She’s never been one to settle for an inconvenience.
“Wasn’t sure if you’d read it.” Tucking my hands into the pocket of my jeans, I peek my head into one of the extravagant guest rooms, “As soon as the dollar signs were listed, I figured you’d skim the rest.”
“This is a business deal, Christopher. Do your best not to get attached.”
Her flippant tone has my teeth grinding together.
“Do you have the report I asked for?”
“Yes, although you really should work on your penmanship.” A drawn eyebrow does its best to arch beneath layers of Botox, “Your lack of education is starting to show through.”
“And here I thought I only needed a filthy richhusband to be successful.”
“So he does have some wit left.” Dark eyes slash towards me, the click of her stilettos coming to a halt, “Wasn’t sure if life on the street had rung it out of you.”
A dry laugh escapes me, “Only the ones I love can make me bleed. You don’t have to worry about that anymore.”
The words are sharp, almost as sharp as the scrap of metal digging into my chest. Brushing past her, I open the closest bedroom door and throw my duffel bag down.
I don’t have to turn around to know she’s already gone.
Ignoring the king-sized canopy bed, I head for the ensuite bathroom tucked in the corner of the blindly white room. From drapes to sheets, everything is stark and sterile in colour, except for the film prints hanging along the wall.
Fame. Money. Glamour.
Keeping the lights off and the door open, I disappear into the dark bathroom, letting the shadows and the cool jets of water ease the pressure from my mind.
Droplets cling to the key nestled between my pecs, the tarnished piece of metal clinging to the chain around my neck. It lies flat against the only part of my body not covered in ink, a crude little souvenir that should have fallen off a long time ago.
But for some reason, it keeps holding on.
By the time I’m walking out of the bathroom, toweling off my hair, there’s a report sitting soundly atop the bag I don’t plan on unpacking.
All twelve counsel members and their respective criminal associates await me inside the folder. Countless rap sheets anda spiderweb of deadly connections promise a score bigger than anything I’ve ever seen.
Blonde hair catches my eyes, the wicked gaze of a little girl clipped to the back of the Dragon’s folder.
Calista Drache, otherwise known as the Dragon’s daughter, has no records on file. An image pulled from Wolf Hollow Academy depicts a girl with curly blonde hair and green eyes. Rumours speculate the business conducted within the Drache Manor, business which left the girl with injuries the school nurses monitored every few months.
Attached is a single image, a grainy shot of what looks to be legs torn apart. There’s so much blood covering the pale skin, it’s hard to tell the cause of the injury.
Makes me fucking sick to look at it.
Forcing myself to look away from the carnage, I study the photo of the girl again. She was a little princess even back then, the regal tilt of her chin and the ferocious look in her eyes. Even without a smile, you can tell she was destined to be a beautiful woman.
And a cynical one, at that.
A rock sinks deep in my gut as I study the anger simmering beneath the youthful surface. The fire already simmering in the eyes of a woman who won’t think twice about hitting back.
Calista Drache is a fighter alright and I have a sneaking suspicion I’m the sucker standing on the other side.
Get in. Get out. Don’t get attached.
Chapter 8
CALISTA
Men are so terribly predictable.
