by Lana Sky
Perhaps Damien thinks that fact might shock me. Oh no, my father didn’t happen across me by chance, but he sought me out because my case paralleled another he’d worked on. How evil.
But the bastard is a liar. And he’s ruthless. There were some lines even Simon hadn’t crossed. I asked my questions last night, but this morning brought my answers: Damien is more than just creepily intuitive.
After fishing out the bottle of wine hidden under my desk, I fill my mug to the brim and down half of it before focusing my attention on the small object beside my computer keyboard. It’s black and square-shaped, and it resembles an earpiece one might use for telephone calls.
Or spying.
I found it tucked discreetly near the bulb of my desk lamp this morning. I didn’t have to look hard—it was almost as if whoever had placed it there wanted me to find it. For all I know, there could be more. Or a camera watching me from some unseen corner.
If so, I give my audience a damn good show. I smile until my jaw feels liable to fracture from the stress. I comb through my work at record speed. I even deign to join the others for drinks after.
Anything to ignore the persistent reminders of last night. My throbbing arm. My worn, broken fingernails. The slight ache between my legs…
Stop. No fear. No flashbacks. He won’t win again. Determined, I keep on smiling. At the bar, I buy a round of drinks for everyone and take the first shot to come my way, pushing the thoughts back.
When the last tab is finally paid, I enter a town car alone and direct the driver toward the Harrison Hotel rather than the Lariat. I book my usual suite and toy with the idea of buying a bottle of wine from the downstairs bar. Something cheap enough to make a rich bastard choke.
Somewhere during the trip down the hallway, I lose my nerve and enter my room painfully sober. Groaning, I strip my coat, leaving it by the door. Then I switch the light on and head straight for the bed, intending to sink beneath the covers and into oblivion.
A shadow catches my eye at the exact moment an ominous scent floods my nostrils: roses. My footsteps falter, forcing me to clutch the wall for balance. I’m just paces from the door, but escape feels miles away.
“Wait,” my intruder commands. He stands near a massive window with his back to me.
I tense. He’s dressed in black, accented with gray tonight. Like always, the blindfold is tied neatly over the ridge of a black ponytail. In any other circumstance, I might consider him appealing.
As it stands now, I can’t read the bastard at all.
Daddy’s tried-and-true method fails me thoroughly where Damien is concerned. The man wears no mask. There’s nothing to judge. Just plenty to hate.
“Get the hell out.” I’ll beat him to the punch. My fingers swipe at the door but tremble too badly to grip the handle. I knot them into fists and inhale. Get a hold of yourself. “Now,” I huff between ragged breaths, “before I call the police—”
“I’d like to suggest that we renegotiate our previous agreement.” He’s too calm. Even though I know he can hear me pawing at the door again.
Yes. I get it open. All I have to do is throw myself over the threshold and run.
“If you’re still willing to agree to my terms, that is.”
“Your what?” I snap. How dare he keep talking as though this were a normal meeting. A normal day. As if we were normal goddamn people.
“My terms.”
“Terms?” I parrot him while looking over my shoulder. “Did they include leaving me incapacitated?”
And alone. In the dark. Something he himself mocked me for fearing. Not that it matters. He can play silly mind games all he wants—just as long as he keeps his toys to himself.
“By the way, I found one of your little spies.” I expect him to at least flinch in some semblance of guilt. The bastard doesn’t even sigh. “Right. You called me boring, but how interesting must your life be if you decide to listen to mine every fucking day, huh?”
Oh, because he has been listening.
“Please close the door, Ms. Thorne. Then we can discuss why I’m here.” He doesn’t sound so suave anymore. The catch in his voice prompts a manic surge in my heartbeat—but out of fear or triumph?
My, my, it looks like I’ve annoyed the unflappable Mr. Villa.
Good.
“I don’t think so.” I pull the door open wider. “I want everyone in this whole damn building to hear. Come for me and I’m screaming.” Which will be quite the feat considering I’m barely speaking louder than a whisper. “Now, get out—”
“I wanted to…apologize.”
