“That’s enough,” Eli says. “Bobby, stop recording.”

I pull the gun from the girl’s mouth and her lips smack together. She looks at me and for a second, it’s with something other than terror. My gut drops. Pryntsesa. Maybe she did hear me. Then she slides onto the floor, crying in big racking sobs. “I want to go home! I want to go home!”

I wipe the barrel on my T-shirt. “We done?”

“We’re done,” Eli agrees. “Bobby, take the footage, edit it together and send it. Miss Whitehall, if you can stop crying, you can have a suite upstairs. Clean clothes. A big bed to sleep in.”

“I want to go home!”

“She’s too far gone,” Doc says. “She won’t stop whining now.”

My Glock is still in my hand. One bullet between the eyes, faster than heaven. The girl never got to dance for an audience. Adulthood is just another stage she’ll never perform on.

Ell walks to the wall and presses the intercom. “Gretzky? We’re finished. Bring Harvey and Sal and a cleaning kit. I want the girl in the basement and the entrance hall cleared. Now.”

The basement. The little cage Morelli built to keep people we’re not ready to kill yet.

“I want all of you in the dining room at midnight.” Eli heads to the stairs, his mood clearly soured. Bobby follows with the camera.

Doc and I stand in front of the fire and watch Gretzky carry the girl from the room, her limbs swaying like a dead deer. When they’re gone, Doc slaps a palm on my shoulder. “Hey, Adri, what’s ‘Pryntsesa’ mean?”

The icy insect picks at the base of my skull.

“Oh, I remember. It’s Ukrainian for ‘I’ve fallen for teen pussy. How am I gonna surrender my way out of this one?’”

Rage flares in me like propane. I grab his T-shirt and wind the collar around my fist. “I want her dead.”

“Because that would make the feelings go away, wouldn’t it?”

I want to kill him, but I force my hand to unclench. There’s no point in fighting Doc. He eats anger and drinks frustration. I turn and head for the staircase.

“You owe me a new T-shirt, fuckstain.”

I glance back. “I’ll pay you in advice. That pussy’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Whatever you say, Pryntsesa.” Doc’s laughter follows me out the entrance hall.

Chapter Five

Elliot Morelli

January Whitehall. When you first see her, you think ‘yes, that’s a pretty girl.’ But the longer you look, the more the simplicity slides away to reveal a woman shaped by angels. Her skin isn’t smooth, it’s flawless. Her face isn’t lovely, it’s that of a goddess stepping off a seashell. Her body isn’t decent, it’s big-titted, long-legged perfection. The horniest fifteen-year-olds wouldn’t have the balls to dream it up. Soon she’s so beautiful it almost hurts. Then it does hurt. That sparking need to touch her. To make her yours. I have always had control. Always been able to wait for what I need.