Çela’s partner, the other killer that day.
Someone’s onto me, but I can’t bring myself to care.
All I can think of is—kill.
Chapter 37: SHARP EDGES AND SOFT CARESS?S
Silverware clatters on plates.Chairs squeak on parquet floors. A string quartet’s version of “Joy to the World” plays in the background. The dinner portion of this ball is in full swing.
The aroma of butter-poached lobster and applewood-smoked quail, or the sweetness of the dark chocolate spiced curry scallops should entice me.
But my stomach twists instead.
I’m all too aware of the empty seat beside me, where my husband should be. As much as I don’t want to, a thread of worry tugs at my chest.
Where is Elias? He was supposed to be back before dinner began.
Why are you worried about him? He’s a butcher; he can damn well take care of himself.
I poke at the garden salad with my fork.
“Lana dear,” a familiar silken voice purrs.
I stiffen and look up. Shkelzen stares at me, the same slimy smile on his face.
“Your husband left you. Probably too tired of your ice-queen act.”
“At least he has a queen.” I spear some lettuce and stuff it into my mouth.
It was that or stab him in the eye.
He chuckles, nudging Agron. “The Anderson airs. They always thought they were too good for us.”
“And yet, here we are.” Agron smirks. “Her brothers are doing our bidding now. All to protect their precious younger sister.”
He swivels his tumbler, arrogance dripping off his frame. “What was it, cousin? Ten million? Or thirty? The amount of money we laundered through their hotels last month?”
“Fifty. All tied to their name.” Shkelzen chuckles, eyes full of victory. “Prime crop, our recent shipment from Lithuania. The girls aren’t even eighteen, but have the best tits and ass I’ve seen in a while.”
My knuckles tighten around my fork, face heating from rage.
We Andersons pride ourselves on our good name. We give back to the community. Open shelters. Donate to charities. It’s our philosophy.
And now, we’re tied to human trafficking.
Because of me.
My shoulders quake, tears burning behind my eyes.
Because of something I’m supposed to get at thirty-five. And I still have zero clue what it is.
We’re sitting ducks.
“And now, poor Lana has been dumped by her husband. Frigid bitch. Probably because she can’t fuck.”
The men laugh. My veins turn to ice.
“At least I’m not fucking you!” I snap, unable to help myself.
