No clues. Heck, I have no clue what I hope to find, but I have to trust I’ll recognize crucial info when I see it.
My stomach rumbles, and I glance at the modern clock at the end of the wall. Eleven.
Can I sneak a banana from the kitchen without Hannah noticing?
I’ll need fortitude for my food strike later, when she inevitably tempts me with some fancy Italian feast.
Okay, maybe I’m not the best prisoner. But not eating is the only way I can think of to rebel against this situation. I have to show my discontent somehow.
Not like the bastard cares.
I traipse down the stairs, past the empty living room toward his office.
On a whim, I press my ear against his door, listening for sounds.
It’s quiet.
My pulse rattles as I reach for the doorknob and turn, fully expecting it to be locked—
Click.
It opens.
The light is on in the adjoining bathroom, but the door is wide open and no one’s inside.
Swallowing my gasp, I tiptoe inside the masculine space, walls paneled in black wood and leather, illuminated only by the pale daylight peeking through the gaps of the dark curtains. A treadmill rests in the far corner next to a lounge area.
Built-in bookshelves are filled with books—Ren was right, the mobster likes to read—notepads and folders stack neatly on a stately walnut desk. A lone laptop is perched on top, flipped open.
I bite back my squeal of excitement and hurry over, first checking the notepads for pen marks or messages.
Damn it. They’re pristine. No clues here.
The folders contain nothing interesting—articles about the stock market and prominent people—probably research he’s doing on his next marks.
There’s a slip of paper tucked beneath it. A hastily drawn diagram withrandom words.
The Council, six different last names, one of which is the Berishas, a list of companies, and at the bottom, phrases that put things into perspective.
Russian Bratva, Irish Mob, Chinese Triads, Italian Mafia, Albanian Mob.
This has to be a big-picture diagram of The Association’s structure. My pulse quickens as I review it again, trying to make sense of it. I recognize the last names under The Council—some of the wealthiest families in the world who are part of my family’s old-money circles. The company names are Fortune 500 conglomerates owned or affiliated with them.
My mouth dries, and I swallow.
That’s it.
That’s why The Association is so dangerous, why they get away with all these heinous crimes. They control the wealth and de facto governments. And now it looks like they control the gangs too.
Mind reeling, I return the paper to its original spot and continue searching.
Most of the drawers are locked, with the only one unlocked being a perfectly organized, color-coded stationery drawer. Ten black pens. Ten blue pens. Ten red pens. More sticky pads. Small box of paperclips.
The devil is precise.
I check the laptop next, but unfortunately, a facial scan flashes the moment I press a key.
So, that’s a no-go.
