Page 39 of Guilty as Sin

“You are such a scamp! Okay, but you cannot tell anyone.” She raises her manicured eyebrows at me, and I give her a solemn nod. “He wanted to, you know, on a stack of—” She taps the side of her nose and sniffs. I blink as if it takes me a while to comprehend, then I pretend I’m incredulous.

“A stack?”

“Yes! And you know me, I’m no prude, a little powder never hurt anybody, but it was literally a pyramid of stacked packages of—” She gives a flick of her wrist to represent the word cocaine.

I widen my eyes with disbelief, and she scrambles to tell me more.

“I was so horrified that I told him absolutely not, and then he got furious and just kicked me out. He wouldn’t even give me a ride home! And it’s not like we were in the city, he’d driven me all the way out to some warehouse of his. I’d thought he was taking me to an airplane hangar to surprise me with a trip somewhere, I mean he’s got the plane and the funds. But no, he wanted to have—on a stack of—Anyway.”

She swallows the last of her champagne. I refill it for her, emptying the bottle, and she takes another large gulp.

“Right, so it was so far away from everything that no car service even goes out there, so I had to figure out where I was using Maps, then call six different cab companies. It got to a point where I was like, I will seriously pay you however much money you want if you come and pick me up at this random warehouse that’s at the farthest frickin’ edge of West Park’s industrial district. I swear, I had to say that so many times it literally haunts my dreams. That, and the image of a pyramid of… you know.”

I school my features to make my elation look like horror. I remind myself that this could be information that the O’Sullivans already have. It could be bad information, depending on how good Serena’s memory is. Or it could be outdated information, the warehouse no longer in use.

“That’s horrible,” I say. “I’m so sorry he put you through that. Was he always into stuff like that?”

“No. It literally came out of nowhere.” Serena shakes her head.

Our server swoops by with a fresh bottle of champagne, but Serena doesn’t notice him. I thank him quietly, and he nods at me with another sympathetic smile. As he whisks away our empty bottle, Serena nearly hits him with a dramatic flap of her hand, like she’s trying to shoo away her entire experience with Seven.

“Sorry,” she says to me. “I’m getting worked up. My guru says only happy thoughts. I have to talk about something else. Bali! Oh my goodness, you have to see this private villa that I’ve booked for the month.”

She taps through her phone to show me. I ooh and ahh over the images, forcing myself to be satisfied with the information I already have.

If it’s good information, then it’s a weapon. Brady might have guns for shooting and knives for throat stabbing, but this is my contribution. Succeeding in this world isn’t only about filling people with bullets, it’s also about making the right connections with the right people. Not just knowing who to trust, but how to manipulate those you can’t trust, how to work any connection to your advantage.

Connection is exactly what Samantha Greene avoided at all costs.

And it’s exactly what I’m here to exploit.

Chapter 18

Cora

When we leave the dark-paneled lobby and step out into full sunlight, I realize how drunk I am. I’m impressed that Serena’s still walking straight, considering she had at least a bottle more than me. But she gets into her hired car just fine without offering me a ride.

My first thought is to call Brady, to shove it in his face that I’ve gathered my own intel on Seven. I’m inordinately proud of what I’ve just learned, especially considering that it might not be useful at all. Regardless, I want to lord it over Brady. But when I stumble on a flat piece of sidewalk, I realize I’m not exactly credible at the moment.

I need either food or a nap, or better yet both. I’m tempted to turn toward my favorite falafel place, but it’s Jen’s favorite too, and I choose not to risk it. It’s still business hours at the clinic, so I sneak through the back alley to my apartment. After I wobble up the outdoor stairs, it takes me a few tries to unlock the door.

Connor’s sprawled on the sagging couch, watching Netflix with a Sam Adams on the coffee table in front of him. Apparently my little brother, whose ass I saved by getting married, is perfectly happy to spend his day sitting around my apartment drinking beer.

“That subscription better be with your credit card,” I say, slurring more than I intended.

“Are you drunk?” he asks.

“I dunno, are you stupid?” It was one of our go-to comebacks as kids, and I can’t think of anything better at the moment. I stumble to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water, while Connor mutes the TV.

“Jesus, Cora. Shouldn’t you be⁠—”

“By the way,” I interrupt. “When were you going to tell me that your whole reason for coming to Chicago was to scheme for an alliance with the fucking Vanleusens?”

“How did you know that?” He’s suddenly cagey, and he pushes himself off the couch to join me in the tiny kitchen. “Did Brady tell you? Does he know you’re here?” My brother sounds worried for both me and himself. His bruises are healing, his face now a mess of green and violet instead of dark purple and black.

“I have my own ways of gathering intel,” I say haughtily. “And does it look like I give a shit if Brady knows my whereabouts?” I slurp down the much-needed water, spilling a bit on my dress.

“You should give a shit.” Connor crosses his arms.