Page 8 of Thaddeus

Emerson

I hated these parties.

Men and women dressed to the nines.

Fake, lying bastards, the whole lot of them.

Even in their finest, with jewels dripping off the women, and money flying out of the men’s pockets, it couldn’t disguise the stink.

It was so foul they couldn’t wash it off in a hundred lifetimes. It clung to them like a second skin.

Women smiled. Men leered.

Greed.

Gluttony.

Hunger.

The room was so thick with it I could barely breathe.

Jefferson was in a foul mood. I assumed his meeting this morning hadn’t gone well. Not that I gave two shits about his disposition but I did care about the reasons behind it. I was so close to ending this sham I could taste it. I knew he had a fresh stable of girls. I needed to get to them before they were moved. Once they were on their way to Caracas, I’d lose them.

I prayed nothing had happened to the girls. The last time he did one of his inspections he was dissatisfied and had ordered the stable back to the sellers and called off the purchase. I needed Jefferson to finalize the buy, so I could be done with him.

“There you are,” Jefferson sneered and roughly yanked me to him. “Don’t wander off again.”

Irritation simmered to the surface and I had to fight not to rip my arm from his.

Come on, Emerson, you can do this.

“I’m sorry, my love. I went in search of the management. The bar was out of Beluga.”

I smiled sweetly as if I really cared the bar hadn’t stocked his favorite vodka.

“Come on, it’s time to go.”

My stomach clenched and my step faltered.

“What’s wrong with you?” Jefferson snarled and tugged my arm harder.

“I’m sorry, my heel caught,” I lied.

“Well, learn how to walk. We’re already late.”

Fucking dick.

“Sorry,” I mumbled and obediently kept my stride in perfect sync with his.

Over the last eight months I’d thought a lot about how I was going to end Jefferson’s life. He wasn’t going to be one of the men I played and allowed to walk away physically unharmed at the end. The men I simply needed information from, the ones that were low-level scumbags I worked over then disappeared.

But Jefferson Baldwin wasn’t low-level.

He wasn’t even one of the mid-level assholes that followed orders.

Jefferson was the boss, the one who gave the orders.

I’d have to be careful—he had full-time bodyguards that were always around. The only time they didn’t have eyes on him was when we were locked in our hotel suite. But that didn’t mean they were off duty. They’d be perched at every exit waiting to protect their boss with their lives.