The FBI agent rolls his shoulders, his discomfort obvious.
I used to be the one smoothing PR crises in boardrooms. Now I’m in love with the king of the underworld.
As his queen, I have a few tricks up my sleeve.
My first meeting with Tristan was on his turf.
This time, it’s on mine.
And in negotiations, making the other party uncomfortable gives me an edge.
Elias would be proud of me.An ache presses on my lungs. I miss him and I worry about him.
Scarlett slides a mug in front of Tristan. Her gaze drifts toward me, and I give her a subtle nod—proof I’m holding strong.
“I didn’t order anything.” He eyes it, brow cocked high. “Is this a thing with you guys? Free drinks?”
“You need it. Trust me.” Scarlett grins and tosses her red hair over her shoulder. “And the café’s closed. Consider it celebrity treatment from me.”
I snicker and sip my hot toddy—lemon balm, chamomile, and a whisper of spice. “You’ll get used toit.”
Tristan wanted to meet after I gave him some evidence from Elias’s micro SD card. I cloned parts of it onto a USB drive. There’s no way I’m giving him the drive itself.
It’s too valuable.
And it’s leverage—protection for Elias when we get out of this situation alive.
And we will.
“You’ve checked the evidence?” I ask.
“Yes.” Tristan leans in, fingers trailing his jaw. “Called in a few favors. It’s legit.” He levels his sharp gaze at me. “You have more where it came from.”
“The deal is immunity. Evidence on the Berishas is a finder’s freebie. I’m not giving anything more until you guarantee Elias’s safety.”
Tristan sits back, his head dipping in a slow nod. “I underestimated you.”
“Many do.”
He pulls an envelope out of his pocket and slides it across the table.
I open it and scan the pages.
“Immunity for past and future crimes as long as he cooperates. But nothing for capital offenses. I can’t help him there.”
Relief sweeps through me like a cool breeze in the Sahara. “Did you find anything on that Sable person?”
It was one of the documents I gave him—a crematory log with the Lestes’ names on it. Tristan asked me who these people were, but I didn’t tell him.
“The trail was pretty cold, but I traced the signature through our archives and consulted a handwriting specialist.” Keeping his gaze firmly on me, he taps his phone and turns it to me.
On the screen are documents compared side-by-side, red circles pinpointing uniqueness in signature samples. He swipes to the next photo. A land deed filed fifteen years ago for a company, Sable Enterprises.
The signature?
Edon Berisha.
My hand flies to my mouth as the truth unravels. This is why Elias left me.
