by Heather Graham
Chapter One
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 sunray. 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, and amazing as she moved in the creation she modeled—a pastel mix of colors which was perfect and enhanced by her skin coloring, bare at the shoulder and throat, with a plunging neckline—and back—and then sweeping 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 having its grand opening tonight.
“I’d imagine,” Jacob said. He leaned closer on 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 into a glass 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 a cache of 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.
That was the information that had been fed to what had become known as the Deco Gang—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.
“And, of course, give 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 an upstairs balcony level that ran the perimeter, with a bar at the back above the stage. That bar was closed; the guests that night were all 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 ripe and 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 in ridiculous heels without tripping—and observing at the same time. It wasn’t as if she’d had training or gone to cotillion—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—which had maybe been 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. There, Jasmine’s mom, Liliana, had been born and grown up in Miami, but had travelled 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—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 a mostly-Irish-American mutt—her father’s own words. 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, color, race, creed, sex, and sexual orientation, and they had both taught her that good people were good people and, 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 assured 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 of course, 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. Because, as a child, she’d 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 a who’s who of the city. She could see two television stars who were acting in current hit series. A renowned Italian artist was there, along with the Chinese businessman who had just built two of the largest hotels in the world, one in Dubai, and one on Miami Beach. A matriarch of old, old Miami society and money had made it, along with a famed English film director.
And amid the gathering of the rich and famous, the club’s grand opening was also a meeting of the Deco Gang.
The Miami Dade police had labeled the loosely organized group of South Beach criminals the Deco Gang. They had gathered together beneath the control of a Russian-born kingpin, Josef Smirnoff, and they were an equal-opportunity group of very dangerous criminals. They weren’t connected to the Italian Mafia or Cosa Nostra, and they weren’t the Asian mob, or a cartel from any South American or island country. And they were hard to pin down, using legitimate business for money laundering and for their forays into drug smuggling and dealing and prostitution. Crimes had been committed; the bodies of victims had been found, but for the most part, those who got in the way of the gang were eliminated and, because of their connections with one another, alibis were abundant, evidence disappeared, and pinning anything on any one individual had been elusive for the police.
Jasmine had used every favor she had saved up to get assigned to the case. It helped that her looks gave her a good cover and way in.
Her captain, Mac Lorenzo, probably suspected that she had motives. But he didn’t ask, and she didn’t tell. She hadn’t let Lorenzo know that her personal determination to bring down the notorious Deco Gang—long suspected of murder, extortion, and many an offense—had begun when Mary Ahearn had disappeared. Her old friend vanished without a trace or clue after working with the nightclub that was most probably a front for a very high-scale prostitution ring.
She could see Josef Smirnoff in the front of the crowd; he was smiling and looking right at her. He seemed to like what he saw. Good. He was the man in charge—and she needed access to him. She needed to be able to count out his body guards and his henchmen and get close to him.
She wasn’t working alone; Jasmine was blessed with an incredible partner, Jorge Fuentes.
Along with being a dedicated cop, Jorge was also extremely good-looking, and thanks to that, that he’d been given leeway when he’d shown up, supposedly looking for work. He’d managed to hire on just for the day; Jasmine had told Natasha Volkov—manager of the models who worked these events or sat about various places looking pretty—that she’d worked with Jorge before, and that he was wonderfully easygoing. Turned out the show was short a man; Jorge had been hired on easily. They’d cast him as Adonis and given him a very small costume to wear.
She was afraid of the fate of the man he was replacing.
He’d been trying to get a moment alone with her as preparations for the fashion show had gone on. Jasmine had been undercover for the better part of a month in the lead-up to the show and party, and briefings had been few and far between. The opportunity hadn’t arisen as yet, but they’d be able to connect as soon as the runway show part of the opening was over. She was curious what updates he had, but they were both savvy enough to bide their time. Neither of them dared to blow their covers with this group—such a mistake could result in an instant death, with neither of them even aware or able to help the other in any way.
She’d started working a few weeks back; her cover story was complete. She had a rented room on Miami Beach which she took for several days before answering the ad for models—one that would be going through various police sources on the streets. She’d been given an effective fake résumé—one that showed she’d worked, but never been on the top. And might well be hungry to get there.
