Page 56 of In the Dark

And somehow their compliance and quiet acceptance made the situation feel worse. I watched as dozens of them filed through and my uncle counted them like they were cattle.

“You stupid bastard,” I breathed, the words viscerally flying past my teeth.

I wanted this all to be a deepfake. Maybe it was AI, right? They could be doing this to switch up my loyalty, to fracture the trust that was already paper-thin between Paolo and me. Yet, his mannerisms, the way he nodded and rocked back on his heels as he discussed the transaction with the other man was authentically his own.

“Just make sure this stays quiet. Fitzpatrick’s family can take a cut, of course. Route it through my consulting business. Our financials are airtight.”

Our financials.

My fucking systems.

He knew those were mine. I’d built those digital labyrinths to help our family, not to ruin others. I’d made this possible.

I slammed the laptop shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the room before I ran to the bathroom. I leaned over the porcelain and dry heaved until my ribs felt like they were cracking. There was nothing left in my stomach to purge, but my body tried anyway, desperate to eject the poison of his betrayal. I wiped at my mouth and went to the sink to throw freezing water onto my face.

As I stared at the droplets rolling over my skin in the mirror, I cursed myself.

I’d laundered the money, cleaned it, made sure my uncle was safe, not even considering who wouldn’t be safe in the process.

I hadn’t even asked where it came from.

No wonder I’d been beaten at my uncle’s home. No wonder there were people after him, people who’d wanted him dead. No wonder he was six feet under.

I wouldn’t close my eyes to what he’d done anymore or turn the other way. I hadn’t asked questions. I’d been a good little soldier, and now my family was hanging on by a thread.

Naivety wasn’t just an excuse or a reason I could use anymore; it was a death sentence.

I marched back to the desk, my movements fueled by a cold, clinical fury. I reopened the laptop, peeling back the layers of every file, searing every scrap of data into my mind. If I was going to get my family through all this, I had to know every part of the business there was to know.

There were warehouses, truckloads of women, different revenue streams, and too much video evidence to claim Paolo was innocent. Yet one part of the video was off to me, with a logo on a truck in the background of a warehouse. It reminded me of something.

And I couldn’t shake the feeling that I might have seen it before.

I reached for the slit in the mattress I made where I’d put the SD card, my pulse thrumming in my fingertips. I debated sliding the SD card out, inserting it into the computer, and then staring at it on the screen, prompting a password again. I was hoping something would jog my memory, but then the click of the lock shattered my focus.

The door swung open with a slow, deliberate move. So much for privacy. He stood in the threshold, spinning a key around his finger with a bored, lethal grace.

“Need something, Cally?” I was still being petty about the way that woman had said his name at the precinct.

His gaze raked over me, dark and suffocating, pinning me to the spot. He stepped into my personal space, invading it with the scent of his signature smell mixed with expensive sandalwood. “You call me Callahan, like you always do,” he provoked, his voice dropping to a gravelly low. “Viper.”

“Then call me Jasmina,” I snapped, lifting my chin to meet his stare. “Like the rest of the world does.”

He didn’t move, yet somehow, he felt closer. The atmosphere in the room shifted, turning pressurized and thin. “Why would I do that?” He tilted his head, a predatory smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m not the rest of the world. I’m about to be your husband,” he whispered. Then, he reached out, his thumb catching my chin and forcing it farther upward. His touch was searing, a brand that demanded total submission.

The word husband felt like a noose tightening around my throat. I wanted to spit in his face after how he’d flirted with that woman, to tell him I’d rather die than be his, but the heat radiating from him was a drug.

“A husband is a partner,” I gritted out, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. “Not a warden.”

“In this world? There’s no difference.”

“What do you want?”

He put his hands in the pockets of his slacks and two of his men filtered in, taking their positions, their gazes fixed on the far wall as if they were invisible.

“Do you always walk around with security?” I hated that they were hearing this conversation.

“Does it matter?” he asked, like he knew I was trying to avoid the topic. “We ready to plan this wedding now that you’ve seen what type of man your uncle really was?”