“You failed to mention that.”
“Does it matter? I’m the Iron Lord, aren’t I?” Apparently his lordly title didn’t warrant the same concern.
“Maybe this was a bad—”
“Do you want to find Alfero or not?”
She quieted.
Jonas opened the door and ushered them into an office. Reymond perched on the desk. He was short and slender to the point of looking starved, with black hair and brown, hooded eyes. He wore a shiny gold vest and a crimson jacket, a belt of reptile scales and huge rings on every finger, which made eight rings in total—both his middle fingers were stumps.
“He brought a missy,” Jonas said.
“Yes,” Reymond answered, scanning Enne up and down with interest. Levi didn’t usually introduce missies to his friends. “I can see that.”
Levi pulled up a seat at the desk and nodded for Enne to do so, as well. As he sat, he got a whiff of Reymond’s cheap cologne and nearly gagged.
“We won’t take long,” Reymond said, dismissing Jonas, who closed the door as he left. Then he held out his hand to Enne. “I’m Reymond Kitamura,” he said.
She shook it and gave a winning smile to rival Levi’s own. All of her apprehension from before was concealed. “It’s a pleasure. My name is Enne Salta.”
“You don’t dress like any Salta I’ve ever met,” he remarked, which made Enne lift her chin indignantly. Levi snorted, picturing Enne in a burlesque costume. Well...it wasn’t so terrible a picture, if he was being honest with himself. “Or any of Levi’s boys or missies, for that matter,” Reymond added, smirking at Levi.
He shrugged in response. Levi had a long romantic history of scattered affairs—a few girls and many boys—that had become the subject of teasing from his friends. They claimed he had a hopeless habit of kissing and telling.
“I’m not his missy,” Enne said hurriedly.
“Good. Glad to hear you got taste,” Reymond joked.
Aside from the dons of the casino Families, Reymond Kitamura was arguably the most powerful person in the North Side, a reputation he enjoyed flaunting in Levi’s face at every opportunity. When Levi had first arrived in New Reynes—twelve years old, scrappy and eager—Reymond had taken him in. The two were like brothers, though, as Jac had pointed out on more than one occasion, they fought more often than they got along.
Two Octobers ago, when Vianca Augustine had dumped the investment scheme on him, Levi had turned to Reymond as a business partner. Since then, Levi had tried to keep their working relationship under wraps, but Chez had discovered it several months ago. His third considered it a betrayal. Officially, the Irons and the Scarhands were far from friends, and the gangs took their rivalries seriously. So Levi visited Reymond only when it was absolutely necessary these days, even if he sometimes missed their squabbles.
Reymond pulled a cigar out of his pocket. He pointed it at Levi, almost like he was offering it to him, except he wasn’t. Levi snapped his fingers, igniting a small flame at his fingertips and lit the end. Reymond cupped it and took a deep inhale. The smoke billowed out his nostrils, and Enne crinkled her nose.
“We’re still late on the Torren payment,” Reymond reminded him, as if Levi needed reminding. “Two weeks or so.”
“Let’s talk about this another time,” Levi muttered. Enne already knew he ran a gang; he didn’t want her knowing about the scam, too. He couldn’t have her running off on him...at least not until she paid him tonight. And if Reymond did have any leads on Alfero, then it was in Levi’s best interests to stick with Enne. He couldn’t lose the potential for a ten-thousand-volt reward for finding her mother, even if the chances were slim.
“Now seems fine to me.” Reymond blew out a cloud of smoke, and Levi seriously considered the repercussions of wringing his skinny neck. Clearly, he’d caught his friend in a bad mood. “And the whiteboot captain?”
Levi debated with himself for a moment, then decided that, after being chased just this morning, Enne was unlikely to talk to anyone about this conversation. She didn’t know anyone in this city except for him. Still, they needed to be discreet.
“I paid the captain this morning,” Levi answered begrudgingly. “But he knew. He knew about the scam.”
Reymond’s eyes widened. “Did he tell anyone?”
“I don’t think so, but he said some things about Sedric Torren that have me concerned.”
Reymond anxiously tapped the soot off his cigar. “You talk to Vianca yet?” Powerful as Reymond was, the only person who could truly protect Levi from Sedric was Vianca, the donna of the Augustine family, the owner of St. Morse Casino, and—as far as Levi was concerned—the foulest woman in New Reynes.
“Not yet. I’m not sure what she’ll do to help.” St. Morse was a sinking ship. Vianca’s radical political beliefs made her unpopular on the South Side, where many of her patrons lived. Meanwhile, the Torren Family had the wigheads in their pockets.
“You’re Vianca’s favorite. She’d do anything for you,” Reymond said, blowing out another exhale of smoke. “You’re her bitch.”
Levi’s fury simmered as Reymond smirked. “We’re not here to talk about this,” Levi snapped.
He wanted to add that Enne and Alfero’s volts might’ve been the solution to their problem, but he couldn’t think of a way to say that without Enne picking up on it. He’d have to discuss that with Reymond another time.
But he already knew what Reymond would say. Alfero is dead, Levi. Of course she’s dead. You’re too easily persuaded by a pretty missy.
“But I wanna talk about business,” Reymond insisted. “Ever since Vianca lost our thousands of safety volts, this is starting to sound a lot more dangerous. I have skin in this game, too.”
“If you wanna pitch in more, partner—”
“No can do. Fifteen percent was the deal.” Reymond flicked his ashes in a porcelain bowl that was broken on one side. “No can do.”
“Are you both quite done?” Enne snapped. “It’s very inconsiderate to talk business in front of a stranger.”
Reymond snorted and picked at his well-manicured cuticles. He took precise care of the fingers he had left and never liked to get his hands dirty. “She’s a real charmer, Pup.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t come here to charm you,” she snapped. “I came here in search of information on Lourdes Alfero.”
Reymond paused. “Did you, now?”
Despite Enne’s numerous flaws—namely that she was mucking annoying—she knew how to weasel in and out of a conversation. Levi respected that.
“Have you heard anything about Alfero lately?” Levi asked Reymond, more than eager to steer the discussion away from their failing con.
“She comes and goes,” he answered. “The usual spots. But I haven’t heard anything noteworthy recently. What do you need to know?”
Enne’s face lit brighter than a neon sign outside of Luckluster Casino. “I need to find her. She’s missing.”
“How do you know her? You don’t look like the type to read monarchist papers.”
“You can tell this just from looking at me?”
The Scarhands worked in the business of counterfeiting, arms dealing and information, and Reymond had sacrificed ten years, dozens of men and two fingers to carve out his gang’s place in the North Side. Reymond credited his power to his blood talent: he could see through any lie. But he probably didn’t need it to guess that the dare in Enne’s words was empty.
“Most of the Pseudonyms are dead,” Reymond said flatly. “Lourdes Alfero is smart. She survived this long. If she’s missing, though...”
“Please, where was she last seen?” Enne’s voice quivered.
“She frequented the Sauterelle. It’s a cabaret a few blocks off Sweetie Street. There, they’d probably know her as Séance, her pen name.”
Enne paled at the mention of Sweetie Street. “Are you sure—”