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“So. Tell me.” Nick leaned on the counter. “Why did you reach out to my private investigator persona? Who are you looking for?”
Oriana slid her tongue across her teeth. Around the kitchen were several expensive knives glinting ominously. Why wouldn’t Nick murder them as a way to avoid having his secrets come to the surface? He had gone undercover before and changed his name. Surely, he could do it again. They had to find a way to get out of there.
“Let’s not get into that just yet,” Oriana said easily. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I went out dancing?”
Nick’s eyes widened, and he dropped his head back, laughing. “So, I take it your little problem doesn’t have a time limit of some kind?”
“I’ll tell you after we dance,” Oriana said, trying to ensure her voice didn’t waver. She guzzled half her glass of wine, thinking that the bottle had cost upwards of three hundred dollars. “Let’s go, Nick! Don’t tell me you can’t get on those guest lists as easily as you used to.”
It didn’t take much more prodding to get Nick out of the house. He was effervescent, excitable, like a golden retriever. As he changed clothes, Oriana sent Roland a text to pull the BMW around to the front of the building. She also said to leave Meghan at the Irish Pub because she didn’t want her to be involved if she didn’t have to be. This was Oriana’s mess.
When they got into the elevator, Brea shot Oriana a confused look, but Oriana tried to flash her a smile of confidence. In reality, she wasn’t sure if her plan would work. But gosh, it had to. It was a risk— and maybe their only shot.
As they stepped outside, the doorman said goodnight to Nick with a firm nod, and Oriana gestured toward the BMW on the curb.
“I called us an Uber already,” she explained easily.
“Wow. A nice one!” Nick said, whipping toward it to open the back door for Brea, then Oriana to get in. As she did, she made eye contact with Roland in the rearview mirror as Nick leaped in happily, closed the door, and buckled his seatbelt. Apparently, Grant had also stayed at the Irish Pub— a good thing, too, as normally, Uber drivers didn’t bring passengers. It could have been an indication something was off.
Immediately, Roland locked the doors. Oriana guessed he’d put the child security locks on the back door to ensure Nick couldn’t leap out.
“All right! Let’s get this show on the road,” Nick said, clearly impatient.
But suddenly, Roland turned around and glared at Nick. All the color drained from Nick’s face. At the door of his building, the doorman gaped at them, sensing something was wrong, and Oriana said, “You need to drive away, Roland. Drive!” So, Roland turned, started the engine, and drove away from the curb quietly until they reached the next road, where he turned and parked on the curb again.
By this time, Nick was pale and shaking.
“How are you doing, Carl?” Roland asked.
Nick flared his nostrils and tugged at the door latch, which didn’t budge. “Let me out,” he barked. “Immediately. Or I’ll call—”
“The authorities? What are you going to tell them?” Roland demanded. “Are you going to explain how you’ve been blackmailing my sister the past month? Or are you going to tell them that you kidnapped someone’s child, sold multiple forged paintings and sculptures, and switched identities at least two times? I imagine there are a number of tax evasions along with that list, but I digress.”
Nick looked like he might throw up.
“None of this has to come to light, Valentino,” Roland went on. “All you have to do is back off my sister, stop sending her terrifying messages, and stop demanding she pay you cash. And if I catch wind of you being so heinous to anyone else, I will not hesitate to send your name to the authorities.”
“I’ll take her down with me!” Nick barked.
“Right. Well, I think you kidnapping is much worse than her issue,” Roland said, rolling his eyes. “You’ll spend years in prison. Do you really want that?”
Nick very clearly did not want that. After a shuddering sigh, he stared at his shoes and said, “You have my word. I’ll back off.”
Oriana was heavy with disbelief.
“Do you believe him, Oriana?” Roland asked.
Oriana turned to gape at Brea, who was similarly pale. This had been their trial for twenty-five years at this point, the horrific thing that had divided them and taken Brea across the world.Would it all really end here, in the back of Roland’s BMW? Was life really so strange?
“Just get out of my life,” Oriana finally muttered to Nick, disgusted with him. She didn’t want to see him again.
Due to the child locks, Roland had to get out of the car, walk around, and let Nick out. When Nick scampered out, he stumbled on the curb and nearly fell on his face, which would have been the cherry on top.
“I cannot believe that worked,” Brea whispered, dropping her head on Oriana’s shoulder as Roland returned to the driver’s side.
“He’s a rat,” Roland said. “And we just happened to have a rat trap all set up for him. Easy.”
When they got back to the Irish Pub, Grant and Meghan leaped in the BMW, and Roland drove them away from Nick’s building toward the Upper West Side. After Oriana explained everything that had happened, the five of them fell into a stunned but comfortable silence, on the other side of an explosive incident that had probably changed them for good.
