Chapter 18 DETECTIVE WIFE
The bastard barricaded the staircase to the third floor.
“Ugh.” I grunt as I try—and fail for the third time this past week since we moved here—to dislodge the wood planks he installed in front of the landing.
There’s a temporary door, but it’s dead bolted.
I need a Plan B. Maybe I can convince Hannah to help me? I know she won’t tell me anything because I’ve tried prying her for info on the Shadow King. But maybe she can buy me a hacksaw or something.
I growl. Like that isn’t suspicious. At all.
Someone snorts behind me.
I whirl around, finding Ren leaning against the wall, twirling his cell phone.
He moves silently too, just like a certain someone.
Cece, my cat, rubs her lithe body against my jailer like she likes him.
Traitor.
Tail lifted gracefully, Cece prances away, but not before looking at me and giving me an “I’m innocent” meow.
I scowl at the barricade. “Seriously, what’s he hiding up there? Dead body? A mentally ill wife who makes creepy sounds at night?”
He arches his brow and types on his phone.
Ren
Spoiler alert. And Jane Eyre, really?
My jaw drops.
Ren
When you spend this much time with the man, you read. A lot.
“The dealer of secrets likes books?” My mind flips to him thumbing his novel in the car last week when we first arrived.
I hate the way my heart flutters at the idea—a man reading is the sexiest thing ever. I may be a subscriber to the “Hot Men Reading in Public” thread online.
Ren
You wouldn’t be asking if you’d seen the library, which is up there.
He motions to the barricade and rolls his eyes.
Ren
He’s doing this to piss you off. I’ve never seen him so amused.
My eyes narrow, and I glare at the security camera.
It blinks. Once. Twice.
A growl rumbles from my chest. The asshole is watching us.
A snicker draws my gaze back to Ren, who shakes his head, jaw twitching behind his mask. He types on his phone again.
Ren
I’ll talk to him. Just…for the love of God, behave. I really don’t want to shadow you everywhere.
Brow cocked, he unfurls himself from the wall and saunters down the hallway, but not before I catch him pulling a bottle from his pocket, uncapping it, and tossing something into his mouth.
Pills? Vitamins?
“I’m well-behaved! The best damn prisoner you’ve ever had!” I holler after him.
Then I slap my forehead.
Being trapped indoors for a week is driving me out of my mind.
Best damn prisoner? Really, Lana?
That’s what growing up with four competitive older brothers does to you—makes you want to be the best at everything.
Shaking my head, I prowl down the hall, opening doors, peeking into empty rooms. Between completing the random PR assignments Elias has given me since we arrived, I’ve spent my hours snooping through every inch of this house that’s unlocked and available to me.
So, I already know there’s nothing here.
Bedrooms. Lounges. More bedrooms. No half-shredded documents. No sticky notes with imprints of important messages.
No clues. Heck, I have no clue what I hope to find, but I have to trust I’ll recognize crucial info when I see it.
My stomach rumbles, and I glance at the modern clock at the end of the wall. Eleven.
Can I sneak a banana from the kitchen without Hannah noticing?
I’ll need fortitude for my food strike later, when she inevitably tempts me with some fancy Italian feast.
Okay, maybe I’m not the best prisoner. But not eating is the only way I can think of to rebel against this situation. I have to show my discontent somehow.
Not like the bastard cares.
I traipse down the stairs, past the empty living room toward his office.
On a whim, I press my ear against his door, listening for sounds.
It’s quiet.
My pulse rattles as I reach for the doorknob and turn, fully expecting it to be locked—
Click.
It opens.
The light is on in the adjoining bathroom, but the door is wide open and no one’s inside.
Swallowing my gasp, I tiptoe inside the masculine space, walls paneled in black wood and leather, illuminated only by the pale daylight peeking through the gaps of the dark curtains. A treadmill rests in the far corner next to a lounge area.
Built-in bookshelves are filled with books—Ren was right, the mobster likes to read—notepads and folders stack neatly on a stately walnut desk. A lone laptop is perched on top, flipped open.
I bite back my squeal of excitement and hurry over, first checking the notepads for pen marks or messages.
Damn it. They’re pristine. No clues here.
The folders contain nothing interesting—articles about the stock market and prominent people—probably research he’s doing on his next marks.
There’s a slip of paper tucked beneath it. A hastily drawn diagram with random words.
The Council, six different last names, one of which is the Berishas, a list of companies, and at the bottom, phrases that put things into perspective.