After a lightning-quick change of outfit backstage, she made another sweep on the runway. She noted the celebrities in attendance. South Beach clubs were like rolls of toilet paper—people used them up and discarded them without a thought. What was popular today might be deserted within a month.
But she didn’t think that this enterprise would care—the showy opening was just another front for the illegal activities that kept them going.
She noted the men and women surrounding Josef Smirnoff. He was about six feet tall, big and solidly muscled. His head was immaculately bald, which made his sharp jaw even more prominent, and his dark eyes stood out.
At his side, on his arm, was an up-and-coming young starlet. She was in from California, a lovely young blue-eyed blonde, hoping that Smirnoff’s connections here would allow her to rub elbows with the right people.
Jasmine hoped that worked out for her—and that she didn’t become involved with the wrong people.
Natasha was with him, as well. She had modeled in her own youth, in Europe. About five-eleven and in her mid-fifties, Natasha had come up through the ranks. One of the girls had whispered to her that Natasha had always been smart—she had managed to sleep her way up with the right people. She was an attractive woman, keeping her shoulder-length hair a silvery white color that enhanced her slim features. She kept tight control of the fashion show and other events, and sharp eyes on everyone and everything.
Rumor had it she was sleeping with Josef. It wasn’t something she proclaimed or denied. But there were signs. Jasmine wondered if she cared for Josef—or if it was a power play.
Jasmine had to wonder how Natasha felt about the beautiful women who were always around. But she understood, for Natasha, life hadn’t been easy.
Power probably overrode emotion.
The men by Smirnoff were his immediate body guards. Jasmine thought of them as Curly, Moe and Larry. In truth, they were Alejandro Suarez, Antonio Garibaldi and Sasha Antonovich. All three were big men, broad-shouldered, and spent their off hours in the gym. One of the three was always with Smirnoff. On a day like today, they were all close to him.
Victor Kozak was there, as well. Victor was apparently the rising heir to receive control of the action. He was taller and slimmer than Josef, and he had bright blue eyes and perfectly clipped, salt-and-pepper facial hair. He was extremely pleasant to Jasmine—so pleasant that it made her feel uneasy.
She knew about them all somewhat because she had talked to Mary about what she was doing. She had warned Mary that there was suspicion about the group on South Beach that ran so many of the events that called for runway models or beautiful people just to be in a crowd. Beautiful people who, it was rumored, you could engage to spend time with privately. Mary had described so many of these players before Jasmine had met them.
Before she had disappeared.
The club manager was behind the bar; he didn’t often work that kind of labor himself. He usually oversaw what was going on there. He was like the bodyguards—solid, watching, earning his way up the ranks.
Still watching, Jasmine made another of her teasing plays with Jorge—pointing out the next model who was coming down the runway. Kari Anderson was walking along in a black caftan that accented the fairness of her skin and the platinum shimmer of her hair. Jorge stood perfectly still; only his eyes moved, drawing laughter from the crowd.
As Jasmine did her turn around, she noted a man at the bar. She did not know him, or about him. He was a newcomer, Kari had told her. A big man in New York City. He was taller and leaner than any of the other men, and yet Jasmine had the feeling that he was steel-muscled beneath the designer suit he was wearing. He hadn’t close-cropped his hair, either; it was long, shaggy around his ears, a soft brown.
He was definitely the best-looking of the bunch; his face was crafted with sharp, clean contours, high, defined cheekbones, nicely squared chin, and wideset, light eyes. He could have been up on the runway, playing “pretty boy” with Jorge.
But of course, newcomer that he might be, he’d be one of “them.” He’d recently come to South Beach, pretending to be some kind of an artist and owning and operating a gallery.
The hair. Maybe he believed that would disguise him as an artist—rather than a murdering criminal!
When she had made another turn, after pausing to do a synchronized turn with Kari, she saw that the new guy had left the bar area, along with the bartender. They were near Josef Smirnoff now, as well.
Allowed into the inner circle.
Just as she noticed them, a loud crack rang out. The sound was almost masked by the music.
