A boxing match was underway in the main room, the noise nearly deafening as men crowded around the ring, cheering and shouting. Thankfully, no one paid her a bit of attention. Her muscles relaxed ever so slightly and she took a long look at the surroundings.
Most saloons she’d visited stank from sweat, smoke and blood. Yet this club was new and obviously cared for. Impeccably clean. The men filling the room surprised her, as well. These were no street toughs covered in grime and dirt. Mulligan’s crew was well-dressed, clean-shaven. Hair oiled and styled perfectly. She would even call many of them dapper.
These were criminals?
“Miss?” The guard had returned. “Follow me. I’ll take you upstairs.”
Nerves bubbled in Justine’s stomach as she climbed the steps. Which was ridiculous. She had no reason to fear Mr. Mulligan. Yes, he was dangerous—he ran the biggest criminal empire in the state, for goodness’ sake—but he had a reputation as being fair and not tolerating any violence against women whatsoever.
Indeed then, why were her palms sweating? Why was she so jumpy?
He’s just a man. You deal with them every day. Gather your nerve.
Besides, this visit was important. She couldn’t lose sight of her purpose. A family was counting on her.
For six weeks she’d tracked her quarry. Former places of employment, known hangouts. Interviewing friends and associates. She’d spent more than forty days trailing a man’s metaphorical breadcrumbs, a man who had deserted his wife and five children. Justine was determined to find him, no matter where it led her.
Even a criminal kingpin’s headquarters.
They arrived at an ornate wooden door. The guard knocked then threw open the heavy wood. Her eyes went wide at what was revealed on the other side. It was like stepping into an uptown salon. Crystal and gold fixtures abounded, along with patterned wallpaper and thick Eastern rugs. The armchairs were clearly French antiques—Second Empire if she wasn’t mistaken—and a large Gainsborough hung on the wall. A marble statue of Diana resided in one corner, a piece so old it might seem more at home in the British Museum.
Crime, it appeared, paid quite well.
A door stood ajar on the far side of the room. Before she could wander over to peek inside, a man appeared in the doorway.
The afternoon light through the windows hit him just so, highlighting impossibly perfect features, and Justine blinked, taken aback at the sight of such handsomeness. Most men in this neighborhood were rough looking, rugged, with crooked noses and scars here and there. Souvenirs of a hard life earned by many on a daily basis.
He was different. This man had a strong jaw and sculpted cheekbones, sharp blue eyes, and full lips that brought to mind thoughts of the wicked variety. Smooth skin with the hint of an evening beard that somehow only made him more appealing. He was dressed in a navy suit, sans coat, with his shirtsleeves rolled up over muscular forearms.
Goodness. She hadn’t expected this.
It had to be Mulligan. Rumor held there was no more beautiful criminal in the entire city—and now Justine knew why.
Then she noticed his hands. He held a scrap of cloth and was using it to wipe . . . blood off his knuckles. My God. “Are you bleeding?”
The side of his mouth curved. “This isn’t my blood. Please, have a seat.” He disappeared inside the adjacent room and she heard water running.
Chest tight, she went to the chairs opposite his desk and lowered herself into one. He has someone else’s blood on his hands. Everything told her this was a mistake, that there had to be another way to help Mrs. Gorcey. But that would take time, one thing the mother of five did not possess.
Mulligan was the most efficient solution available. If he agreed to help, of course.
The water shut off and Mulligan strolled out of the washroom. He smoothed his shirtsleeves in place as he approached his desk, then lifted his topcoat off the chair back and slipped it on.
He looked ready to promenade on Fifth Avenue.
He gave her a once-over as he dropped into his seat. “Well, well. Downtown’s notorious do-gooder at my door. I am honored.”
She couldn’t detect any sarcasm, but she wasn’t certain. So she pretended he hadn’t spoken and launched into her rehearsed speech. “Mr. Mulligan. Thank you for seeing me. I am here—”
“How is your sister?”
The question may have bothered some women, but not Justine. Both her older sisters were stunning, far more beautiful