Cat had been offline for six days now. Dread seeped into Nyssa’s bones as again she imagined the worst for her little sister. The child could be hidden somewhere in a filthy rundown trailer outside of town. Forced to be high on drugs, unable to leave. Or worse, she could be dead. Her body discarded in a garbage dump at a sleazy back-alley downtown.
Nyssa repressed the bile mounting in her throat at the possibility of her sister’s death. Seated at the back of her limo, she absentmindedly watched Mag—as he insisted she called him—take powerful strides towards her car parked beside the tall stone gates of the Mount-Royal cemetery.
His strong legs were planted firmly on the packed snow as he stopped to wait for her under the ancient arch with an air of complete ease. His wide chest was barely covered by a motorcycle leather jacket, his hair tossed by the icy wind. How could the man not be cold?
With gritted teeth, she repressed the feverish desire growing uncomfortably for the enigmatic man and refocused on the sole reason she had asked for his help. Find her sister.
The temperature had been relentlessly below freezing for the last three weeks and she wondered if Cat would be warm enough wherever she was. According to her young au-pair, her sister had left all her parkas and warm coats at home and had last been seen wearing a thin silk bomber jacket.
Nyssa shook her head as Mag rested his gaze on her chauffeured Mercedes. She guessed that this was her clue. He had come down from the Moreno family’s mausoleum to greet her. The funeral was ending.
In preparation to brace herself against the harsh winter, she slid on her leather gloves.
“You want me to come with you?” Mr. Julien, her chauffeur, glanced over his shoulder at her.
She appreciated his concern but shook her head to decline the offer.
“I have to do this alone.” Mag had insisted she keep things discrete. The Morenos preferred their affairs private.
Protected from the elements by a dark full-length overcoat and a Greek fisherman’s cap, the loyal middle-aged man slipped out of the car and walked around it to open her door.
She placed a steady footstep onto the slippery snow-covered pavement and stretched into the bright and frigid day.
She’d been feeling queasy since she’d left the club the day before. With an eerie feeling that she’d missed a few minutes of time just as Mag had agreed to help her.
She rubbed the back of her neck. It was probably just stress. She’d been working much too hard lately, with barely four hours of sleep each night. There were meetings she couldn’t reschedule. The deal for a new development in Brussels was turning into a reality. Vlahos’ first foothold into Europe. Mom and Dad’s dream of expansion into the old country finally realized. Too bad her mother would never see it. She’d been gone for more than a decade, but Nyssa had to carry on, if just for her memory.
She concentrated on the condensation of her breath creating frozen clouds in the air to compose herself.
She’d sleep after she found Cat.
Her sister’s behavior was infuriating but Nyssa’s fear for her fate meant that she just couldn’t be mad at her.
With a sigh, she touched her lip—just where her scar was—in a much too familiar habit. The poor kid had it worse than Nyssa ever did. Lucinda was the queen of narcissism, parading her child like an accessory when Cat was a baby and now only using her as a target to her volatile temper. At least Nyssa had known what a loving mother was like. She’d experienced real love for a part of her childhood.
Cat had none of that. And while Nyssa could never be as nurturing as her own mother was, she could be there for her sibling. The kid was just looking for love in the wrong places.
And just then it hit her, and Nyssa made a decision. As soon as she’d found her, Nyssa would not return Cat to her bitch mother. Her sister would come live with her. At Vlahos Tower. Nyssa would put pressure on their dad if needed. He desperately wanted her Brussels deal to go through. It should be leverage enough for a quirky kid that he was too sick to enjoy.
With a purposeful stride, her plan solid in her mind, she closed the distance between the devilishly handsome club owner casually leaning against the huge, weathered pillar and herself.
She raised her chin and, genuinely grateful, laid a very light hand on his arm over the sleeve of his leather jacket. “Thank you for arranging this.”
He stared at her touch with a slow curl of his lips before nodding toward the crowd coming out of the crypt in the centuries-old cemetery. “They’re done. Here’s our chance.”
Nyssa watched as, one by one, the family and closest friends of the deceased mob boss exited the extravagant stone building, with its gilded carvings and trio of alabaster chubby cherubs covered in ice glittering in the frigid sunshine.
“Is this the archbishop?”
She turned to Mag, shocked at the sight of the man of the cloth in full regalia who was nodding with a solemn smile at a middle-aged lady.
The woman’s bare hands were joined together over what looked like a dark beaded rosary. Her jet-black hair streaked with a red tint remained stiff under the black fur hat despite the winter breeze.
A trace of amusement appeared at the corner of Mag’s eye. “The Moreno family is not all bad. Definitely friends in the highest places.”
Anxious at having to associate with mobsters, Nyssa tugged at the collar of her coat, worried about how to approach the widow.
The archbishop and his entourage of somber priests took their leave of the small mourning party and retreated on the path of the cemetery in a swish of white robes upon the snow.
“Come.” Mag took her elbow and his strong presence enhanced her courage. She looked up at him and, for the first time in forever, felt she had someone she could trust to take the lead. If only for a moment, and in this environment she knew nothing about.
“Señora Moreno.” He approached the lady with a bow.
From up close, Nyssa could see that the widow was much older than she had originally thought. Despite the youthful henna-dyed glossy waves of her hair and the expert heavy make-up, the señora’s features lined with age put her at least over sixty-five.