I tense, waiting for the laugh. The cruel punchline. The mocking taunt. Panic sweeps through my veins when seconds pass without him performing either act.
“Most men send flowers to do that,” I croak. “They don’t break into people’s private rooms. Though, with your affinity for destroying things, maybe you should stick to mangling rose petals. By the way, I looked into my father’s record as you suggested.”
He inclines his head. “Oh?”
“Congratulations. I’ve learned that he’s a good man who’s done his best to right his past mistakes. Anything else? Any more nasty hints you want to drop? No? Then get the hell out—”
“You sound healthy enough. The drug can sometimes cause lasting fatigue. You’ve recovered?”
He’s doing it again. Displaying that terrible knack of humanity like a switchblade, shoving it discreetly where it can penetrate the deepest. He doesn’t really care. Despite the way his head tilts, putting his ear in the prime position to catch my reaction: gritted teeth and rapid breaths.
“I recovered, all right. I had plenty of time while I was crawling to my room alone, in the dark, to reflect upon why I should listen to my father the next time he warns me about a dangerous, psychopathic—”
“And here I was, assuming that you had such a wonderful day.” He cocks his head with devastating candor, his voice ice cold. So much for playing contrite. “Whatever happened to your smile?”
Bastard. Finding his little toy was one thing. Hearing him parrot such casual banter from my daily life is another entirely. I’m shaking, and this time, I have no trouble stepping into the hall.
“Goodnight, Mr. Villa,” I spit out without looking back. “Enjoy the view. And from now on, you can take your so-called apology and shove it up your ass.”
Such a callous statement would demand a slow, collected walk to go with it. Any other night I’d try, but I can’t reach the elevator fast enough. Once outside, I chase down a cab—but rather than the Lariat, I have the driver take me to the one place I instinctively know Damien won’t dare venture.
I go home to Heyworth Thorne.
And I intend to tell him everything.
I open my eyes to a perfect bedroom ripped from the pages of a home and garden magazine. One of those glossy editions featuring rooms resembling a dollhouse setup more than anything people actually live in. This dollhouse family loves their pastels: lemon-yellow walls reflect the bright sunlight streaming in through a bay window.
Tucked beneath a matching duvet, I barely slept. Though not for lack of trying.
My cage was carefully prepared in advance, courtesy of Diane, Daddy’s second wife. I recognize her handiwork; she must have come into the room last night, fished an ornate box from the antique wardrobe in the corner and withdrew enough nightlights to fill every single outlet. Then she switched on the white noise machine hidden behind a potted fern to block out any hint of an approaching thunderstorm.
She even left clothing out for me: jeans and a simple blouse—both black and unassuming. After getting dressed, I make a show of yawning as I descend the steps to an audience of one.
“It’s not like you to pop in so late, sweet pea.”
Daddy stands in the doorway of the kitchen, sipping coffee from a mug while wearing his trademark grin. Ours mirror each other, in fact: pearly white and perfectly straight. But he strays from the script; his eyes narrow and give me
an anxious sweep.
“Is everything all right?” He doesn’t require a drug to see through my defenses.
“Everything’s fine,” I lie, straight-faced. “It’s just… I wanted to check up on you.”
“Oh, really?” He sighs. “I may be getting on in years, darling, but I’m not oblivious. Now, don’t lie to me. You saw the news last night, didn’t you?”
I say nothing as my heart hammers away in my chest.
“I don’t want you to worry,” he continues. “The police will find out who is behind these horrendous crimes. The perpetrator won’t get away.”
The sarcasm in his tone makes me suspect that he has an idea of who that perpetrator might be. “You think Damien Villa is behind this?”
“Not him directly,” he admits without an ounce of hesitation. “His family perhaps. His brother. They’re dangerous, Juliana. But I don’t want to discuss this now. Come, I bet you’re starving.”
