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9
Anissa
Cole holds my gaze, his eyes intense. “The person responsible is trying to impress my father.”
All my instincts tell me to shoot him down in flames. To deny every single word he says. But I can’t.
Game or not, manipulation or sincere confession, I have to remain open to the possibility he’s telling the truth.
I force myself to be patient—cool, calm, and collected—and sip my drink as the aircraft pivots to the left.
This situation is going to be difficult to explain to Taggert. Not only did I disobey his orders, but I kinda spat all over them when I boarded this exquisite jet and began doing circle work above the Portland skyline.
All I can do is hope the information provides enough evidence to take down a highly sought-after criminal. Maybe then my disobedience might be excusable, or at least ignorable.
“How do you know?” I take another sip, letting the burn of vodka energize me.
“Information isn’t hard to obtain when you know where to look.” He shrugs. “Unlike the authorities, people actually want to talk to me.”
“You mean they’re threatened to spill their guts, otherwise you’ll do it for them. Literally.”
He raises a brow, gently scolding. “For a smart woman, you have a very narrow-minded view of right and wrong.”
“How can it be considered narrow when the majority of the population holds the same view? You’re the one making up your own rules.”
His eyes consider me with patience while he swirls his glass. “When I ask for information, I give a reward in exchange. Not just occasionally. Always. People want to help me. Yet, in your case, you threaten and intimidate for what you need, and still continue to call yourself the right side of the law.”
He’s delusional.
A gorgeously charming slip of reality.
“You may reward your informants, but those people know there will be hell to pay if they don’t talk.”
“Not true.” He gives a subtle shake of his head. “I’m not the monster you think I am.”
“No, I’m sure you’re far worse.”
“I’m a businessman, Anissa. And I do my job well. I can only assume you’re one of those people who believes money is the devil.”
Not money, just you. “That’s not the case. But I do think there are more important things in life.”
“Like?”
“That’s a long list.” I’m getting distracted. I’m not usually prone to straying from a conversation, especially not when evidence is involved. “Can we stay on topic, please?”
“Humor me. Tell me one or two things more important than money.”
I pause. For some reason, I know I shouldn’t blurt out an answer. This isn’t merely chatter to him. He’s trying to learn more about me. To understand who I am.
I take another sip and ponder my response through a brain that begins to feel sluggish. “Family, for starters.”
He nods. “I can agree with that.”
A fu
His relaxed sincerity is getting to me. When compared to his antagonistic flirtation and his unpalatable games, he now seems entirely endearing.
Even though I loath to admit it, he’s not a terrible conversationalist.
“I’d have to say family are at the top of all my lists,” he adds. “Nothing is more important.”
“I already knew as much.” The Torians are famous for many things, but criminal activity and family honor are their calling cards.
I think that’s the main reason my father became heavily invested in the death of Cole’s mother. I’d never seen him affected emotionally like he had been that day. I’d assumed he was living in fear of the street war predicted by the newspapers, even though the scaremongering had proven u
The bloodshed had been strategic.
Specific.
Contained.
Every victim could be tied to Denise’s death. Nobody else had been hurt on either side of the battlefield.
Not the Torian men. Their enemies. Or the police.
Well, not that the hospitals had reported.
The Torian protection umbrella stretches past blood, covering all those loyal to the family.
I guess it’s kinda like God promising the bliss of Heaven to anyone who vows their life to him. And when it comes to Cole, the god complex entirely fits. I’ve never met anyone with a more holier-than-thou attitude, even when it’s clear he has no morals.
“What’s so fu
Shit.
I raise my glass, hiding my mouth behind another sip of alcohol.
I’m losing track of why I’m here. We’re talking about dirty money, threatening civilians, and abductions, yet my mind keeps wandering. What’s worse is that I haven’t had to keep a constant leash on my animosity.
I’ve been civil without having to act.
There’s no venom from either of us. No anger or a
For a short space of time, even though I’ve been well aware of who I’m speaking to, I fell under the spell of his charisma.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“It’s nothing.” I shake my head and a sudden case of vertigo sends me reeling. For a moment, I have to fight to blink back clarity. “Holy shit.”
I’m drunk. Already.
This isn’t right.
I stare at my glass, trying to recount how much liquor I’ve consumed.
“Are you okay?” Cole’s tone is dire as he leans forward and brushes a hand over my knee. “You do realize the oxygen up here messes with the alcohol. That vodka will hit you a lot quicker than normal.”
“Yeah.”
I watch his fingers, entranced. They’re large. Strong.
Big, solid hands capable of many, many bad things. Yet there’s comfort in his touch.
This man, with his threats and lies and dripping i
Fuck. I need to sober up.
“I guess I forgot.” I squeeze my eyes shut and the vertigo disappears with the darkness.
What I’m left with is an overwhelming sense of stupidity.
I tried to drown my a
“Do you want me to get you a bottle of water?”
The kindness in his voice doesn’t sit right. It’s too nice. Too uncharacteristic.
This isn’t the Cole Torian I know. Well, it’s not the man I’ve researched. He’s meant to be callous and spiteful. Just like the man I verbally sparred with in his restaurant.
“Water would be great. Thanks.”
I hear the squeak of his chair, the soft pad of footsteps, and the gentle suction of a fridge door opening and closing.
Goddammit, I need to pull my shit together. This isn’t professional. I’ve found a cash cow of information, and I’m kicking it in the teeth.
Not that it’s deliberate. I can usually hold my liquor. One or two drinks a night is my daily sedative to help me get to sleep. And here I am, floundering like a teenager on their first bender.
I massage my forehead, trying again to figure out my intake.
I threw back a generous amount initially, needing an immediate hit to lessen all the emotions. Then Cole topped me up with the same amount, which is still half full.
That makes… What? Two standard drinks in quick succession? Maybe three?
“Here.” Coldness presses against my upper arm, the chill from the bottle seeping through my blouse.
“Thanks.” I meet his gaze as I grab the offering. “I’m sure I’ll be okay in a minute. I guess it’s the oxygen thing. Or a lack of food. I haven’t eaten much today.”