Chapter 7
Tyler
My burner phone chimed with an incoming email as I pulled into my apartment complex.
It could have been anyone—Josh with whatever random thought had popped into his head, or a contractor thanking me for a speedy payment—but my mind immediately went to Stella.
Which was ridiculous. I’d just left her shop; there was no reason for her to be emailing me.
Unless it was to beg me to come back and finish what we’d started. . . .
I parked in my usual spot and grabbed my gym bag out of the front seat.
Before getting out of the car, I checked my surroundings.
So far, I’d managed to keep my real life and my secret life separate, but Junior Trocci finding the location of my last party had turned me skittish, and I’d spent the past week looking over my shoulder, wondering who might find me next. I had a lot of enemies in this city.
I didn’t see anyone, but I still unzipped my bag so I’d have easy access to the gun hidden inside.
Another email hit my phone as I got out of the car. Another as I climbed the stairs. Another as locked the door behind me. Who the fuck was this impatient? It must be one of my shadier contacts. My closest associates would have texted or called.
I set my bag on the kitchen island and pulled out my phone.
A whoosh of air shot through my lips. It was Stella. Excitement and anticipation rolled through my veins as I opened the message, and my dick gave a twinge like it was half a second away from hardening.
The first email read: You motherfucker.
I frowned. Had my payment bounced or something?
Was that why she was mad? That shouldn’t have happened.
I’d used the credit card of one of my clients, who had all but begged me to take it from him.
I mean, at the time, I’d been threatening to send my collection goons to his big fancy office if he didn’t pay his debts.
To stave them off, he said I could rack up as much as I wanted on his platinum card.
If he’d turned around and canceled it, I swear to God . . .
Did you take advantage of my UNDERAGE brother? the next email read.
Well, this was escalating faster than I’d expected.
If you did, you better get your affairs in order.
Because I am going to END YOU.
I set the phone on my kitchen counter and strode into the living room, stopping at the floor-to-ceiling windows to stare out at the city lights beyond.
How to play this? Josh had taught me enough that I knew this email address couldn’t be tracked back to me.
I’d also parked several blocks away from Stella’s shop so none of her exterior cameras (or anyone else’s on the street) would have seen my license plate.
And I’d used my alias, Theodore Strickland, in all our communications.
I decided to see Stella’s threats as a good thing.
A sign that Blake had gone to her after all, and her parents probably weren’t involved.
If so, I needed to keep it that way. Keep her on the hook long enough to dangle the real bait, which, at first glance, would look like an easy enough way to save her younger brother.
A small, sadistic smile lifted the corners of my lips as I went back to the phone.
Death threats? I typed. That drops my review back to one star.
I hit send.
Her response was almost immediate.
Are you making jokes right now?
I chuckled, picturing her furious face. The way her jaw was probably clenched so hard she might crack a molar.
Oh, I’m deadly serious, I told her, and then fired off a follow-up email: Get it?
Your death will be slow, she wrote. And painful.
I stifled a laugh. Who knew mentally torturing someone could be so much fun? Maybe I was better suited for the darker side of my profession than I realized. Next thing I knew, I’d be breaking kneecaps with the best of them.
What’s your brother’s name? I asked, hoping to drag this out a little longer.
I’m not playing whatever game you think this is, Stella wrote. Just tell me whether or not he owes you money.
How about I tell you over dinner? I asked.
DID YOU JUST ASK ME OUT THATS IT IM CALLING THE COPS
I took her lack of punctuation to mean she was well and truly furious.
This was the most fun I’d had in ages.
No, you’re not, I typed.
A whole minute passed before she answered me.
Two.
Fuck, was she really calling the cops? The whole reason I’d picked her was because I thought she’d be the last person to get them involved.
She and our city’s PD had a long, fraught history, and from the way they’d handled her most recent charges, I figured she’d want to avoid involving them at all costs.
My phone finally pinged, and relief swept through me when I read the email.
Who the fuck are you? she asked.
Meet me for dinner on Sunday, and I’ll tell you.
