Undercover Connection

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#u572d0887-8df4-5438-af8f-26ac52ec6294)

The woman on the runway was truly one of the most stunning creatures Jacob Wolff had ever seen. Her skin was pure bronze, as sleek and as dazzling as the deepest sun ray.

When she turned, he could see—even from his distance at the club’s bar—that her eyes were light. Green, he thought, and a sharp contrast to her skin. She had amazing hair, long and so shimmering that it was as close to pure black as it was possible to be; so dark it almost had a gleam of violet. She was long-legged, lean and yet exquisitely shaped as she moved in the creation she modeled—a mix of pastel colors that was perfectly enhanced by her skin—the dress was bare at the shoulder and throat with a plunging neckline, and back, and then swept to the floor.

She moved like a woman accustomed to such a haughty strut: proud, confident, arrogant and perhaps even amused by the awe of the onlookers.

“That one—she will rule the place one day.”

Jacob turned.

Ivan Petrov leaned on one elbow across the bar from Jacob. Ivan bartended and—so Jacob believed thus far—ran all things that had to do with the on-the-ground-management of the Gold Sun Club. The burning-hot new establishment was having its grand opening tonight.

“I’d imagine,” Jacob said. He leaned closer over the bar and smiled. “And I imagine that she might perhaps be...available?”

Ivan smiled, clearly glad that Jacob had asked him; Ivan was a proud man, appreciative that Jacob had noted his position of power within the club.

“Not...immediately,” Ivan said. “She is fairly new. But all things come in good time, my friend, eh? Now you,” he said, pouring a shot of vodka for Jacob, “you are fairly new, too. New to Miami Beach—new to our ways. We have our...social...rules, you know.”

Jacob knew all too well.

And he knew what happened to those who didn’t follow the rules—or who dared to make their own. He’d been south of I-75 that morning, off part of the highway still known as Alligator Alley, and for good reason. He’d been deep in the Everglades where a Seminole ranger had recently discovered a bizarre cache of oil drums, inside of which had been several bodies in various stages of decomposition.

“I have my reputation,” Jacob said softly.

Ivan caught Jacob’s meaning. Yes, Jacob would follow the rules. But he was his own man—very much a made man from the underbelly of New York City. Now, he’d bought a gallery on South Beach; but he’d been doing his other business for years.

At least, that was the information that had been fed to what had become known as the Deco Gang—so called because of the beautifully preserved architecture on South Beach.

Jacob was for all intents and purposes a new major player in the area. And it was important, of course, that he appear to be a team player—but a very powerful team player who respected another man’s turf while also keeping a strict hold on his own.

“A man’s reputation must be upheld,” Ivan said, nodding approvingly.

“While, of course, he gives heed to all that belongs to another man, as well,” Jacob assured him.

A loud clash of drums drew Jacob’s attention for a moment. The Dissidents were playing that night; they were supposedly one of the hottest up-and-coming bands, not just in the state, but worldwide.

The grand opening to the Gold Sun Club had been invitation only; tomorrow night, others would flow in, awed by the publicity generated by this celebrity-studded evening. The rich and the beautiful—and the not-so-rich but very beautiful—were all on the ground floor, listening to the popular new band and watching the fashion show.

Jacob took in the place as a whole, noting a balcony level that ran the perimeter, with a bar above the stage. But that night all the guests were downstairs, and Ivan Petrov was manning the main bar himself.

The elegant model on the runway swirled with perfect timing, walking toward the crowd again, pausing to seductively steal a delicious-looking apple from the hands of a pretty boy—a young male model, dressed as Adonis—standing like a statue at the bottom of the steps to the runway.

“I believe,” Jacob told Ivan, turning to look at him gravely again, “that my business will be an asset to your business, and that we will work in perfect harmony together.”

“Yes,” Ivan said. “Mr. Smirnoff invited you, right?”

Jacob nodded. “Josef brought me in.”

Ivan said, “He is an important man.”

“Yes, I know,” Jacob assured him.

If Ivan only knew how.

* * *

JASMINE ADAIR—JASMINE ALAMEIN, as far as this group was concerned—was glad that she had managed to learn the art of walking a runway, without tripping, and observing at the same time. It wasn’t as if she’d had training or gone to cotillion classes—did they still have cotillion classes?—but she’d been graced with the most wonderful parents in the world.

Her mother had been with the Peace Corps—maybe a natural course for her, having somewhat global roots. Her mom’s parents had come from Jordan and Kenya, met and married in Morocco and moved to the United States. Jasmine’s mom, Liliana, had been born and grown up in Miami, but had traveled the world to help people before she’d finally settled down. Liliana had been a great mom, always all about kindness to others and passionate that everyone must be careful with others. She had believed that words could make or break a person’s day, and truly seeing people was one of the most important talents anyone could have in life.

Declan Adair, Jasmine’s dad, was mostly Irish-American. He’d been a cop and had taught Jasmine what that meant to him—serving his community.

They had both taught her about absolute equality for every color, race, creed, sex and sexual orientation, and they had both taught her that good people were good people and, all in all, most of the people in the world were good, longing for the same things, especially in America—life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

They sounded like a sweet pair of hippies; they had been anything but. Her father had also taught her that those who appeared to be the nicest people in the world often were not—and that lip service didn’t mean a hell of a lot and could hide an ocean of lies and misdeeds.

“Judging people—hardest call you’ll ever make,” he’d told her once. “Especially when you have to do so quickly.”

He’d shaken his head in disgust over the result of a trial often enough, and her mother had always reminded him, “There are things that just aren’t allowed before a jury, Declan. Things that the jury just doesn’t see and doesn’t know.”

“Not to worry—we’ll get them next time,” he would assure her.

Jasmine scanned the crowd. Members of this group, the so-called Deco Gang, hadn’t been gotten yet. And they needed to be—no one really knew the full extent of their crimes because they were good. Damned good at knowing how to game the justice system.

Fanatics came in all kinds—and fanatics were dangerous. Just as criminals came in all kinds, and they ruined the lives of those who wanted to live in peace, raising their children, working...enjoying their liberty and pursuing their happiness.

That’s why cops were so important—something she had learned when sometimes her dad, the detective, hadn’t made it to a birthday party.

Because of him, she’d always wanted to be a cop. And she was a damned good one, if she did say so herself.

At the moment, it was her mother’s training that was paying off. As a child, Jasmine had accompanied her mom to all kinds of fund-raisers—and once she was a teenager, she’d started modeling at fashion shows in order to attract large donations for her mom’s various charities. She had worked with a few top designers who were equally passionate about feeding children or raising awareness when natural disasters devastated various regions in the States and around the world.

So as Jasmine strutted and played it up for the audience, she also watched.

The event had attracted the who’s who of the city. She could see two television stars who were acting in current hit series. Alphonse Mangiulli—renowned Italian artist—was there, along with Cam Li, the Chinese businessman who had just built two of the largest hotels in the world, one in Dubai and one on Miami Beach. Mathilda Glen—old, old Miami society and money—had made it, along with the famed English film director, Eric Summer.