Solving the mystery of the botched heist suddenly felt like the most important thing in the world.
Charley’s mind spun as she reviewed the facts.
Seventy million dollars in stolen art, boosted without a hitch, ferried away in a van that made it all the way through the Holland Tunnel, only to be stolen again somewhere on the Jersey side.
A “new guy” no one else but her father had ever met—a man he trusted enough to drive the van.
An uncle who’d taken over operations immediately, insisting his own brother had betrayed them.
The art itself vanishing without a trace, then resurfacing five years later in the home of Dorian Redthorne—Rudy’s latest mark.
And never another word about the new guy—the one Rudy had walked away from with no talk of retribution, despite the fact that he’d allegedly whacked Rudy’s brother and made off with the score.
In retrospect, it all looked too easy, too neat.
And Vincent Estas, the art dealer who’d sold at least two of the pieces from the missing cache, was a demon working for the same demon connected to a former client whose men had nearly raped and killed her.
“Charlotte,” Dorian said softly, bringing her back to the moment. “Tell me what happened to your father, love.”
She opened her eyes, took a steadying gulp of her drink, and started at the beginning.
“It was supposed to be the perfect heist…”
Chapter Thirteen
Fury tore through Dorian’s chest like a blade, threatening to obliterate the last of his composure. He forced himself to remain outwardly calm, but inside was a war zone.
On one side of the battle sat Charlotte’s betrayal—an enemy that had been festering in his heart since last night and had only gotten worse with her confessions. She’d utterly played him. She’d spun her silky web, and he’d walked right into it. One kiss, one taste of her exquisite flesh, and he was eating out of her hand, ready to believe anything that had passed between her delicate lips. In trusting her, he’d put his entire estate, his closely guarded secrets, and his brothers’ lives on the line.
It wouldn’t happen again. He wouldn’t allow it.
But on the other side of the trenches, an even darker enemy lurked, one whose very name left Dorian shaking with rage: Rudy, the piece-of-shit uncle who’d so brutally marked her. Who’d threatened the lives of Charlotte and her sister. Who’d been doing it—and probably much worse—for years.
Charlotte seemed unable to see it yet, but Dorian had a strong suspicion the man was behind her father’s murder as well.
Dorian didn’t just want him dead. He wanted him to suffer. Horribly. Along with Rogozin, and Estas, and Duchanes, and every man, demon, and vampire who’deverbrought her harm.
But it wasn’t an option. Not yet. Charlotte had said as much—one wrong move against her uncle, and she and her sister would pay the ultimate price.
Never before had Dorian felt so bloody impotent.
It was a feeling to which he had no interest in getting accustomed.
He blinked hard, trying to clear the images of Charlotte’s bruises from his mind, focusing instead on the pot of chili bubbling on the stove.
While Sasha and Aiden—who in the span of a single afternoon had become the best of mates—played a cutthroat game of Monopoly in the study, Dorian and Charlotte had relocated to the kitchen, where they’d volunteered to cook dinner so they might continue their conversation in private.
Now, he stirred the chili with a concentration bordering on obsession.
“We need to review our options,” he said, keeping his voice low. “The primary goal is protecting you and Sasha at all costs. Everything else is secondary.”
Charlotte leaned in beside him with a cutting board full of diced onions, scraping them into the pot. She gazed up at him, her eyes full of gratitude, but Dorian quickly looked away. He didn’t want to see that look in her eyes. It was hard enough to be in the same room with her knowing he’d never hold her in his arms again, never feel those lips brushing against his chest, never hear the soft, delectable sigh she made right before he drove her to the edge…
He cleared his throat, retreating to the counter to open a bottle of wine before he got himself hard again. He needed to figure this Rudy thing out—lay down the options, pick the best one, and set the plan in motion—notfantasize about their mutually insatiable carnal appetites. Those steamy nights had been pure bliss, but they were over. As far as Dorian was concerned, this was a business arrangement now—a deal not much different from the hundreds he’d conducted over the years in the FierceConnect boardroom.
Yes, but you’ve never been in love with your business rivals, you sodding idiot…
“I need to determine whether your uncle is still involved with Rogozin,” he said, pouring two glasses of Cabernet. “And whether he knows Rogozin is a demon. If he does, it’s likely he also knows I’m a vampire. And if that’s the case, I guarantee they’re after more than just my artwork, which complicates matters infinitely.”
