Page 60 of Taken In Trade
Though, to be fair, I probably do the same shit to him.
Moretti takes the final turn, and we approach the gate to the Chapmans’ mansion.
“Why are we here?” I ask, nodding out the window.
“You made it into the Chapman compound and back out again without being noticed,” he says calmly. “Twice, if what Patrick said was accurate.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
Truthfully, it wasn’t even that hard. I watched the house for close to forty-eight hours with the hope I could catch Vanessa leaving the property. It would have been easier to approach heroutside the gate, but the only time she left, her father and several guards accompanied her.
The only way to get to her was to get inside the mansion. The back fence is twelve feet, but there’s a vine growing on one corner. I used that as my access point, and once I was inside, it was a game of avoiding the cameras and the guys doing security rounds.
“Perfect,” Moretti says. “I’d like you to walk me through that.”
“Why?” I ask. “You want to break in?”
“I do not,” he says coolly. “This is your chance to impress me. Consider it an olive branch. One I wouldn’t take for granted.”
My eyes narrow as he drives past the gate that blocks access to the long driveway that weaves up to the mansion.
Olive branch, my ass.
He’s a condescending dick.
At the same time, he will be a problem if I blow him off.
I have plans to spend a considerable amount of time exploring Vanessa’s soft little body. Making an enemy of her husband will only make that goal more difficult.
“The guardhouse always has three guys—two of which are highly armed,” I say, trying to keep the animosity out of my tone. “The third plays nice, coming out to receive any packages. In the two days I watched the property, no one was allowed inside to drop off deliveries. They’re handed off at the gate…”
Moretti listens intently, circling the neighborhood three times as I tell him all the pertinent information.
Once he’s satisfied, he drives off without saying a word.
The trip to wherever we’re going is equally silent, and it grates on me.
Would it kill the man to put on the radio?
If I had my earbuds, I’d pop them in and listen to a murder mystery podcast or something.
“Are you familiar with this area?” he asks, pulling onto a street I’ve never been on before.
This neighborhood also has spaced-out, multi-million-dollar mansions.
“No,” I say simply.
If I were trying to get into one of these places, I’d hit it during the day—unless I knew the family was out of town. It’s early afternoon, and most of the houses will be empty due to the owners working weekdays.
“I keep tabs on the other Boston families,” Moretti says. “Not because I care what they do with their time, but because it’s good business to know one’s enemies. We don’t micromanage one another. Everyone is free to deal in what they wish, whether it be drugs, guns, secrets, or gambling, but there is one pie off-limits in Boston—human trafficking. Someone has broken that accord, and I believe Grigoryan is who we have to thank for that particular brand of ugliness.”
My head whips in his direction, and his face is deathly serious.
Shit.
I’m not the most upstanding citizen. I never would have survived in the MC if I wasn’t willing to break a few laws from time to time, but human trafficking is the lowest form of evil.
“Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find any hard evidence of his crimes,” Moretti says. “The entrance to Grigoryan’s property will be coming up on the right. Give it a look over. See if anything stands out.”