I have plans Sunday.
With who? I almost asked. Like it mattered. Like I actually fucking cared about the thought of her out with someone else.
I didn’t.
Cancel them, I said. She needed to understand how this worked between us, who held the power. And be at Angolini’s over on the east side by 8 p.m. Don’t make me threaten you.
With that, I set my phone down and went about making myself a light meal before bed.
I’d eaten dinner earlier, but between working out and the adrenaline rush of seeing Stella face-to-face, I’d burned through enough calories that I was hungry again.
I didn’t like being hungry. Couldn’t stand it, actually.
It made me anxious, brought up memories I refused to think about.
As a kid, food had been scarce, and that insecurity was hard to shake even as an adult.
Now, I carried an emergency protein bar wherever I went, just in case, and had two boxes of my favorite snacks in the back seat of my car.
My phone buzzed with notifications as I set about making myself a sandwich.
I ignored them. I might have believed the email was untraceable, but I wasn’t willing to answer any of Stella’s questions in writing.
Everything between us from here on out had to be verbal.
Her family was old money. They had the kind of generational wealth that came with real power and connections, which made them much more dangerous than the lower echelon of nouveau riche clients I’d dealt with so far.
I had to tread carefully with her, because if she felt like her brother was really stuck, she might go to her parents after all.
And that would ruin everything.
■ ■ ■
Sunday night found me sitting in a booth in Angeloni’s, an Italian restaurant in an older part of the city.
I hadn’t been here before but had heard good things from Josh.
Good, meaning he said it was small, hard to find, and relatively private—the perfect location to unveil a blackmail plan.
I’d have witnesses, which would likely keep Stella from following through on her threat of killing me, but not enough that it would be a huge scene if she had a public freak-out or started screaming about me being a criminal.
The location would also make it hard for the cops to get to in a hurry, but, in the unlikely event that they were a) called and b) arrived quickly, I’d gotten here an hour early to scope out the area.
If shit went sideways, my plan was to escape out the rear kitchen door and flee into the warren of narrow streets and alleyways beyond.
I’d paid the hostess extra to seat me in one of the secluded little alcoves in the corner, and I’d taken up position with my back to the wall, my eyes trained on the front door as I waited for my “date” to arrive.
The restaurant might have been small, but it felt more cozy than cramped.
Booths ringed the exterior walls, while tables draped in white cloths dotted the interior.
The lighting was soft and subtle, coming from vintage wall sconces, candles, and a single chandelier.
Waitstaff wove throughout the dining room dressed in crisp black uniforms, and music filtered from hidden speakers, the dulcet tones of a mandolin accompanied by a guitar.
It was nice, romantic even, under different circumstances.
Surreptitiously, I reached into my jacket pocket and drew out a small, black, rectangular device.
It was an ultrasonic jammer that emitted a high-frequency sound above the range of human hearing.
I flicked it on and peeled off the sticker backing, attaching it to the underside of the table.
If Stella tried to record our conversation, the jammer would prevent her mic from picking anything up.
The door pushed inward, and suddenly there she was, backlit by the exterior streetlights.
She paused on the threshold, one hand holding the door open like she wasn’t quite sure if she was really going through with this.
Her eyes scanned the crowd. I smirked, waiting for them to land on me.
I knew my expression was arrogant, but I couldn’t help it.
I felt like a spider watching a fly zoom straight toward my web.
If this little meeting went how I hoped, I’d be one step closer to the revenge I’d been chasing for years.
Stella’s parents owned one of the most lucrative, privately held real estate companies in the country, and their business partner was my father: Richard Lawson.
By getting close to Stella, I’d have a chance to connect with everyone around him, and then I could start turning them against him one by one.
Stella’s gaze found me across the room.
I lifted my glass of wine in greeting.
She snarled and stomped forward.
The hostess tried to say something, but one look at Stella made her think better of it, and she slunk back behind her desk. Not that I could blame her. Stella looked mad enough to spit nails, and oh, goody, she was heading straight toward me with that attitude.
This dinner was going to be fun.