I try the knob. It’s unlocked. I draw a slow breath, then burst through, leveling my Glock at the unseen threat.
“Holy shit!” Lee says, spinning and throwing her hands in the air. “What are you doing?”
“Whose car is that?” I bark.
She fists her hands on her hips. “Mine. I’m setting up interviews. I’ve got to get a job or I’m going to go crazy. We need two cars.”
I lower the gun, start breathing again. “Fuck, Lee. You could have given me a heads-up.”
She scowls at me. “I texted you.”
I shove the Glock into the waistband of my jeans, yank out my phone . . . and see a text from Lee. It came half an hour ago, when I was busy flirting with Sherm’s teacher.
What the fuck was that, anyway? How did I suddenly turn into some hormone-driven teenager, willing to spill my guts to the pretty girl for a smile? But that’s how it felt, talking to her. She’s like a snake charmer, hypnotizing me with her genuine gaze and forcing all my defenses into submission.
And I totally fucked up. I was so absorbed in what Sherm had written that, when she asked me how old Sherm was when Mom died, I told her the truth. He was four. That was five years ago. But our cover story is that both our parents died in a car accident two years ago. If Adri thinks to dig, she’ll probably notice the discrepancy.
Which makes her the most dangerous thing on this island.
“Sherm is in the car. I think you should go get him,” I say, jamming my phone back into my pocket.
Her eyes widen. “Is he okay?”
My lips purse. I give her one shake of my head.
“Shit, Rob!” she hisses as she bolts past me.
I move to the kitchen and find what Lee was working on. There’s a new laptop open on the counter, the box it came in on the floor. Next to it sits a portable hot spot. The screen is black, but when I swipe my finger across the touchpad, it flashes to life with the résumé the relocation consultant built for Lee.
We each got one, and none of them have anything real on them—jobs we never had and schools we never went to. Things the Feds will back up with a phone call if necessary.
But then I notice the open Internet tab on top and click it. Oliver Savoca stares out at me from the screen. The one man I want dead more than any other.
Because there’s every likelihood that he’s the reason we’re here.
He’s decked out in pinstripes and a red bow tie, with his dark hair slicked back. And on his arm is my ex, Sophie King. It’s from three months ago, the night of her most recent premiere—some movie she did with Channing Tatum. She begged me to go with her. I dumped her instead. Heartless, I know, but that scene isn’t my thing anymore. I like my private life private. With her, everything was all about the flash.
I glance at the picture again, wonder if Oliver got the same memo I did. Pop has PR guys, same as any other service-oriented business. They wanted to shake the old-school mobster image, so as soon as I turned eighteen, I became the public face of the Delgados. Fresh blood. A new start. Dating the darlings of the media was considered good PR, so that’s what I did. I was introduced to singers, models, movie stars at private fund-raisers for all the trendy causes, arranged and paid for by my family. What I found out was that the beautiful people were no different than anyone else. A decent line, a cocky smile, a drink or two had them dropping their panties for me whenever and wherever I wanted. For a year and a half, I was living large—sex, drugs, a party every night. But then Mom died and everything changed.
The Delgado family mission became all about revenge. Pop dropped me headfirst into the bloody pool of the family business and I never looked back. Having my so-called personal life splashed across the society pages of the Chicago Tribune got old. I started pulling back from the social scene. Not that I didn’t indulge, I just kept it more low key.
When I met Sophie, she was different. She seemed to have more self-respect than most, which made me respect her enough to take her out a second time, and then a third.