BENLOISE ART GALLERY was spelled out in capital letters backlit by a neon blue glow.

Turning onto a side street just before the gallery, she pulled around to its rear, where signage delineated where the staff parked and deliveries were made. After she killed the rental sedan’s engine, she fumbled to get the keys disengaged from their insertion point—and was reminded of how much she despised driving herself. Opening her door, she extended a Gucci stiletto—

Slush, like a cold, oozing hand from the grave, grasped on to her foot, seeping easily through the satin strapping and causing her to glare down at what should have been clean pavement. Instead, the ground cover appeared to be a combination of motor oil, city sludge, and snow that was past its expiration date.

She glanced over at the pair of rear doors, one of which read STAFF ONLY. It seemed a mile away, and she considered re-parking herself closer to it. But no, that was too much work, she decided. Besides, these shoes were from last season. Shifting her other heel, she threw out a hand to steady herself—and landed the bare skin of her palm on the cold exterior steel of the car.

As she recoiled and shook off the burn, a stream of vile Spanish, unfit for her brother’s sister, left her lips. The past couple of days, however, had been a trial. She had had to unpack her own clothing; her bed had not smelled fresh; there had been no one to draw her bath this afternoon; and she had had McDonald’s for a repast.

At least she had liked the fries.

But she had hated everything else. Her hardscrabble youth was a long-faded memory not just due to time, but circumstance. When one was used to being waited on, transitioning to self-sufficiency, no matter how transitory she intended the state to be, was an unpleasant awakening.

And there had been other problems, too. She had called the gallery to inform them she was coming in, and an annoying woman, Margot Fortescue or some such, had been highly resistant to the idea that things were going to change. The Benloise family was back, however, and yes, although Ricardo and Eduardo’s absences had permitted things to run themselves, that time was over now—

The door to the building opened and a large shape filled the jambs. “I didn’t think you was gonna show,” a male voice said.

“How perfectly articulate of you,” Vitoria muttered into the cold.

“Huh?”

Madre de Dios, she thought as she pulled her St. John wool coat closer. Could he be any more stupid?

Then again, one didn’t expect ground beef to have an elevated command of the English language—something that had taken her a master’s degree to achieve. And she wasn’t hiring him for his grammar, was she.

As Vitoria made her way around the car, she picked and chose her footings as if her life depended upon it—and one slip might well be a mortal event given all the ice. Why had she worn these shoes? It was so much colder up here than she had packed for, her Chanel woolen suit and this coat as flimsy as two sheets of tissue paper against the chill.

“You are Streeter, then,” she said as she finally arrived at the entrance.

“Yeah.”

With the light streaming behind him, it was impossible to see his face. But she approved of the size of his shoulders and the fact that his waist was not that of a heavy drinker. What she didn’t appreciate was when he failed to move.

“Are you going to step aside,” she demanded.

“Why you here?”

“I told you on the phone. I am Vitoria. This is my brother’s business and so it is mine.”

“He didn’t tell me you was coming. He ain’t told no one nothing for a while now.”

“Get out of my way,” she snapped. “We have business to discuss—unless you’re making too much money currently to know how to spend it all.”

Streeter didn’t hesitate for long. And he complied because that was what men like him did. They were like backhoes, in this regard: power in need of direction, motivated by cash. Left to his own devices, as he no doubt had been since Ricardo or Eduardo had last called him into service, he was liable to have devolved into an inanimate object that was having trouble covering his bills.

As she entered, he shut the door behind them, and she looked around. The back of the gallery was much as she expected, a high-ceiling’d space with exposed electricals and ductwork that hung like stalactites from open metal rafters. Larger installations awaiting their time out where the patrons milled about were like passengers lined up to board a bus, some in packing crates, others draped with cloth. Cubicles for minions were arranged between filing cabinets, the office equipment and silent phones sleeping on the off time. A break area with a table, coffee maker, microwave, and mini-refrigerator was to one side.

Streeter locked them in together. “How’d you get my number?”

“I know all of my brother’s employees.” Or rather, she had remote-accessed the gallery’s server about three months before and gotten the information then. “And how to reach them.”

The man came into the light and crossed thick arms over his chest. His nose had been broken a couple of times and his skin was marked with acne scars.

Disappointing, really. His body contours had suggested their association might have been multi-layered.

“You will take me to my brother’s office, where we will discuss your employment.”

“I get a paycheck just fine from UPS.”

“And you are satisfied with your standard of living? Possess all that you would choose to own?”

There was only a brief pause, during which he no doubt considered the specifications of the latest American muscle car. “Mr. Benloise’s office is upstairs. But it’s locked and I don’t know the code. Nobody been there since he dint come in no more.”

“Lead the way,” she said dryly. “I will have no trouble getting in.”

After entering the gallery space, they crossed over to an unmarked door which revealed a set of stairs that were unmarked and uncarpeted, little more than a steel ladder painted black. As they ascended, with him in the lead, she noted that the walls on either side were likewise matte black and the motion-activated lights that came on were inset into a ceiling that was the same.

At the top, she put her body between the keypad and Streeter, and entered her mother’s birth date. As the lock slid free, she shot a glare over her shoulder.

“My brother would not appreciate the way you are looking at my legs. I am also armed and a very good shot. You can get rich or get buried. Tell me, what is your choice.”

Before he could move, she outed the nine she kept hidden in her coat and shoved it right into the man’s crotch.

As Streeter gasped and defensively went to grab the weapon, she took out her second nine and placed it to his throat.

“Do not doubt me. Ever,” she said. “I have no attachment to you whatsoever. You live or die, it matters not to me. If you are useful, however, you will benefit greatly.”

There was a tense silence. And then Streeter muttered, “You are so his sister.”

“Did the dark hair and eyes not give me away?” she drawled. “People back home always say that Ricardo and I have the same-shaped face, too. Now apologize.”

“I…I’m sorry.”

She gave him a moment to truly absorb his reality. And then she stepped away and pulled open the door. As she entered her brother’s office, lights came on sequentially, illuminating a long, thin chute of a space…that culminated in a raised platform upon which a grand desk had been placed like a jewel box upon a bureau.

There were no computers. No files. No clutter upon the smooth expanse. Just a lamp and an ashtray for her brother’s cigars. And two chairs only, Ricardo’s and that of a visitor.

On the approach, sadness choked her, images of her and her brothers coming one after the other, from their shared childhoods and then later, when they had been adults. Ricardo had always been the one she respected, much as his dictates had smothered her. Eduardo had been fun, however, a buffer between her and their eldest’s clashes.

Gone. All gone. And with their presumed passing, she had lost a bit of herself, as well.

But that would not stop her.

Stepping up onto the platform, she turned to Streeter and leaned her weight back against the desk. “There are employment reports filed on all of you. My brother Ricardo was quite meticulous about these things.” And this was true for the real employees and the hired thugs. “Yours were quite exemplary. That is why I contacted you, as I am looking for a personal guard and will pay well for it.”