He inclines his head for me to follow him into the kitchen, where a steaming plate of breakfast is already waiting for me, courtesy of his chef, Craig. Daddy takes the seat beside me and fishes a cigar from his pocket.
I glance at the clock. “Isn’t it a little too early for that?”
Rather than answer me, he takes a puff of the cigar and inhales the smoke so deeply that he coughs.
I make a show of fussing over him, patting his back. “Daddy, you know this isn’t good for you—”
“I increased the guard duty I have on you, at least until the conference,” he admits, in between two more puffs. “I told them to give you your space, but they’re alert. Have you noticed a difference at all?”
Difference? Yes, I have. Primarily, a deranged lunatic strolling into my home like he owns it.
“Y-yes.” By some miracle, I keep my flawless smile intact. “I’ve felt safer.”
“Good. Good.” Daddy sighs. Apparently, I’m not the only one exhausted by these past few days.
“What’s wrong?”
When I shift closer to him, he slaps his hand over the newspaper lying nearby. I only catch a glimpse of the headline before he rolls it up and tosses it aside: Borgetta Prosecutor Found Dead of Suspected Suicide.
I reach for my untouched mug of coffee and gulp a mouthful of liquid to disguise the shudder ripping through me. Another murder. Could Damien or his family truly be behind it?
I don’t know and that terrifies me.
“How are the campaign preparations going?” I ask, desperate to change the subject. Looking at Daddy’s tortured expression, I realize I’ve stepped on a landmine instead.
“Slow,” he replies. “It seems my prior donors have been discouraged from continuing their contributions.”
He doesn’t have to say why: because of Damien.
The man isn’t done “discouraging” me, either. My cell phone rang once in the early hours of the morning, displaying a message from an unknown number. I deleted it without bothering to listen—I have no proof the call came from him—but it fit his MO.
He merely wanted to reinforce his presence and drill one fact into my skull: He can always find me.
“Juliana?” Daddy covers my hand with his. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” I widen my smile only to belatedly remember the topic at hand. “I’m so sorry, Daddy. Discouraged… What do you mean?”
“Intimidated.” He scowls into his mug. “It seems the bastard is determined to thwart my campaign before it can even begin.”
A preemptive strike. Like nipping a wayward rose in the bud—or poisoning a potential threat with oleander. Swift and malicious with an unmistakable artistic flair. The man truly is a sadist.
“But why?” I swallow hard, hating the hoarseness in my voice. “Why is he doing this?”
“Oh…” He shakes his head, but I don’t miss how his eyes cut to the discarded newspaper and back. “It’s this damn mess with the Borgetta case. What happened to his brother was unfortunate but—”
“His b-brother?” Coffee sprays from my mouth, splattering the table. I cough to disguise my shock. Then I snatch up a napkin and dab at what I can reach. “I-I mean…oh, now I understand.”
Of course. How could I be so fucking stupid? Damien’s brother was at the center of the case my father tried, and all of his cruel taunts make sense now: I watched you. Know thy enemy. You’re just like your father…
“They’re all criminals, that family. I don’t give a damn what anyone says. The other brother, Mateo, has been rumored to belong to a Columbian cartel, and Damien pretends to be above it, but he’s a part of it too.”
Daddy’s never sounded like this before. Callous. A sneer contorts his features; he’s a stranger. A heartbeat later, he squeezes my hand and chortles, his charming self in the blink of an eye. “But I don’t want you to worry about this, sweet pea. Enjoy your breakfast—”
“Daddy, can I ask you something?” The question is out before I can even process it.
“Anything, darling.”
“Why are some of your past cases struck from the record?” It should sound so harmless in hindsight. So harmless and innocent that my father nearly jumps out of his skin.
“Juliana…” His tone hardens in a way I’ve rarely heard. He spoke to criminals like this, seen only in clips of his glory days sometimes plastered over the news in conjunction with the current headlines. “Were you looking for a case in particular?”