Buried within the folds of the señora’s long raccoon coat was a little girl of about four dressed in a tiny black peacoat and matching hat over red-colored wool tights and shiny black boots. The child was looking up at them all through wide black irises and with silent respect.
“Mag.” A tall and broad man in a dark overcoat blocked their path to put his body right in front of the lady and child. With his jaw set, his gaze belligerent, he narrowed his eyes at Nyssa.
This was Montreal’s mafia and despite the priests and child, the threatening thug before her underscored how out of her depth she was.
“Vince. Sorry for your loss, man.” The words were oddly respectful but the deadly undercurrent in Mag’s tone was unmistakable. His presence seemed to widen and cast a shadow over the whole funeral party.
“You shouldn’t be here.” The man named Vince crossed his arms at his chest and settled back on his heels, his expression unreadable.
“You’re out of a job now, I believe.” Mag’s hand was now at Nyssa’s back and she felt grateful for the contact.
“We’re never out.” Vince shot a quick glance behind his shoulder. “I work for the lady now.”
“As you should.” Mag nodded to himself.
“This is family business, bud.” Vince rested his gaze on Nyssa. “You shouldn’t bring strangers.”
She leaned a little closer to Mag, not sure what to say.
“She’s my guest.” Mag’s tone was like ice. His hand slid around her waist, his stance solid as if he were warning Vince against touching even a strand of her hair.
Once again, Nyssa was grateful to Mag for going beyond a simple introduction to the mob family.
The widow suddenly spoke. Her words a fast string of Italian behind the rigid bodyguard.
Vince nodded quietly and stepped aside. “She said it’s okay. But don’t overstep your welcome.”
“It’s nice to see you too, Vince.” Mag’s tone lightened but turned sympathetic as he bent down to the tiny woman. “Le mie condoglianze, Señora. Ennio was a good man.”
The lady nodded silently, then spoke animatedly in Italian again, her gaze hard on Mag.
“Not always good,” Vince translated with a half-smile. “He liked to stray sometimes. But he was an excellent provider and father to their children.”
“I know you run things now.” Mag was straight with the elder as he tilted his head at her. His words measured, he started to explain what they needed from her.
The tips of Nyssa’s fingers dug into her palms. There was no way this short little lady could be at the head of the biggest crime empire of Montreal. Bookmaking, loan sharking, racketeering, arms trafficking, it always seemed to come back to this family.
Yet Señora Moreno looked like a grandmother ready to light a candle to her departed before kneeling in church with her rosary for hours. Not some mob boss one expected to see at the smoky back room of an illegal gambling club.
As Mag continued to clarify who Nyssa was and why they were here, the Italian woman settled her gaze on Nyssa.
Her spine stiffened as she detected a harsh and keen glint in the old woman’s watery eyes. She hoped Mag would find the right words to convince Señora Moreno to give them the information they wanted.
“Your sister,” she finally said in broken English, looking straight at Nyssa.
“Yes.” Nyssa raked her throat. “Catalina. She’s thirteen.”
“Ah si…” The woman concurred with a knowing smile. “How do you say? Teenagers.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Nyssa offered her condolences, realizing the lady did understand English.
“It was time.” Her jaw stiffened and, still clutching the little girl at her side with one hand, she made the sign of the cross with the other, her rosary wrapped around her gnarly fingers.
“I just need to know how to find Oliver LaChance, the rapper,” Nyssa pleaded. “Catalina is with him.”
“LaChance?” Señora Moreno turned a puzzled eye at Vince who replied something back in Italian.
“You know where we can find him?” Mag furrowed his brow.
“And why should we help you?” Vince’s sharp chin was thrust forward.
“You know why.” Mag chest expanded. His body was coiled, ready for action.
“Easy, Vincenzo,” the lady barked. “I like this one.”
“Told you the lady liked me,” Mag told Vince and eased back, his usual slow smile returned.
“I like her.” Señora Moreno pointed a decisive finger at Nyssa. “Señorita Vlahos.”
“She’s heard of you.” Vince’s gaze on Nyssa softened.
“Those big towers,” Señora Moreno said, her smile wide while her eyes took a dreamy shade.
“Yes. That’s me.” She was uncomfortable with the knowledge the mob knew of her.
“Very, como le dice, nice.” A light flush rose at the lady’s cheeks.
Nyssa caught Mag’s amused arched eyebrow at her before she returned her gaze to the widow, hope rising in her chest. “Thank you.”
Señora Moreno cast a fond gaze to the child by her side before taking a step closer to Nyssa.
She grabbed both her hands in hers. The gloveless parched fingers appeared brittle against Nyssa’s black leather gloves. “You help your sister,” she told Nyssa, her eyes bright. “Bring her home.”
“You will help me?”
“Vincenzo?” Señora Moreno dropped Nyssa’s hands, wielding surprising authority in her call.
“Yes, Señora.”
She waved her ornate jeweled rosary into the air. “Tell her.”
Vince nodded back at his boss while she took the hand of the child and spun away from them to amble forward in the snowy path of the cemetery. Their meeting was over.
“So,” the big man began, loosening his stiff posture, “what do you wanna know?”