“We both know about her on the Pampered Princess website,” Dom says, his voice dropping. “But what I don’t understand is why? I give her a healthy monthly allowance. She didn’t need money.”
“It could’ve been a bit of fun and–”
“It went wrong when the wrong person found out,” Dom adds.
I consider this for a moment, and the realization hits me. “She was being blackmailed?”
“And that’s what she told me the night before the accident.”
I grab a chair and sit as the weight of Dom’s revelation crushes me. The idea of Amara carrying his child feels like a knife twisting in my gut, but I push aside my feelings. Someone tried to kill her—that’s what matters now.
“Let’s think about this logically,” I say. “Who would want Amara dead? And why?”
Dom’s expression darkens. “There’s only one real reason anyone would target her specifically.”
“To take you down,” I finish his thought. “But first, they’d need information on Amara to do that.”
“Or to protect themselves,” Dom adds, his eyes narrowing. “From me.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Mayor Anderson.” His face transforms into something thunderous. “I was sent a pretty picture of Amara and theMayor. It looked innocent enough. A meal at a discreet hotel in the Northern suburbs.”
“But how does that take you down?” I ask, trying to connect the dots.
Dom runs a hand over his beard. “She was asking me questions. When was I meeting the Syndicate at the club again? What shipment was coming in through the marina?”
I whistle low. “Not exactly subtle.”
“And I saw her on the hallway camera, trying to listen to my conversation with Antonio about the Colombian deal. So I started talking to Antonio about the next Syndicate meeting and pretended that it was a big meeting. I wanted to see what happened.”
“Fuck. The night the club was raided.”
Dom nods.
The reality of the situation hits me. “She’s lucky she’s alive.”
Dom’s eyes meet mine, filled with a cold fury I’ve rarely seen. “If Anderson is behind this, I’ll gut him myself.”
“We need proof first,” I say, the rational part of my brain still functioning. “And we need to keep Amara safe while we get it, because I suspect if he is behind it, he will want her dead in case she talks.”
I stare at Dom, my mind churning with everything we’ve discussed.
Pregnant. Amara is pregnant with his child.
The words keep repeating in my head like a broken record. I should be furious, jealous, devastated—and part of me is—but another part is stuck on something else entirely.
“What’s on your mind?” Dom asks, noticing my distant expression. “Besides the obvious.”
I tap my fingers against the wooden table, organizing my thoughts. “It’s just strange that your son, Rafe, was kidnapped that same night too. Do you think the two things are linked?”
Dom leans back against my kitchen counter, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His eyes narrow slightly as he contemplates this connection I’ve just made.
“Possible,” he admits after a long pause. “Though Rafe’s situation was definitely mafia-related.”
“Maybe Amara’s is too,” I suggest, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose.
Dom’s head snaps up, his piercing blue eyes suddenly alert. “Con,” he says, the single syllable dripping with venom.
