Page 54
“Who’s Shiaou Lin?” Lana asks, partly confused.
“The new Greta.” I say, already getting to my feet.
“That was fast.” Brox chuckles. “But right on time.”
“I said that, didn’t I?” I smirk.
Lana throws the covers aside, climbs over Brox, and swings her feet to the floor. “I’m getting dressed.”
She stands and heads to her bedroom.
Brox pushes out of bed, too. He drags on sweatpants, not bothering with anything else, and strides to the kitchen.
I pull on boxer briefs, joggers and a black t-shirt, then head to the living room. I reach it just as Sol steps in, followed by a man—Shiaou Lin.
The first impression is height. He stands nearly as tall as me and Brox, but slimmer, all lean lines and controlled posture. Dark hair, neatly cut. Clean-shaven jaw. His clothes look expensive, but not flashy–dark trousers, white shirt, tie, tailored jacket. Every detail sits precisely where it should.
His face is almost too groomed. Too smooth. He looks more valet than soldier.
My brows draw together.
“This is Shiaou,” Sol says, gesturing between us. “He’s here for the interview.” He steps out of the way, hovering near the door, ready to leave once I give him the sign.
“Sit,” I say to the newcomer, nodding toward the chair opposite the sofa.
He does as told without hesitation. He sits straight, hands resting on his thighs, shoulders relaxed.
Brox comes in, brings three mugs of coffee and places them on the coffee table.
“Brox Boar.” He shakes his hand. “Can I get you a coffee, or something?”
“Shiaou Lin. No, thank you.” He responds curtly.
Lana shows up wearing a pink short dress, and Brox points toward the sofa.
“Let’s sit down,” he tells her.
She drops down beside me, and as she does, I place my hand on her thigh. She’s mine, she’s precious, and Shiaou should read this correctly. Brox takes the space on her other side, forming a line of three facing our guest.
“Shiaou,” he says. “This is Lana.”
Shiaou inclines his head. “Ms. Lana.”
She offers a small smile. “Hi.”
“And you know who we are,” I add.
“Yes, sir,” he answers. “Mr. Rio, Mr. Brox.”
He has a light accent, something Asian threaded through the Miami-smooth English. His voice is calm.
Sol shifts, glances at me. I nod. He takes that as his cue to exit.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he says, and slips out to the elevator.
Silence settles for a moment.
I study the man across from us. He feels like hotel staff. Someone who would glide through corridors with a tray, not break noses in an alley.
