Chapter 15
Genevieve
The moment the elevator doors close on Sloane and Ford, I toss back the rest of my abandoned martini, the gin setting my throat ablaze, and make myself another before retreating to my office. Though, the moment I step into my sanctuary, I find Liam pacing the length of it.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, hurriedly setting down my cocktail glass and moving to stand in front of him. Liam has an easy four inches on me with heels, and I crane my neck up to look at him, scanning for injuries other than his mostly healed black eye.
Tonight was his first day back at work, and I can’t imagine that the mild-mannered client he saw would’ve caused any problems, but I’m wary of everyone these days.
He runs a hand through his enviable hair, tugging on the strands as he explains, “I saw Samuel Choi tonight. He seemed off for the entire two hours he was with me, but I figured he was just upset about his wife, you know?”
I nod, and he keeps going.
“Then, when I was administering aftercare, he said some stuff that bothered me. It might be nothing, but I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to it. Something’s wrong.”
Swallowing my rising panic, I force my voice to remain steady. “What did he say?”
“He asked me questions about you. He wanted to know what you do with the secrets.”
“I see,” I answer noncommittally. Samuel Choi wouldn’t be the first client to regret submitting such personal confidences. However, in light of Milton Torres’s final words and Henry’s warning, I don’t believe this is a simply curious, innocent man.
Samuel has cause for concern, too, considering the secret he submitted is that his wife, Vera, sold government secrets to an enemy country. Sold, as in past-tense. She’s dead now, a death I struggle to believe was executed by her own hand.
Liam’s brown eyes are wide with concern, and I succumb to the urge to take his hand, sliding my palm against his, squeezing reassuringly. “I’ll take care of it.”
“How are the sweeps going? You haven’t come across any bugs, right?”
“We’re doing them every afternoon before the evening rush and again every morning instead of weekly now, but we haven’t found anything yet,” my head of security answers. “Outside of Liam, no one else has reported clients getting a little too curious either.”
I nod. “Keep me updated. Let’s keep an eye on anyone making last-minute appointments or cancelations, too. If it’s unusual, I want to know about it. Now, let’s talk to Bree.”
“There’s something about that girl that unsettles me,” he mutters.
Marcus is suspicious of everyone. It makes him exceedingly good at his job, though, so I don’t push him on it before leading us into the conference room.
Bree shoots to her feet when the two of us enter, her hands wringing in front of her lower abdomen. I’m sure she finds this situation unusual, which is putting her on edge, but I don’t bother correcting her assessment. This situation is unusual.
“Is something wrong?” she asks, cautiously taking her seat when I gesture to the chair.
Remaining on my feet, I state, “Milton Torres is dead.”
Her eyes practically bug out of her head, and when she begins to wring her hands again, I decide to ask, “Do you know why?”
She simply shakes her head, and I explain, “He assaulted Carissa, beat her to within an inch of her life. Do you know why he might have wanted to do that?”
As tears fill her eyes, I know I’m on the right track.
“I don’t know why, but he told me…” she sniffs.
“I had wanted out, so I didn’t think anything of it when he said he wanted a new girl.
I thought it was a win-win scenario. He asked for you, actually, and when I told him that you weren’t taking new clients, he got agitated and a little… hostile. He shook me and said…”
She trails off, averting her gaze, and I prompt, “He said what?”
Her voice is small as she stares down at her lap.
“He said he ‘deserved to taste a bitch before she gets put down.’” She closes her eyes for a moment, and I swallow past a sudden lump in my throat.
“I got him to calm down, and when he saw Carissa in the hallway as I was walking him out, he asked me to set things up with her.” A tear slips down her cheek when she meets my eye again.
“I’m sorry, I thought he was just being Milton. I didn’t realize he’d hurt someone.”
I nearly snort. I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, so being called a bitch is nothing new. His words don’t bother me; I lost my sensitivity fourteen years ago.
What I find far more unsettling is his reference to me being put down. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised since Milton told me that they’re going to take me out.