Page 12 of The Devil of Downtown

My hand tightens on the edge of the table.The accident.My mother. Our mother. My fiancée. Gone in one night, buried under whispers and sealed reports.

“Names?” I ask.

“Not yet. But they’re credible. I’ll set up a meeting when you’re back from London.” Julian studies me, bracing for pushback, but I remain silent.

“Does the old man know you’ve been digging?” I ask after a long pause, even though I’d bet my whole life savings he doesn’t.

Our father—I use the term loosely—saw our mother’s death as a convenient PR opportunity. There’s nothing he wouldn’t exploit to climb the slippery pole of politics. When tragedy struck, he played the role of doting widower to perfection, tipping the election to the Senate in his favor.

Edward Black. A man who never wasted a crisis.

My mother and fiancée were killed when a car overtaking in the wrong lane forced theirs off a steep embankment. The vehicle rolled, exploded, and the other driver fled into the night. No trace. No answers. Only fire and ash.

But I can’t deny Julian is right; the disappearance of any information relating to the perpetrator stinks of a cover-up. The difference is I wanted to bury the entire ordeal along with the bodies, but Julian can’t seem to move on. He wants answers. I don’t. I want to forget. I’m sure a therapist would charge me a thousand bucks to say that’s unhealthy. But they didn’t have to see my future go up in smoke or the aftermath of the charred bodies that still haunts me at night.

“But you understand what will happen if we dig up ghosts? We’ll have to watch the entire ordeal play out again in the media.”

“So you’re happy letting the bastard who forced them off the road walk free?”

“Fine,” I force out, downing my whiskey in one. “Do what you need to do.”

The blonde on Hugo’s lap laughs too loudly, pulling me back. She tosses her hair back as she leads Hugo away to one of the private playrooms.

An auburn-haired woman appears at my elbow, topping up my whiskey, her mouth brushing my ear as she murmurs an invitation to a private room. Her nails trail up my thigh, practiced, confident. Tonight, none of it lands. If anything, it irritates—too obvious, too rehearsed. Another offer of empty sex that promises distraction and delivers nothing.

They circle me constantly, skilled in seduction, eager to claim their prize. It should entice. But surprisingly, the face that cuts through the haze isn’t theirs. It’s hers. A flash from earlier—hersmile in the elevator, the way it stirred something in my chest I thought was long dead.

It’s inconvenient. It’s stupid. It’s damn well there.

I drain the rest of my whiskey and stand, already done with the night, brushing past the woman at my side without a word.

“Leaving already?” Julian arches a brow, eyes sparkling. “You’re not staying to enjoy the scenery.”

“Some of us have work to do.”

He chuckles, leaning back, his attention already wandering to the brunette draped on his side. I don’t bother with goodbyes before I push through to the exit.

The wind has picked up as I step outside; the rain pelting me from all angles. Kent is waiting at the curb, the engine purring, the headlights illuminating the rain like fireflies. I slide into the back seat, clutching the paper in my pocket. “Where to, sir?” Kent says, eyeing me in the rearview mirror.

“I’ll go home to change, shower and pack, then take me to the airfield.”

“As you wish.”

As we filter into the traffic, I glance at Julian’s scribbles, the weight of a plan assembling itself in my head. London is tomorrow. Bexley’s heir is a monument to disaster; its trustees are nervous; the board is brittle. What I need to do now is simply a formality. The kill will be swift, but not entirely painless.

But try as I might to dispel them, my thoughts drift back to Sloane. Wide eyes, that cheeky tongue, the stubborn little smirk I haven’t shaken since this morning. On the trading floor earlier, her comment to Julian, the sweetness riding just close enough to insolence, and later, that tiny slip of irritation when she thought I couldn’t hear. It ignited something in me. I wanted nothing more than to follow her into the elevator, slam her against the wall and taste every drop of her submission.

I’ve no idea what’s got into her. More to the point, I’ve got no idea what’s got intome.Before today, she was simply my hyper-efficient assistant. On top of every task. Meticulous attention to detail. The ability to manage my chaotic schedule with pinpoint precision. The only assistant to make the grade. Goddamnit, the only time people dare to get bold with me is when they’re on the verge of quitting. Even then, most wouldn’t dare.

Before I allow rational thought to intervene, I reach for my phone, my pulse roaring as I navigate to her name.

Change of plan. I need you in London with me. Be at the airfield in two hours.

I tuck my phone away, the beginnings of a grin curving my mouth.

Perhaps London will offer more of a thrill than expected.

Because if she wants to play, she’ll find out pretty damn quick; I never lose.