Nico let out a sardonic breath. “You realize, starting a new relationship with blackmail isn’t the smartest move you could make?”
“Like you would have considered a new supplier another way.”
Nico was the one who killed Oscar . . . Why?
“You have good shit?” Nico eventually said.
“The best.”
“Fine. We’ll talk about this later this week, after you make a fucking appointment like anyone else. Where are you staying?”
“Why?” Sebastian’s tone was amused. “You want to show me the city?”
“So if I decide to kill you, I won’t have to waste my time finding you,” was Nico’s deadpanned response before I decided I’d heard enough.
Before I left, I paused at Sebastian’s next words, needing to hear Nico’s reply.
“Tell me,” Sebastian said, “why did you do it?”
A heavy silence took over, and my chest tightened at Nico’s cavalier tone.
“He had something I wanted.”
“There is no great genius without some touch of madness.”
—Aristotle
I WASN’T SURE HOW I knew, but I did.
An intuition played in the back of my mind, sending a wave of uncertainty through me. The inkling itched, demanding to be made fact, and before I could stop myself I grabbed my phone from the coffee table and sent Tony a text.
Me: Did you know Oscar Perez loved to cut women up?
He responded a minute later.
Tony: WTF, Elena. No.
Since he knew it was me, I assumed Nico must have passed my new number on to him. I didn’t know what to think about them being all buddy-buddy now. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure I liked it.
Me: You sure? I guess it’s common knowledge.
Tony: Why would I lie about something like that?
Time to bait the hook . . .
Me: Maybe because you knew Papà promised me to him.
My phone rang in my hand, and I answered it with a simple “Hello.”
“What the fuck’s the matter with you?” Tony’s voice seeped with annoyance and concern. “Do you really think Papà would’ve agreed to the engagement if he knew Oscar was into that kind of shit?”
Engagement.
The word settled over my head with an unsurprising awareness, and I said, “Thank you, Tony. That’s all I needed to know,” before hanging up.
My phone chimed a second later.
Tony: Don’t be weird.
My response was juvenile, but impossible for any sibling to suppress.
Me: You’re the weird one.
My stomach dipped as a familiar magnetism walked into the office behind my back. Hypnotic and volatile, his presence brushed my skin, sinking into my pores like it owned me. However, it evoked something deep and uncertain as well, like being fascinated by the green sky of a coming storm but knowing that as soon as it hit you, there would be nothing left.
He had something I wanted.
Oscar had me . . . and then he was dead.
I wanted to dismiss the idea that Nico had done what I was beginning to think he did, or rather, why he’d done it, because just the thought started a kindling in my chest that felt suspiciously like hope.
Without hope, there’s nothing to lose.
With it, we’re nothing but dominos waiting to fall.
Still, as his presence filled this office, that kindling fed on the warm bravado of it, and grew and grew.
“You get a good look at the club?”
My grip tightened on my phone as though it could ground me to earth. “Quite.” I turned around to see him leaning against the corner of his desk, a piercing gaze glued to me.
“I don’t think I’m a fan of finding you talking to some Escobar alone.”
By his tone that was a gross understatement.
“But I can talk to you?” I raised a brow, hinting at how he wasn’t a much different man in the regard to ethics.
“Not can.” His eyes darkened. “Will.”
I wanted to ask him: If I don’t, will you make me? But the words caught in my throat. There was nothing playful in this office—there was gunpowder and flame. One wrong move and it would detonate.
I couldn’t breathe while the threat snuffed out any remaining oxygen. We only stared at each other, both recognizing the distinct longing hanging in the air like the Monet on the wall, but neither addressing it.
Nerves rattled in my veins with a cold whisper.
I wanted to be the best thing he’d ever had. To make him burn as much as he made me. I wanted him to want only me with a raw ache. However, I didn’t believe I could ever compare to the more experienced women he’d been with. And I always was a bit of a perfectionist—if I couldn’t do it faultlessly, I hesitated to do it at all.