Empire of Lies

Michael Before We “Met”

I stare ahead at the passing traffic, not wanting to believe the words that are falling from Trevor’s mouth. There’s no logical reason why a father would ever want to kill his own daughter. And as many times as I rack my brain for a plausible answer, I can’t think of anything that would make a billionaire like Leonardo Thatchwood even think of taking that risk.

He’s the type of man who plays it safe whenever he bets. A man who will walk away from the table with all of his chips in tow, if he even senses that the game won’t end in his favor. From what I’ve witnessed by following him here or there these past several weeks, he’s the very definition of the word ‘cautious.’ He also has far too much to lose, if one blemish ever lands on his carefully curated record.

I could’ve sworn he was attempting to run for public office…

“How sure are you that it’s her father who wants her gone?” I look over at Trevor, still stu

He shrugs, puffing another “O” of smoke. “Pretty sure.”

“Pretty sure or one-hundred-fucking-percent sure?”

“Both.” He rolls his eyes. “When’s the last time I did something half-assed?”

“You don’t want me to answer that.”

“I can show you the video, if you’d like,” he says, reaching over and rummaging through the burner phones in his glove compartment. “Is that what you need to see to believe me?”

“No.” I shake my head. He’s made stupid mistakes before, but he’s never been wrong or misfired. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Good.” He sits up and lights a new cigar. “Don’t hurt her too badly when the time comes, okay? I mean, make sure she doesn’t suffer more than necessary. His words, not mine.”

I give him a blank stare.

“Oh, and uh—” He paused. “I know you don’t typically do this, but he wants to make sure that the police don’t find her body for at least five years.”

“I don’t take requests for how the fuck I do my job.”

“Hence the words, I know you don’t do this typically…” he says. “You don’t typically go on five-hour dates with the targets either, so it looks like this is opening an entirely new era for you, isn’t it?”

Fuck off, Trevor.

Him wanting Meredith dead doesn’t add up in the slightest, but I can’t spend too much time questioning it right now. There are far more important things on my mind, and I can get to the bottom of this Thatchwood mess later. Maybe.

Sure, I can’t seem to think about anything except getting another taste of her lips or diving deep into her pussy again, but she doesn’t mean anything to me. She’s just the first memorable woman I’ve ever met, the first person who’s ever intrigued me this much in over a decade.

She’s just a job. Just a job.

“What other business do you need to talk to me about, Trevor?” I ask. “I need to go home and get some sleep.”

“Please don’t insult my intelligence.” He hands me a folder.

I open his folder, and inside are two lists. The first one consists of the businessmen and companies who are late making their deposits into our account—an offense that will prove very costly if they don’t rectify it by the end of the week.

The second list is a personal one, the names we hardly ever say aloud. These are the people who ruined us long ago, the people who’d turned us into the half-hearted monsters we’ve become. The people who still, to this day, steal our sleep by haunting us in our nightmares.

We don’t make any money “handling” them, but I’m willing to fit them into my schedule for free.

The list started with twenty-eight, but now it’s down to ten. A far cry from the zero we’ve been wanting to reach for years.

All or nothing.

I stare at the name Dr. Holden McAllister and feel my blood begi

“Why is Rio Warren on the debt list?” I ask. “I just saw him a few hours ago at Fahrenheit 900. He didn’t seem off or anything.”

“I’m sure that’s because he dropped tons of money into your club and wanted you to see that,” he says. “Unfortunately, he’s months late paying us, so hopefully, he didn’t spend it all on liquor and bottle service.”

“We don’t fuck with the mafia, Trevor. Ever.”

“We do when they owe us over a quarter-million-dollars.”

I raise my eyebrow, stu

“Someone is probably late paying him,” I said. “Give him a few more weeks. He’s never been late before, and he’s always good for it.”

“Fine.” He motions for me to get out of the car. “I need to get back to New Jersey to finish off an IKEA manager, and you need to turn back into the Michael I know by the time I get back. I expect to hear fucking research and pla

I roll my eyes and step out of his car.

He speeds off the moment I shut the door, and I return to the Four Seasons. I know better than to revisit Meredith in the penthouse suite again—even though I’m tempted, so I request a different room. I also request that they extend her stay by a few days and set two aspirin, a tray of bagels, and a note from me on her nightstand in the morning. (It’s common fucking decency. It doesn’t mean anything.)

When I make it to my room, I turn the air conditioning on to the coldest setting. I open all the windows—letting in as much of the freezing night air as possible, and then I set the ceiling fan on high.

Taking off my clothes, I lay at the center of the mattress and shut my eyes for as long as I can bear it—hoping that for once, just once, sleep will come and stay for more than five hours.

Just once.

I drift off into a dream that feels like it’ll finally last a long time, but by the time my eyes flutter open, I look at my watch and realize that it’s been exactly five hours.

Fuck.

The flames of my past are still burning hot and bright, and I know they won’t stop until I finish that damn list. Until I can completely focus on putting it behind me.

I dress again and prepare to check out. As I’m walking to the elevator, my second cell phone buzzes in my pocket.

No one has this number yet, and I’ve installed software that prevents robo-calls.

Confused, I hold it up to my ear. “Yes?”

“Um, hi.” Meredith’s soft and raspy voice comes over the line. “It’s me, Meredith.”

What the fuck? “How the hell did you get this number, Meredith?”

“You opened your phone and texted the concierge at some point last night.” She sounds like she’s still in bed. “I have a photographic memory.”

I smile, impressed and completely caught off-guard. I never picked up on that while following her, so I mentally add that to my list of “Interesting observations about the Thatchwood Girl.” It can go right under “Sexy as hell without even trying,” “Unafraid of a little darkness,” and “Enjoys talking about books and authors for hours at a time.”

I rush her off the phone—shutting down any idea of meeting up with her again, and make sure my gun is loaded and concealed before stepping onto the elevator.

I’m supposed to spend today following a man who has an unfortunate criminal addiction, since I’m due to kill him in a matter of weeks, but I don’t drive to his job to stalk his routine. I don’t show up to the ice cream parlor where his family meets him in the afternoons, and I don’t hack into his personal computer when he “accidentally” leaves it in a locker at his gym.