Russian Bratva, Irish Mob, Chinese Triads, Italian Mafia, Albanian Mob.
This has to be a big-picture diagram of The Association’s structure.
My pulse quickens as I review it again, trying to make sense of it.
I recognize the last names under The Council—some of the wealthiest families in the world who are part of my family’s old-money circles.
The company names are Fortune 500 conglomerates owned or affiliated with them.
My mouth dries, and I swallow.
That’s it.
That’s why The Association is so dangerous, why they get away with all these heinous crimes. They control the wealth and de facto governments. And now it looks like they control the gangs too.
Mind reeling, I return the paper to its original spot and continue searching.
Most of the drawers are locked, with the only one unlocked being a perfectly organized, color-coded stationery drawer. Ten black pens. Ten blue pens. Ten red pens. More sticky pads. Small box of paperclips.
The devil is precise.
I check the laptop next, but unfortunately, a facial scan flashes the moment I press a key.
So, that’s a no-go.
Wishing I had a voodoo doll with me so I could jab my frustrations into it, I turn to the bookshelves to check out his selections.
Philosophy. Biographies. Sun Tzu’s The Art of War and Niccolò Machiavelli’s The Prince.
Figures. The dealer of secrets gets his education from the greatest strategists in history.
I pull out a book I’ve seen before but haven’t read.
Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends & Influence People.
I scoff and mutter, “Like he needs to make friends, the manipulating, emotionless, spineless—”
“Wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were you.”
I freeze. My breath hitches as the scent of vetiver, smoke, and salt wafts to my nose. Then, a column of heat appears at my back.
My heart twists and jumps like it’s competing in the Olympic qualifiers.
Clearing my throat, I stuff the book back on the shelf and turn around.
My voice deserts me.
Elias, my husband, is standing fresh from exercising, his half-naked, glistening body inches away from me, a towel curled around his neck.
Fires ignite on my skin, heat suffusing my face.
My feet stumble, my back plastering against the shelves for support.
Muscles. Endless stretches of sinewy muscle.
And ink. Ivy, vines, roses coiling up his arms, swirling over his chest. A lone Chinese character sits above his right pec—old, inked deep. It must be meaningful.
Sweat drips down his body, writhing a sultry path down his broad chest, the grooves of his abs, a trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his low-slung gray sweatpants.
Then there’s the heavy bulge appearing to grow by the second.
My lungs try but fail to retain oxygen. My fingers grip the hem of my shirt.
Anything other than pouncing on this virile man in front of me.
“A deviant,” he rasps.
“Wh-What?”
I snap my gaze up, meeting his intense eyes—pupils invading the green of his irises. A droplet of sweat drips from his dark hair, trailing down the bridge of his nose to his full lips. His shadow looms over me, trapping me in a purgatory of wicked temptations.
“You want freedom, but you don’t follow the rules,” he murmurs, his gaze snared on my lips. “Now, how can this partnership work out?”
He dips his tongue out. Like he’s hungry. Famished for something.
My core clenches.
Then his words register.
“Partnership!” Fury chases up my spine like a blast of frigid water, cooling whatever lapse of sanity just transpired. “If this is your idea of partnership—locking me up inside a spooky mansion like some Victorian heroine—think again.”
His eyes flare. He shifts, the scary scar on his cheek twisting under the dim light.
“What we have is not a partnership. It’s a kidnapping. And if you think I’m going to sit around and let you bulldoze me, you’ve got another thing coming.”
His lips twitch, like he’s struggling not to laugh.
I want to strangle him and kiss him in equal measure.
The thought horrifies me, and I shove past him, needing to escape the chaos inside me.
“Elias Kent, we’re just warming up. You’re up to something—something important enough for you to risk everything—and I’m going to find out what that is.”
Whirling around at the threshold, I glare at him.
But his expression has me scrambling back—a prey who knows she’s pushed too far.
His nostrils flare, his lips flattening into a thin line.
A cold current sweeps the room as his body stills—lethal and quiet, the way a lion lies low before it strikes.
Elias rolls his neck, the joints crackling through the air.
“Wouldn’t you want to know?” he murmurs, voice gritty. “But you never will. Because you’re right. I was mistaken. This—” he jabs his finger on the table, “—will never be a partnership.”
Elias bares his teeth, a cruel sneer befitting the king of the underworld.
“If you value your life, don’t let me catch you in here again.”