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“I don’t have time for this shit. Whatever you have to say, say in here.”
He nods at me before gesturing for her to move over to the other side of the room. They think that will give them privacy, but whatever he has to say, I’ll hear anyway.
They migrate to the corner of the small office, and I watch with a smile on my face as a very angry Payton places her hands on her waist.
“What?” She scoffs.
“You need to be careful,” he tries to whisper. Not well, I might add.
“I don’t need to do anything. I’m not scared of a rich trust-fund kid.”
“Ms. Hart, please keep it down.”
“Why bother? We all know he can hear, so spit it out already. Tell me what’s so damn important about this man that I have to listen to this shit.”
“It’s not about him . . .”
“Stop with the damn riddles.”
“His clients, Payton. Do you know who his clients are? If he wanted to, he could have Lorenzo Amanté take you out. Or Cyrus Reed. Do those names ring a bell? Cyrus basically runs the underworld. Should I keep going? Mafia, drugs, arms dealers . . . you do not want to get on this man’s bad side. If he wants to just take the money and set you up for murder, he could. The money would be the least of your problems.”
That makes Payton shut up.
From where I’m standing, I can clearly see how wide her eyes are. Couple that with her mouth hanging open, and I think she has finally grasped her precarious situation.
I move forward. “Are you done? Because I’m ready to tell her the other stipulations when we get home.”
“I—”
“Stop.”
With that, I make my way toward the door.
“Wait. Wait. Just . . . I need to speak to Mr. Baker for a minute. Alone,” Payton asserts as if I would try to stop her. She can talk all she wants. It won’t change anything.
I shrug. I’m done with this anyway. “Go ahead, but know that he can’t do anything to change what’s about to happen.”
Chapter
Twelve
PAYTON
What. The. Actual. Fuck. Just. Happened.
I’m supposed to just follow Trent and move in so he can “monitor” me?
I pinch myself, double-checking this isn’t a dream. Or to be completely accurate, a nightmare.
Mr. Baker has the spine of a wilted flower. On its last legs before a snowstorm. He’s so useless it truly makes me mad.
“I’m just supposed to go along with all this?” I ask him.
No matter what Trent just said, he must be able to do something to help me. He’s a lawyer. The one who probably drafted the will.
Do I even believe him about the mafia ties? That excuse sounds completely ridiculous. None of this popped up on Google; wait, would that show up on a basic search?
No. It wouldn’t.
