Leah's POV
Hours bled into each other. The party grew loud, sloppy. I slipped away to the pool terrace, heels dangling from my fingers, the night air sticky with salt and regret. The water shimmered like broken glass.
Josephine used to fling herself into a pool to play damsel on my wedding night to get Lucas' attention. And that happened like in my my last life. And Darren - my shadow, my sword, the man who'd bled for me in alleys and ballrooms alike. Where was he now? Dead, surely. He'd have torn the slave market apart otherwise.
The champagne bubbled bitter on my tongue. A tear fell - weakness - but the night hid it.
"Mrs. Winters." The deputy police chief staggered over, tie undone. "You're missing the fun."
"I was just admiring the view," I lied. "I was just thinking to myself, you must be very good at your job. So young for a deputy chief."
His chest puffed. "Beginner's luck."
"Luck favors the bold," I said, leaning closer. "Like you, solving cold cases all the way. The hard ones. I have always wondered how you managed to crack them."
His grin faltered. "Why is such a lovely lady like you interested in cold cases?"
"Well, you know, when women turn to this age, the only thing they are interested in is something dark and gruesome. The truth is, I've been following a true crime podcast..."
He put off his guard and asked, "Do you have any particular cases in mind?"
"Yeah, the one with a man dying in a fishing boat explosion." I whispered.
"Aha. That one. Carlo Pintard's fishing boat explosion. I was the lead investigator at that time." Then, he realized he split and his drunk eyes sharpened. "That was… procedural. No arrests made."
"So... Does that mean it's a suicide?" I traced the rim of my glass.
The silence stretched. The pool lights turned his face ghoulish. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Sometimes the best way to handle pests is to make them disappear. Legally, of course."
You murderer. You didn't make the arrest because Al Cosa promised you the position of Deputy Chief. Liam's dad was murdered and you just sat there on your fat ass, waiting for the whole case turning cold.
Now you're calling it begginer's luck? I'm afraid that will be the last curse in your life.
I looked back to hide the disgust in my eyes. Inside, Tommy was howling over a roulette wheel. The briefcases sat untouched.
Checkmate, I thought.
But the game was just beginning.
The deputy director's cloying cologne still clung to my skin as I slipped out of his grasp, muttering some half-hearted farewell. His pawing hands and slurred promises of "future favors" lingered like a bad taste, but I shoved it down, kept my mask in place. The night wasn't over. I straightened my spine and headed for the private room, the air growing thicker with each step—cigar smoke curling like a noose, the musk of sweat and greed seeping through the walls. The moon outside was a distant memory, its bloody glare replaced by the dim, flickering glow of this den of wolves.
I pushed the door open, and there he was - the director of the Municipal Development Bureau, sprawled in a velvet chair like some bloated king. His eyes were locked on the stripper swaying before him, her hips rolling slow and deliberate, skin glistening under the low lights. She couldn't have been more than twenty, her movements mechanical, a puppet strung up for his amusement. My stomach twisted, bile clawing up my throat, but I swallowed it down, painted a smile across my lips - soft, pliant, everything he'd expect.
"Director," I said, letting my voice waver just enough, a little tremble to sell the act. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
He turned his head, slow as a predator sizing up prey, his gaze scraping over me - chest, hips, legs - like I was another dish on the menu. "Ah, Leah. Come in, come in. Join the party."
I stepped closer, hips swaying just a touch, keeping my movements smooth, practiced. "I just wanted to toast you, sir," I murmured, lashes fluttering as I met his stare. "For all the hard work you're doing for the city."
His laugh rumbled out, low and wet, a sound that prickled my skin like thorns. "Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear. Pour me a drink, will you?"
I nodded, obedient as a whipped dog, and crossed to the table. The crystal decanter gleamed under the lights, heavy in my hands as I poured the amber liquor - his poison of choice. I handed it to him with a slight dip of my head, a servant's bow. "To your health and success," I said, lifting my own glass, letting my lips curve just so.
We clinked, the sound sharp in the smoky air. I sipped, barely wetting my tongue, while he tossed his back in one greedy gulp, throat bobbing like a hog at the trough. "Now," he slurred, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "what can I do for you, Leah? I know you're not here just to stroke an old man's ego."
I leaned in, close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath, and dropped my voice to a conspiratorial hush. "I was just thinking about how much my father admired Al Cosa. When he was alive, he'd say it over and over - Al was the contemporary godfather of the US, sharp as a blade, capable as hell. And now, with the free trade zone plan for Pier 16 under his thumb? It's damn near miraculous."
The director's eyes glinted, a smirk tugging at his bloated lips. "Al's getting old, you know. Past his prime. You should've seen him back in the day - ruthless, cunning, a real black-and-white man. That's how the Cosa family clawed its way to the top of the Eastern United States."
He leaned back, swirling the dregs in his glass, his voice thick with booze and nostalgia. "Me and Al, we go way back. Brothers in blood, faced death side by side. If it weren't for us propping him up, Pier 16 would've never landed in Cosa hands. And now this free trade zone? Just icing on the cake."