People didn’t react.
Instinct and experience told Jasmine that it was indeed a gunshot; she instantly grabbed hold of Kari and dragged her down to the platform, all but lying over her. Another shot sounded; a light exploded in a hail of sparks—just as the rat-tat-tat of bullets exploded throughout the room.
The crowd began to scream and move.
There was nothing orderly about what happened—people panicked. It was hard not to blame them. It was a fearsome world they lived in.
“Stay down!” Jasmine told Kari, rising carefully.
Jorge was already on the floor, trying to help up a woman who had fallen, in danger of being trampled.
Bodyguards and police hired for the night were trying to bring order. Jasmine jumped into the crowd, trying to fathom where the shots had been fired. It was a light at the end of the runway that had exploded; where the other shot had come from was hard to discern.
The band had panicked, as well.
A guitar crashed down on the floor.
Josef Smirnoff was on the ground, too. His bodyguards were near, trying to hold off the people who were set to run over him.
An absolute melee had begun.
Jasmine helped up a white-faced young man, a rising star in a new television series. He tried to thank her.
“Get out, go—walk quickly,” she said.
There were no more shots. But would they begin again?
She made her way to Smirnoff, ducking beneath the distracted bodyguards. She knelt by him as people raced around her.
“Josef?” she said, reaching for his shoulder, turning him over.
Blood covered his chest. Covered him. There was no hope for the man; he was already dead, his eyes open in shock. There was blood on her now, blood on the designer gown she’d been wearing, everywhere.
She looked up; Jorge had to be somewhere nearby.
That’s when she knew she was about to be attacked herself.
There was a man coming after her, reaching for her.
She rolled quickly, avoiding him once. But as she prepared to fight back, she felt as if she had been taken down by a linebacker. She stared up into the eyes of the long-haired newcomer. Bright blue eyes, startling against his face and dark hair. She felt his hands on her, felt the strength in his hold.
No. She was going to take him down.
She jackknifed her body, letting him use his own weight against himself, causing him to crash into the floor.
He was obviously surprised; it took him a second—but only a second—to spin himself. He was back on his feet in a hunched position, ready to spring at her.
Where the hell was Jorge?
She feinted, as if she would dive down to the left, dove to the right instead, and caught the man with a hard chop to the abdomen that should have stolen his breath.
He didn’t give; she was suddenly tackled again, down on the ground, feeling the full power of the man’s strength atop her. She stared up into his eyes, blue eyes, glistening ice at the moment.
She realized the crowd was gone; she could hear the bustle at the doorway, hear the police as they poured in at the entrance.
But right there, at that moment, Josef Smirnoff lay dead in an ungodly pool of blood—blood she wore—just feet away.
And there was this man.
And herself.
“Hey!” Thank God, Jorge had found her.
He dived down beside them, as if joining the fight.
But he didn’t help Jasmine; he made no move against the man. He lay by Jasmine, as if just floored himself.
“Stop! FBI, meet MDPD. Jasmine, he’s undercover. Jacob... Jasmine is a cop. My partner,” he whispered urgently.
The man couldn’t have looked more surprised. Then, he made a play of socking Jorge, and Jorge lay still.
He stood and dragged Jasmine to her feet. For a long moment he looked into her eyes, and then he wrenched her elbow behind her back.
“Play it out,” he said, “nothing else to do.”
“Sure,” Jasmine told him.
And as he led her out—toward Victor Kozak, who now stood in the front, ready to take charge, Jasmine managed to twist and deliver a hard right to his jaw.
He swirled her around again, staring at her, and rubbing his jaw with his free hand.
“Play it out,” she said softly.
The Feds always thought they knew more than the locals, whether they were team people or not. He’d probably be furious. He’d want to call the shots.
But at least his presence meant that the Feds had been aware of this place, they had listened to the police, and they had sent someone in.
It was probably what Jorge had been trying to tell her.
Jacob was still staring at her. Well, she did have a damned good right hook.
To her surprise, he almost smiled.
“Play it out,” he said softly. And to her surprise, he added, “You are one hell of a player!”
Copyright © 2018 by Heather Graham Pozzessere