-line Range Rover, and a private jet, then, before you know it,boom-shaka-laka, you’re eating porridge from a dog bowl in a cage. If I were a chick, I’d be gripping the door handle as hard as she is now. You wouldn’t get me in here for shit.”
Neither amused by his humor nor having the time for it, I snap out, “You don’taskher to join us, youforceher to join us.”
He holds his hand out in front of himself like I ordered for him to suck my dick. “You know that isn’t me, Dimi. I don’t do that shit.” My foul mood worsens when he adds, “Especially not to Roxie. I ain’t got no beef with her.”
Needing to leave before I pop a bullet between his quirked brows, I unlatch my seat belt, clamber down the stairs of a private jet, then throw open the door opposite to the one Roxanne is clutching in fear for her life.
“Don’t you want to come to New York with us?” It’s the fight of my life to keep the surprise off my face. I’m stunned by how calm and collective my question came out considering my veins are being obliterated with blackened rage.
Roxanne takes a beat to consider my question before she timidly shakes her head.
“All right. Then off you go.”
The shock I’m struggling to keep off my face jumps onto Roxanne’s. “I’m free to go?”
Her ‘duh’ face is cuter than I care to admit. “Uh-huh. You did as asked. You gave me information I needed to identify Fien’s kidnappers.”
“But I said her captor was a woman. Roberto isn’t a woman.” She pauses to reprimand herself for trying to talk herself out of going. “I guess he could be working with one?”
“Perhaps, but I won’t find out here. I need to go to New York.”
“Okay.” Her constant licking of her lips shouldn’t be sexy, but it is. “Then go. I can find my way home from here.”
I almost smile at her cunningness. “When I leave, this vehicle, along with my possessions inside of it, will return to the Petretti compound. If anything is removed from it without my permission, it’ll be classed as theft. Theft is a big no-no in this industry, Roxanne. Do you know what happens to people who steal from me?”
