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Wound tight from yet another mixed up, unsatisfying interaction with Kennedy, Dante got on the phone.
“Hello?”
“Zander? I thought I called Kent’s number.”
“Oh, hey, Dante. I answered his phone. He’s neck deep in meetings. Hold on. Let me get him. I’m sure he’d like a break.”
“Hey,” Kent said, a minute later.
“Kent. It’s me. Dante.”
“Hey, Dante. What’s up?”
“I need you to do me a favor with your mad research skills.”
“Sure thing. What do you need?”
“Look up anything and everything on Kennedy Swift. If you can link her to someone named Mosi, all the better. Dig into her past from a couple years ago. She worked at a game reserve called Beskerming in South Africa. She’s in trouble, and I want to help her.”
“Okay, I can do that. I’ve got access to avenues most people don’t have. But...does she know you’re doing this? I mean...it’s sort of like a deep background check...the thing that I do. It’s hardly a hearts and flowers kind of thing.”
“No, she doesn’t know. She’s stubborn as hell. But she’s in trouble, and I want to find out what it is. Also, find out about the Heights Animal Sanctuary in the Bronx. I need financials, governing board, everything you can find.”
“Got it. Give me a couple hours, and I’ll get back to you. It will keep my head from blowing up over this problem piece of financial bullshit the board just lay at my feet.”
“Thanks. I’ll stay tuned.”
While he waited, he worked in the studio on the melody for his new song, Six, an homage to the number he’d programmed in Kennedy’s phone. The fact of all those images appearing on the Page Six website didn’t escape him. The number six held a double-twist meaning. A deeply haunting series of minor chords opened the song. It flowed into a driving rhythm. He wasn’t yet satisfied with the words, but he kept on with it, crafting it into submission. Finally, a couple feverish hours later, he rested the guitar next to him on the studio couch. “Almost there,” he said to the empty space. He lay back against the sofa pillows and closed his eyes.
His phone chirped, indicating a text.
Dante, I’m sorry. You’re right. I haven’t been letting you in.
He stared at the words, unsure how to respond. How’s the tiger?
He’s gone. He didn’t make it.
I’m sorry.
Me, too. But I let go of some stuff from the past. Anyway...I’d like to try again.
Dante sucked in a breath. Tonight? Dinner at my place? 8? We can order in, no paparazzi, guaranteed.
Yes. I’d love that. CU then.
As Dante typed in his last text, the phone rang, Kent’s face flashing on the screen. “What did you find?”
“This was interesting. I had to dig deep. There’s not much to go on, but I sourced an article about an untimely death. A man...more like a prince named Mosi Khari, beloved son of King Khari III, died tragically having been mauled by a tiger. Then there’s an article written by the Beskerming people, staying ‘We deeply regret the untimely passing of Mosi Khari, age twenty-nine.’ There’s a lot of blah blah about who he left behind and how he contributed...hold on...right. Kennedy was like a celebrity in Africa. She was a big deal. She employed progressive methods of dealing with tigers and generated a lot of tourism...meaning moolah...for the Beskerming reserve.”
Dante felt a rush of curious pride. “Of course, she did. Does it say anything about who might be coming after her? Anyone wish her harm?”
“Yep, this is when it got very interesting. This fellow Mosi had a twin brother, a prince named Iniko.” Kent’s voice grew animated. “This story’s like something straight out of Hollywood. Mosi was the rebel do-gooder. He worked for the reserve despite his father’s wishes. Iniko lives the high life. Apparently, Prince Iniko and his brother, Mosi, were set to inherit a huge trust fund amount when they turned thirty. Prince Iniko thought he’d get the entire amount when Mosi died.
“But...shortly before Mosi was killed, Iniko did something to piss off dear old dad and didn’t realize dad had cut him out of Mosi’s part of the fortune. And it’s sort of unclear, but he might have lost the entire amount...like maybe king dad disinherited him? And when Mosi died, the fortune was set aside for...get this...Kennedy.
“For when she turns thirty. Apparently, the king loved her like a daughter and wanted to ensure her well-being. He didn’t blame her for the tragic death, and man was it tragic. I saw photos and sensational shit. Iniko went nuts, accusing Kennedy of everything—calling her a manipulative gold digger and other choice words. It’s probably him who’s coming after her. He blames Kennedy for loss of income, family fortune, status...you get the picture.”
Why would she be blamed? Dante felt numb. The skin on his back prickled in alarm. He couldn’t imagine someone coming after Kennedy and doing...doing, what, exactly?
“Dante? Are you with me?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Still here. Do you have any information as to the whereabouts of this Prince Iniko?”
“Working on it. Mad skills and all. I’ll text it to you when I find out anything. I guarantee you, no one can dig up dirt on this dude like I can.”
“Well, thanks, man. Consider yourself comped to my concerts for life.”
“Sweet. I’ll take you up on that offer.”
“Please do. What about the Heights?”
“Got that, too. It’s mostly facts and figures, nothing as juicy as the African story. I’ll email you all the details as soon as I get the last piece I’m looking for.”
After he said his good-byes, Dante stalked from the studio and paced the great room, contemplating his next move. He needed to make another call or two before he could be fully present with Kennedy tonight. He decided to not inform her of any of his inquiries or plans until he’d determined a solid course of action. He called his lawyer, briefly sketching out his needs, and satisfied, hung up. The one person who had the most clout also happened to be the last person on the planet he wanted to call. Still, ...he owes me, big time. His father, Richard Vega, had ins with politicians across the globe.
With trembling hands, he pressed the numbers for his dad’s firm.
“Vega International,” the pretty receptionist answered.
All his father’s receptionist were pretty, well-groomed eye candy for his father’s clients’ appreciation and for his own personal enjoyment. “It’s Richard’s son, Dante. Is he in?”
“One moment and I’ll connect you.”
A few minutes later, his father’s expansive voice greeted him. “Dante. To what do I owe the honor?”
Cut the crap, Dante thought. We both know we’d rather be doing anything other than talking to one another. “I need to meet with you.”
“My calendar’s pretty full, son, can it wait?”
“Not if you know what’s good for you. Not if you want to keep our shared secret under wraps.” Silence met Dante’s ears. Got him.
“I think I can squeeze you in tomorrow at noon. How does that sound?”
“Works for me,” Dante said.
“Excellent. I’ll get you back over to Sophie to get you on the calendar. Looking forward to catching up.”
Liar. There must be a client in his office. “Same here, Dad. Can’t wait.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. He hung up the phone without waiting for his father’s effusive good-bye. Asshole. Realizing he could do nothing further, he prepared for Kennedy’s arrival.
He strode to his wine cooler before remembering she didn’t drink. A quick phone call later, and the finest non-alcoholic beverages on the planet were on their way to his house. Another phone call secured a gourmet meal, complete with dessert, on target to be delivered at seven forty-five, linens and clean-up service included.
He made his way into his roomy bathroom, to shower and shave. After that, he thought he’d take a rest for a few, to ensure the remaining dregs of his hangover were out of his system. This night will be perfect. No screw ups. No coming on too strong or holding back. She said she’s ready. I am, too. Tonight, he planned on showing her the real Dante Vega, warts and all. He hoped she’d like the real man.
