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I got out of the car and grabbed my suitcases, rolling them up to the sidewalk.
“Hey,” Birdie called out after me. “How about dinner tonight? A celebration for when I ace this test.”
I smiled. “Sure, that sounds good. How about Sinatra at seven? I’ll make us a reservation.”
“Perfect!” she shouted. “Make sure it’s on the patio.”
I rolled my eyes, but I ultimately relented, the way I always did with Birdie.
THE AL FRESCO DINING EXPERIENCE at Sinatra was one that couldn’t be matched, and I often shared dinner there with Birdie when I was home between jobs.
Nestled between giant white columns designed to make you feel as though you were in Italy, vibrant orange chairs created an intimate and cozy atmosphere on the patio. In front of the crackling fire, warmth bloomed in my stomach, and it wasn’t from the wine.
I’d taken the day to recharge at the spa, and I felt amazing. In the process, I’d even managed to come up with some ideas to incentivize Birdie in her studies. A rewards-based program like those gold stars parents gave their kids on a chart for doing a good job. Except I was dealing with Birdie, so her rewards would be Prada and Gucci. I was excited to tell her about it because I was desperate to see her succeed.
But I was already two glasses deep in rosé, and she hadn’t shown up. Discreetly, I pulled out my iphone and texted her again. She knew better than to make me wait like this. She knew better than to let me think the worst, which was exactly what I was doing.
Fire. Car accident. Hostage situation. These were just a few of the thoughts racing through my mind like a freight train. But what it always came back to was something much worse.
It wasn’t logical, but for years, I had considered the possibility that he had come back to haunt us. Even though I’d washed his blood from my hands. Even though he was declared dead and laid to rest. It always came back to him.
It was an irrational fear, but that didn’t mean I was crazy. Ricky had a lot of friends who, for reasons I couldn’t fathom, felt some sort of loyalty to him. Just because he was dead didn’t mean the threat was.
I glared at my phone for the thousandth time in thirty minutes, ready to call the waiter and ask for my check. This wasn’t getting me anywhere, and I couldn’t just sit here. I needed to find her.
Those plans were at the forefront of my mind when I looked up, hoping to find the server nearby. Instead, my eyes collided with the six foot of lean muscle who had taken up residence in the empty seat across from me when I wasn’t looking.
“Are you lost?” I scowled.
“No.” He moved the napkin aside and set his empty glass on the table. “I think I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”
A chill moved over me at the deliberate way he said those words. I couldn’t dismiss this as coincidence. It wasn’t a coincidence that he was in New York with me two days ago, and now, he was sitting across from me in Las Vegas. Lucian West and I both had a taste for the finer things in life, but our paths had never crossed until this week.
I made it my business to know the potential vipers in my surroundings, and as soon as I left that dive bar, I started researching him.
What I’d discovered so far was that Lucian was a high-profile criminal attorney with a bankroll that made mine look like peanuts. He was in the public eye and known for being ruthless in the courtroom. It didn’t seem to bother him that the newspapers often labeled him as heartless, cynical, and self-serving. It also didn’t seem to bother him that he had been forever branded as the man without morals.
In the last year alone, I found countless news articles regarding two of his clients. A celebrity and a professional footballer whose common thread were the crimes they were accused of. Murdering their own wives. It rubbed me the wrong way, but my ire was nothing compared to the public outcry when he actually won the cases and his clients walked free. It didn’t matter what the justice system had decided because in the court of public opinion, he was one of the most hated men in America.
Sitting across from him now, I had my own thoughts about him. Something was unmistakably hard about the man. A real prince of darkness whose features matched his lightless soul. He had all the trappings of an aristocrat—broad shoulders and an angular jaw, eyes the color of hot coffee, and jet-black hair with only a hint of silver streaked through the side. In short, he was ridiculously handsome if you were into the devil. But the persisting media evidence was that he was never seen in the company of a woman. It only stirred more questions about what he was doing here with me.
