In the Age of Love and Chocolate (Birthright #3)(8)

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Instead of taking the bus, I walked to the club. It was after dark and a bit late to be walking alone, but even Argon the Seemingly Unaffected sometimes needed to clear her head. I was halfway there, almost to Columbus Circle, when it began to rain. My hair frizzed, but I didn’t care. I loved New York City in the rain. The rotten smells faded, and the sidewalks looked almost clean. Colorful umbrellas sprouted like upside-down tulips, and the windows of the empty skyscrapers shone, if only for the night. In the rain, it did not seem possible that we might run out of water, or that anyone you loved could truly be gone forever. I believed in the rain.

As I walked, I thought of Natty and whether I had said and done the right things this evening. I had been miserable at that age. My parents were dead, and Nana’s condition had been getting worse every day. At school, my only friend was Scarlet. I had been obsessed with the idea that everyone was insulting me, and maybe some of them were. I got in and picked fights constantly. (In retrospect, it is amazing I was not tossed out of Holy Trinity years earlier.) At fourteen, I was not at the height of physical attractiveness either—I was a big head of hair and a too-round face and breasts that were still in the process of figuring out how to be breasts. By the time I was fifteen, I had improved looks-wise, and that was the year I started dating Gable Arsley, who had been my first real boyfriend and the first boy to say I was pretty. See, the rain was so clever it could even trick me into having a nice memory about Gable.

I was walking up the steps that led to the club when a man emerged from the darkness and grabbed my hand. “Anya, where is Sophia?” He pulled me roughly behind one of the headless-lion statues that guarded the entrance.

It was Mickey Balanchine, my cousin and Sophia Bitter’s husband. He had lost weight and even in the dark, his skin seemed jaundiced. I hadn’t seen him since he and Sophia had abruptly left the city months ago. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I tried to wrest my hand from his, but he pulled me closer. I could smell his breath, which was sickly sweet and strangely repellent. It reminded me of wet leather.

“We were in Switzerland opening a new Bitter factory,” he said. “We were staying in a hotel, and one morning she went down to breakfast with her bodyguard, but she didn’t come back. I know you think she tried to kill you—”

I interrupted. “She did, didn’t she?”

“But she’s still my wife and I need to find her.”

“Listen, Mickey, you’re not making any sense. I haven’t seen you or her in months, and I have no idea where she is.”

“I think you kidnapped her in retaliation.”

“Kidnapped her? I wouldn’t kidnap her. I’m opening a business. I don’t have time to kidnap anyone. Believe it or not, I haven’t thought about her in months. I’m sure a woman like that has enemies other than me.”

Mickey pulled out a gun and poked it into my ribs near my heart. “You have every reason to wish Sophia ill, but the only way we can help each other is if you tell me where she is.”

“Mickey, please. I honestly have no idea. I honestly—” I started reaching for the machete that I kept in my backpack during the summer months. Without a coat, I couldn’t strap the weapon to my belt—too obvious. I had never gotten around to acquiring a sheath.

Another voice said, “Mickey Balanchine, welcome home. There’s a gun pointed at the back of your head so I suggest you drop your weapon.” Mr. Delacroix was pushing an object into Mickey’s skull, but even in the darkness, it didn’t look like a gun to me. It was a bottle of something. Wine? “Unless there’s somebody else with you, I suggest you drop the gun. You’re one against two, and I know Ms. Balanchine is probably itching to pull out that machete she thinks no one knows about.”

“I’m alone,” Mickey said as he slowly lowered his weapon.

“Good man,” Mr. Delacroix said.

“I don’t want to hurt her,” Mickey said. He coughed and the sound was deep and rattling. “I only want information.” Mickey set the gun on the ground, and I picked it up. Despite how this scene may appear, I was not particularly happy to have Mr. Delacroix’s intervention at that moment. I did not believe my cousin would shoot me nor did I want Mr. Delacroix involved with the Family in any way. Frankly, his hero act annoyed me. I saw through it. As I had known when I asked him to work for me, Mr. Delacroix was self-interested above all else, and it felt false for him to pretend otherwise. Besides, I did not require heroism—I had been the hero of my life for some time.

“If that’s true, come inside and discuss the matter like a civilized person,” Mr. Delacroix said to my cousin. “We’re all getting soaked, and you look as if you might get pneumonia if we stay out here much longer.”

“Okay,” he said.

Once the three of us were inside, I went to the guard’s station to tell Jones, who ran security for the club, that I needed him to stay with Mickey.

Our party now expanded by one, we went up the stairs and past the club space to my office. I unlocked the door and told Jones and Mickey to wait inside. I then went back out to the hallway to dismiss Mr. Delacroix for the evening. He handed me a thin towel that must have come from the club’s kitchen.

“You need personal security,” he said. “I’m not going to be around to rescue you—”