“It’s all there,” I said. “Photos of Dante at the Ritz-Carlton with his mistress. Her name is Christina Moore. Works with him at Vive Liquors. They’ve been seeing each other for at least six months based on the financial trail.”
Vivica opened the envelope, sliding the photos out with manicured fingers. Her expression didn’t change as she flipped through them. Dante kissing another woman. Dante with his hand on her waist. Dante getting into a car that wasn’t his.
“And the financials?”
“My guy is still working on that. But he’s found shell companies, offshore accounts, money moving through the Caymans. Dante’s been hiding assets. Millions, probably.”
She set the photos down and looked at me. Actually looked at me, with something in her eyes that might’ve been pride if it came from anyone else.
“You did a good job, Prentice.” She stood, walking around the desk toward me. “I’m so proud I could kiss you.”
“Don’t.”
She stopped, that political smile faltering for just a second. Then it was back, smooth as ever.
“You’ve always been so cold to me,” she said. “I understand why. But I’d like to repair our relationship. We’re family, after all. And now that you’re back in DC permanently?—”
“Hell no.”
The words came out flat. Final.
“We’re done, Vivica. I did what you asked. Now you hold up your end. Push the casino permits through and leave Rashid alone.”
“Prentice—”
“I’m not finished.” I stepped closer, letting her see the ice in my eyes. “You don’t get to play mother now. Not after what you did. You testified against me when I was thirteen years old. You pushed for them to try me as an adult. You wanted me gone, and you got your wish.”
“I was trying to protect you?—”
“Bullshit.” My voice dropped lower. Dangerous. “You were trying to protect yourself. Your image. Your political future. I was an embarrassment, so you threw me away.”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize. Just stood there with that same calculated expression she’d worn my entire life.
“I did what I thought was best,” she said quietly. “You may not believe that, but it’s true.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you believe. We’re done. The permits. Rashid. Handle it.”
I turned toward the door.
“Until next time, Prentice.”
I didn’t respond. Just walked out and let the door close behind me.
My phone buzzed before I even made it to the elevator.
Zahara.
“Zahara? What’s up?”
“I need you to come over.” Her voice was steady, but something was wrong. I could hear it underneath. “Right now.”
“What’s wrong? You sound?—”
“I can’t say on the phone. Just come. Please.”
The line went dead.
I was already moving, pushing through the hallway toward the stairs because the elevator would take too long. Something was wrong. Something bad. I could feel it in my gut.
