“What are you going to do with that place when she leaves?” Amir asked, as if the thought had just occurred to him. I shrugged. “Don’t tell me you’re venturing into the hotelier business.”
I let out a sardonic breath. “No. I bought it to ensure she was close. We can tear it down and build a home. Maybe rent it out. We’ll keep the staff on my payroll.”
I’d held myself together through dinner, careful not to frighten Sophie, but now there was nothing left to distract me. Her words replayed on a relentless loop, each one threaded with fear as she confessed her secret. I couldn’t shake the look in her eyes, the tremor beneath her voice.
The familiar buildings blurred as we passed them, but my focus was on the message I was typing out to the Blackhawk Security team. I didn’t believe in coincidences, and there was one big one nagging at me now.
Me: Team, what happened with the potential client? The one with the Black Oil Syndicate connection?
River: Well, hello to you too.
I let out a sardonic breath. River and his sarcasm.
Me: Hello.
Me: Now answer my question.
Darius: We didn’t take them on.
Me: What was their name?
River: We only have a screen name. Lover.
Darius: We’re not even sure if it was a woman or a man.
Me: Any way to find out?
I was fairly certain whoever hid behind the screen name “lover” had done their homework to ensure it was untraceable, but it didn’t hurt to check it out.
River: I can look into it again, but last time we hit a wall. It’s best if you don’t hold your breath.
Darius: What’s all this about?
Me: Just following up on a curious lead. Nothing for you to worry about.
River: I bet it has something to do with the redhead.
Kian: Aren’t you too old to use emojis?
River: I’m not old. How is this for an emoji?
Darius: Good for you, Kian. Keep her in Albania.
I slid the phone into my pocket, not bothering to answer them as the car rolled to a stop. I got out and headed straight for my office, leaving Amir to take care of his evening responsibilities.
As I settled into the chair behind my desk, I dialed Kingston Ashford. He answered on the second ring.
“I never thought Kian Cortes would be calling me,” was his greeting. “Either you’re in trouble—which is highly unlikely—or you’re about to cause some.”
“I have a job for you,” I replied, getting straight to business. “Money is no object.”
Silence followed. I pictured him leaning back, interest sparked, already recalibrating.
“All right,” he said at last. “Talk.”
I closed my eyes and drew in a slow breath, forcing my fury into check before exhaling just as slowly.
“Late last year, Stateside, a group cornered Sophie Baldwin.
