Bitter Spirits (Roaring Twenties #1)(63)

And then she was forced to support herself with no family help?

He tried to imagine Astrid in the same predicament and wondered how she’d fare. It made him feel ill to think about her utterly on her own. And even without the bootlegging fortune, even when they were just a fishing family, no man in his household would abandon a female. Not Astrid, not his mother, not Greta . . . not even Paulina. What kind of man does that? Not a real one.

Winter suddenly felt both more pity and respect for Aida.

“There. Now you know the story of my life,” she said.

He pushed her bangs back from her forehead and kissed her there, softly, lingering. When he pulled back, she met his gaze and something passed between them. Something that made his chest tighten. He just wasn’t sure what it was.

She quickly redirected the subject. “So, you were about to tell me what happened last night with the raids.”

Oh . . . that again. He’d only known Aida for a couple of weeks, and already he’d violated all sorts of rules with her—his father was probably rolling over in his grave. But when she looked up at him with those big brown eyes, all he could hear was her angry accusation during their fight on the ride back from Ju’s: I told you things about me.

And now she’d told him even more.

His father had been right, no doubt. It was a sensible warning. But Winter was tired of being sensible. He’d tell her everything, give her the combination to his basement vault and all his bank account numbers if she’d meet him in this hotel room every day. As long as she’d look up at him like this, trustful and expectant, genuinely curious about his work—not plugging her ears and pretending he was somebody other than he really was, like Paulina had.

“You haven’t seen the headlines?” he asked.

“You might recall waking me up,” she said, lifting the sheet to cover her breast. “I came straight here, because I apparently have no self-control around you.”

His heart leapfrogged joyfully. He dropped a kiss on her nose and sat up to fetch the newspaper from the cart. “There were five raids at five hotels last night,” he said, pointing out the Chronicle’s headline. “All of them were executed within minutes of one another. The Feds were tipped off that this man would be personally delivering a big shipment to one of the hotels.”

Aida skimmed the article, reading aloud under her breath. Her fingernail traced the caption below the old man’s photo. “Adrian St. Laurent. He looks like a nice old grandfather.”

Winter snorted. “I’ve known him for years. His operation is smaller than mine, though he used to be part of the Big Three in the Bay Area—and before you ask, yes, I’m one of them.”

“Oh, I seriously doubt any of them are as big as you,” she teased, circling a finger around his thumb as she continued to read the article.

“Keep talking like that and I’m going to be forced to call up the desk and beg them for a bellboy to go out to the druggist for another tin.”

“And I won’t be able to walk out of here. Tell me more about the bust.”

He slipped an arm beneath her head and settled his leg across hers. “St. Laurent does a lot of cheap deals, but he also has half the hotel business in the city. Had, rather. The Feds’ tip was on the nose. They found him in the Whitcomb, eating dinner in the kitchen while his crew unloaded a quarter million in rum for a big fund-raiser party. Had enough evidence to haul him in. Just like that, he’s gone.”

Winter was shocked when he got wind of the bust last night. If he had any lingering worries about St. Laurent being responsible for his hauntings, those doubts were now gone.

“But why did the Feds show up at the Palace if they’re your client?”

Winter folded the newspaper and tossed it on the floor. “They weren’t three years ago. Used to be St. Laurent’s, but he made a deal with my father when he thought the Feds were after him back then.”

“So last night the Feds thought the Palace was one of his.”

“Yep.”

“They weren’t after you.”

“Nope.” He ran his fingers over the curve of her shoulder. Her skin was so soft, he almost worried his calloused fingers would scrape it, but he couldn’t stop himself from tracing random lines of freckles that led to the ridge of her clavicle.

“Do you think that this has any connection with what’s going on with you?”

“Raids happen all the time, and there’s no indication of anything supernatural going on with this one. But there are two things that worry me. On that first night when I was poisoned, St. Laurent told me something was changing in Chinatown. The tongs who control the booze there are getting pushed out of business.”

“And the second thing?”

“Rumor is that the Feds were tipped off by someone in Chinatown.”

“O-oh.”

“Odd that there’s unrest in Chinatown’s booze distribution, and someone’s attacking me from Chinatown, and now St. Laurent gets hauled away on a tip from Chinatown.”

“More than odd.” She stared out the balcony doors. “I was thinking about the ghost last night, and those dragon buttons. You think it’s a coincidence that they were sewed on, and you know someone in Chinatown with a sewing factory . . .”

“Ju? No. Couldn’t be him. That truly has to be coincidence.”