Page 45 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

“Organized crime?”

“In most cases, yes,” says Mike, sorting through paperwork on his desk. “You would think in a city like New York, the police would have everything under control, but big cities tend to be breeding grounds for crime. Once these organizations gain power, they can influence police decisions, buy them out. Before you know it, you’re dealing with a real-life Gotham situation, where the entire city falls. Either you’re swimming in wealth, or you’re left with nothing, not even a pot to piss in.”

Not exactly what I want to hear on a Saturday afternoon, but the truth is always better than hearing lies.

“You think the driver of the vehicle is running from someone powerful?”

“Yes,” says Mike. “But they’re taking risks by leaving you my contact information."

“Who could they be running from?”

Mike spins around in his chair, opening a draw. After flicking through a few documents, he produces a sheet of paper, handing it over.

“Is this where you were this morning?”

I glance at the photo, nodding immediately when I see the orange garage doors. “Yeah. How did you know?”

Mike files the document back into the draw. “Your mother used to store her belongings in one of these units.”

“Impossible,” I say. “My mother was a hoarder. She kept all her stuff in the house.”

“Stuff she didn’t mind you seeing,” says Mike, looking at me pointedly. “Unfortunately, everyone has secrets, sides of themselves they would prefer to keep locked behind doors. Your mother was looking into her past, but the past had already been written and she was never going to get a lead on anything. In the end, I told her to burn her notes and draw a line under everything—I could see she was getting distressed,” says Mike. “But your mother didn’t want to burn the notes. She felt like it would be a big waste of her time to do that. That was when I suggested the storage unit. She could keep her journal entries safe, and if she purchased a unit on the other side of the city, she wouldn’t be tempted to visit.”

“What was in the journal entries?

“Stuff in her past that was never going to mean anything.”

“The Crows?”

Mike’s gaze shifts as soon as I mention that. “How exactly do you know about the unit?”

“The label on my mother’s dress matched the zip code for the location.”

“That is a very far-fetched reason, Miss Bennett.”

“Yeah, well,” I say, shrugging off the thought of my boss, choosing to keep the bastard out of this. “I like to read between the lines.”

“And the Crows? How do you know about this particular organization?”

“My mother drew a picture of the symbol.”

“I see,” says Mike, studying me carefully. “Your mother was never meant to go back to the storage unit. From what you’re saying, it sounds like she sewed the zip code into the label of the dress to remember the location in case she ever needed to go back…” Mike swipes a finger over his chin, deep in thought. “As for the Crows, they were dismantled many years ago.”

“Is this what my mother came to speak to you about?”

“Yes.”

I glance at the nameplate on the desk. The words Mike Myers, Investigative Journalist are ingrained into the wood.

“Was she involved in the Crows? Was she in trouble?”

“Nothing of the sort,” says Mike, flashing me a reassuring smile across the desk. “In some ways, Elanor was exactly like you. She never knew when to stop digging. Her curiosity was bound to get her in trouble at some point. In some ways, I suppose it did, as she made herself sick.”

“Why would this person send me to you?”

“The answer is unfortunately very obvious. The driver was warning you to stay away. That is why they sent you to me.”

“But the organization was dismantled.”