The Right to Remain Silent (Crescent City Kings #3) - Anya Summers
Chapter 1
Becca hid her disquiet as best she could while the sleek black stretch limousine pulled up in front of a mansion with distinctive Italianate architecture, in a sandstone red that made her think of mesas in Arizona. The grand house stood out in a neighborhood and city that was already filled with flashy spectacles. Arched windows with elaborate bracketed cornices that dominated the home reflected the setting sun. From the center rose a tower a good story-and-a-half above the rest of the house. It stood sentinel like a guard tower at a prison. The circular drive sported an ivory marble fountain which, with its marbled depiction of angels, was reminiscent of ones she’d passed in Rome years ago.
But Becca wasn’t here to admire the architecture, or the glossy interior of the limo. Far from it. The aerobatic tumbling in her belly resembled a gymnast hyped up on steroids. She pressed her palm over her abdomen, attempting to quell the mad riot stirring inside.
Before today, she’d thought each week leading up to one of her art shows was fraught with terror and anxiety, wondering if the critics would love her latest pieces or relegate her work to the level of the mass production line available at discount furniture stores. In reality, the self-doubt and terror of failure of those occasions was miniscule compared to the unease she was experiencing now. The short drive from her gallery on Royal Street in the French Quarter to this house that was beyond the Garden District made the standard unease before her openings look like a kindergarten playground.
Once the car came to a complete stop, her belly executed a little flip as the driver opened the back door. The droning hum of crickets infused the muggy evening, foreshadowing the coming storm forecasted later tonight.
Becca was overtly aware of the lethal man, Konrad, beside her in his dark charcoal gray suit, the black and silver handle of his firearm peeking out from a holster at his waist. His face reminded her of a bulldog’s, with its bulbous nose and square cut jaw and a slight jowl beneath. His receding hair of blond bleached almost platinum was complemented by jade eyes that were full of death, much like a snake before it struck. He waved his beefy hand toward the open door and said, “After you, Miss O’Malley. The boss is awaiting your arrival.” His voice was like an organ bellow competing with a running woodchipper.
Becca wished she could turn back time—rewind it somehow to that morning and her decision to head into the gallery: something she did only rarely, because while she wished she was more hands on in the day to day running of the business side of things, she was typically immersed in her art, in the midst of creation, away from the rest of the world, not knowing what time it was or even what day. It would have been better if she had stayed home in her studio, working on the pieces for her next art showing scheduled for this spring.
“Miss,” Konrad pressed, his hand on the butt of his handgun.
Becca steeled herself, saying a prayer to whatever deity would listen. Her heart pounded and she felt like a startled rabbit as she exited the limo, ignoring the driver’s outstretched hand. This wasn’t a pleasant invitation or a night out.
She’d be lucky if she lived through the night. Hell, through the next hour.
Betrayal weighed heavy upon her heart. It was thick and putrid, and curdled her stomach to the point where she wanted to vomit. She cursed her inability and limitations that she couldn’t do it all, that she had to trust someone to run her store and she’d chosen wrong. She almost choked on the sensation.
How had the bitch hidden her intentions so well? Was Becca just that oblivious?
It was a classic Becca O’Malley mess. The latest in a long line of mistakes not just this year, but over the course of her life. Sometimes she thought all she did was make huge gaffes. She attracted crud of this magnitude and tenor like she was sending out a magnetic homing beacon. Her family would merely shake their heads in disappointment at her latest miscalculation. And that was only if she made it out of this one alive.
The manager of her art gallery, Sasha Brevard, had used Becca—used her place of business, the O’Malley Art Gallery, to launder drugs and money for the infamous Anton Rudnikov, Mob boss of Louisiana. Sasha had