“No,” I admit. Only now I wonder if I should be. If Damien was more than planting suspicions in my skull for the hell of it. “I was just curious. Looking for examples of all of the good you’ve done to help combat the press.”
“Old cases get cleared from the records all of the time,” he says. “I’ll leave you to your breakfast.”
He leaves, taking his cigar with him. Presumably to return to his office and fume.
The moment he’s gone, I grab the newspaper he left behind and read it surreptitiously from under the table. As expected, the headlining story contains even more scandal.
The man who prosecuted the Borgetta murder case ten years ago—a man with emergent ethical complaints related to evidence tampering—was found dead of a gunshot wound to the head last night. Self-inflicted, according to the police.
Daddy’s sudden interest in my security makes sense now. He’s afraid.
Though maybe he should be. I run my fingers along my shoulder, struck by a sudden realization: Simon isn’t the only monster bold enough to hunt me these days. Could I be the star of the next grisly headline? My stomach churns and breakfast becomes an afterthought.
If Damien Villa is behind these murders, it wouldn’t be much of a leap. Given the morbid nature of his art, there’s no telling where a man like him would draw the line from paralyzed subjects to lifeless victims. Murder could run in the Villa family. Though how would I know. I never had siblings—the closest thing I might compare that affection to is my friendship with Leslie.
And I’m still suffering the consequences of failing her.
How far might someone go for their brother?
While I haven’t read too much into the case overturning the Borgetta conviction, I’m inclined to believe my father’s judgment.
After all, some display their darkest impulses for the world to see.
Like Damien’s art…
I shiver, recalling how illustrated, hollow eyes held me captive. In the model’s painted gaze, I found terror, fear, passion, life. Those elusive traits a certain artist claimed I didn’t possess.
Just how long has he been watching me to know as much? I left his bug in my office drawer—a rather stupid hiding place in retrospect—but something warns me there are more. In the boardroom? In the hallway? The lobby? I name every location I can while avoiding the most obvious target.
The thought of Damien listening in on my private moments is enough to drive me upstairs, into the shower. I turn the water as hot as it can go and scrub my skin raw. Then I redress in Diane’s borrowed clothing, sequester my
self in the guest bedroom, and do the one act that Simon, after all these years, never made me do. I call the office and I take a week off work, citing the drama around my father’s overturned cases.
“I just need a few days,” I lie.
When I return downstairs and join my father in the great room, I intend to announce my desire to spend the rest of the week. As Daddy angrily flips through the channels to avoid the news stations, the words are poised on the tip of my tongue. You need me here.
Try as I might, I can’t spit them out. Seven days is more than twice what Simon ever took from me at one time. I’ve already conceded my life to one dangerous man. Psychopath or not, there is no way in hell I’ll surrender more of myself to another.
Emboldened, I tell Daddy goodbye and have his driver return me to town. On the way there, I call the management of the Lariat and demand my suite be searched upon my arrival. For good measure, I request an armed escort.
Two can play the surveillance game.
Flanked by a guard twenty minutes later, I feel confident enough to face Damien head-on. Once I reach my door, I boldly swipe my keycard and step inside. Only to suffocate.
Roses.
Exotic masculinity.
Intimidation.
My nostrils flare, catching every scent before my other senses even register the danger.
“Wait, miss!” The guard grabs my shoulder, making me trip over the threshold. He mutters something I don’t hear.
I’m too busy hallucinating. Somehow, I manage to choke out a statement of my own. “What in the hell?”
I step farther into the foyer without waiting for an answer. My eyes blink, unwilling to register the scene before them.
Someone drenched my gray color scheme in a bloody shade of red. It’s everywhere. Rose petals, to be exact. Hundreds coat the floor in a haphazard spread. Menacing enough on their own, the mutilated buds are merely the icing on the cake of unease my tormentor sought to deliver.
I don’t realize that I’ve circled around to my coffee table until I’m standing before it, a trail of crushed petals in my wake.
