“Yeah, dude. Him and his girlfriend or whatever. She barely leaves the house. He owns an Italian restaurant in Dupont Circle.”

“I was never here,” I say, reaching back into my back pocket, grabbing my wallet, handing him a hundred-dollar bill.

“Sure.” His eyes widen and he stuffs the money in his front pocket. He gets on his skateboard and heads down the hill. I get back in my car and tap my fingers on the leather steering wheel. After sitting here for an hour, I gather my wits, get out of the car, and walk across the street.

I knock on the door five times until a short woman with chestnut hair down to her shoulders cracks the door open. She’s the spitting image of Gia, and I do a double-take. Her hands shake like leaves and faint black and blue marks cover her eyes. She bows her head in a submissive stance.

“Can I help you, sir?” Blood seeps between the cracks of her lips. her skin is white as a piece of paper, and she’s thinner than a supermodel, like she hasn’t had a nourishing meal in years. Her cheekbones are sunken in. Ryan needs to pay for what he does to women. There’s a special place in hell for him.

“Where’s Ryan Jackson?” I ask.

Instead of responding, she begins to close the door, so I shove my foot in the crack, and she slams it on my foot. I bite down hard on my bottom lip as I grunt.

“I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to speak to men.” Her voice is hoarse and meek.

“He’s beating you, isn’t he?” I say, through clenched teeth.

She flinches at my words but doesn’t answer my question. Instead, her eyes bounce between the door and the driveway.

“Did Ryan send you here to test me?” She rubs her nose. “Please, tell him that I didn’t speak to you.”

I shove the door open, and she takes a step back. Eyes filling with horror, she studies my hand closely as I grab my wallet slowly and shove a wad of cash into her hand.

“That’s three grand. Do you have a car?”

She shakes her head as her eyes narrow on the Benjamins, examining them like foreign objects she’s never seen before.

I grab my phone from my front pocket and call her a taxi. I text my pilot to have my private plane ready, then text Logan telling him that I’m sending a woman to him and the details of the flight and to get her set up in an apartment in my building.

“The taxi will take you to a private airport and a guy named Logan will pick you up after the flight. He’ll set you up with an apartment and give you what you need.”

“He’ll find me,” she whispers.