Page 48 of Heist in Paradise

Madoc’s eyes flashed to mine. I considered him with stones in my chest, then turned to Callum and then Nate, who were wordlessly waiting for my call.

There was no doubt we had to check out the basement. We were in too deep now. Holstering my gun in my waistband, Kane released a premature sob of relief, then choked on it soundlessly when I leaned menacingly over the tub.

“Do not mistake me,” I drawled in a low voice. “You are going to die. How long it will take, how much it will hurt, will depend on what we find.”

The way Kane’s eyes widened and then fluttered in fear told me everything I needed to know.

We headed down to the basement.

OLIVIA

The screams bled through the walls.

With each one, I curled up a little tighter, rocking like a mental patient in the middle of a psychotic break. What made it worse was Ryle’s total indifference to it all. He moved around Salvadore’s office like a curious puppy, sniffing this, nudging that. He’d poured us both a drink from Salvadore’s liquor cabinet, but I was nursing mine, watching the amber liquid slosh around the crystal, thinking of blood.

“What is root canal?” I asked him during a prolonged stretch of silence.

Ryle sank down opposite me, his back against the bookshelves. “It’s a painful but necessary extraction.”

“Oh.”

“Callum, the big sexy redhead, used to be in the Royal Navy.” Ryle adopted a misty smile. “He taught us all these cool code names and phrases.”

“Did he also teach you how to shoot?” My eyes lingered on the gun resting by his knee like a discarded toy. No offense to Ryle, but his overall twitchiness wasn’t what you wanted when holding a loaded weapon.

“Nah. That was Madoc.” Ryle took a hefty swig. “No idea where he learned it. Madoc doesn’t talk about his past. It must’ve been super fucked up, though.”

“Because he’s such a barrel of laughs?”

“More like a trainwreck of trauma.” Ryle saluted me. “Let’s hope we don’t swing too far off the rails.”

I took a sip. The heat scorched down my throat and settled in my stomach. It wasn’t unpleasant, so I took another. Then I returned my attention to the guestbook in my lap, trying to recognize any of the names.

There were hundreds of them.

All printed and dated, going as far back as eight years. Some were recurring, some were foreign with long names, and some had actual suffixes, like Carlisle De Arthur III.

I looked for Molly and was both relieved and disappointed when there were no females listed.

Another wretched scream filled the room.

I squeezed my eyes like I could ignore it. My mind betrayed me like it always did, flashing back to Jax right before he left—the violence in his eyes, the tension in his frame, the deadly promise in the sharpness of his grin.

You dry humped him, my brain reminded me, like the catty bitch she was.

Denial was my friend, and I clung to it now, tuning out the satanic symphony that played on a loop.

Ryle was tipsy and rambling about his vehement dislike of banana-flavored things (“It’s not even based on real bananas anymore! It’s just false advertising!”) when Zola swooped in, sans painting.

She spared me a cold look and perched on the desk, admiring her cuticles like an aloof royal.

“Painting secured,” she said, clearly not talking to me.

Ryle staggered awkwardly to his feet. He opened his mouth, only to be cut off by another gut-wrenching scream. When it was over, he said: “You agree with me, right, Zol?”

“Sure,” she said, not even bothering to ask for clarification.

Ryle turned to me smugly, as if I’d been disputing his very random tirade, when he suddenly went still.