The last thing I want is to sit through a meal with Margaret. Off the top of my head, I’d prefer a root canal, watching paint dry, or repeatedly dropping heavy, pointed objects on my bare foot.
“Tell her I can’t. We have too much work to do.”
“Already tried. She’s insisting.”
I close my eyes and take a breath. “Fine. But you’re coming with us.”
“Oh no. No way. I have urgent... filing. Very urgent filing that cannot wait.”
“Camille.”
“Please don’t make me. Your mother terrifies me, okay? She looks at me like she’s doing the mental math on how many of my organs she could harvest while keeping me technically alive.”
Despite everything, I laugh. “She’s a surgeon. She looks at everyone that way.”
“It’s creepy.”
“Yes. Which is why I need you there as a buffer.”
Camille sighs dramatically. “You owe me. Like, a lot. Like, ‘naming your firstborn after me’ level of owing me.”
“You say that like I wasn’t already planning it.” I loop my arm through hers and drag her along after me. “C’mon, it’ll be fine,” I promise, putting on the bravest face I can. “I’d say we deserve a nice meal on someone else’s dime anyway.”
28
STEFAN
I stride out of my office, jaw locked tight, blood pounding in my ears.
Eight years. Eight fucking years I trusted her. Gave her access to everything—my operations, my home, my plans. And the whole time, she was playing me. From the very first day.
I should have known better.Never trust a woman.
My mother taught me that. She showed me with her words and her actions that women smile and lie and wait for the perfect moment to drive the knife between your ribs.
And like an idiot, I let myself forget.
I shove through the door to the basement stairs, taking them two at a time. My hands shake with the need to hit something. Break something. Make someone bleed.
Good thing I have Mikayla locked up down here. Or Mila. Whoever the fuck she actually is.
I haven’t been down to see her in a week. I’ve been too busy trying to keep Olivia safe, trying to salvage what’s left of my operations while the feds circle closer. But now…
Now, I have questions that need answers.
The basement is cold. Concrete floors, bare walls, a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Mikayla sits on the cot I had brought down for her, hands cuffed in front of her. She looks up when I enter, and her eyes narrow.
“Back for another round of interrogation?” Her lip curls. “You’re wasting your time.”
I stop a few feet from the cot. “What’s your real name?”
She blinks. Then a slow, bitter smile spreads across her face. “Finally caught on, have you?”
“Answer the question.”
“Or what? You’ll torture me?” She laughs, the sound sharp and ugly. “If you were going to break me, you’d have done it by now.”
My hands curl into fists. “You worked for me for eight years. You know what I’m capable of.”
