Chapter 40
Sabine
Astor returnsfrom the kitchen carrying two gold-rimmed dinner plates.
The smell is heavenly. Veal parmesan, roasted artichoke hearts, and angel hair pasta, each portion plated like it’s being photographed for a magazine.
He sets the plate in front of me. “Good?”
I look up. “Yes. God, yes. It looks amazing.”
Pleased, he returns to his seat with his own plate. “Now I have an assessment of you, Miss Hart.” He smooths the napkin on his lap. “You’re a hypocrite.”
It’s my turn to choke on the wine.
“It’s true. You judge me for killing people for money, yet the business you do with Carlos is corrupt and illegal, and you do it for the money.”
“It’s different.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is. One, lives are not at stake, and two, I grew up dirt poor and have vowed to never find myself in that kind of lifestyle again. The motivation to never be poor again is a strong one.”
“The note . . .”
“What?”
“The sticky note in your purse.”
“Ah.” I look down. “Yes, that was her last handwritten note to me.” Money for lunch on the counter. You’ve got this. Love you, Mom. “I carry it everywhere. Until now, you asshole.”
“It’s safe, I promise. What was she talking about when she said you’ve got this?”
“I had a math test that morning that I was stressed about.”
“Ah.” He nods. “That’s telling.”
“How so?”
“You turned math into a career.”
“Why is that telling?”
“Because you subconsciously clung to that last moment. It’s defined you.”
“What’s defined you?”
“Death. Back to the subject. What makes you think I grew up more comfortable than you?”
“Your mom was a hot-shot district attorney.”
“She wasn’t always an attorney,” he says to clarify. “My mother got pregnant with me at age fifteen, and my father left not long after I was born. She was a waitress during my entire childhood. We lived under the poverty line in the slums of Brooklyn. One day she got sick of it, decided she wanted a better life, and put herself through college, through law school, all while working a full-time job and raising a child. It took her more than twenty years to become a respected district attorney. She never gave up.”
“That’s amazing. Good for her ... I understand she passed away, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“How did she die?”
“Plane crash.”
Astor looks away, lost in memories. When he refocuses on me, he begins trailing his index finger over the rim of his wineglass.
“So. We have similar backgrounds and similar pain, you and me. We both grew up poor, we both lost our mothers tragically, and we both value money much more than any human being should.” He lifts his chin. “You remind me of her.”
“Your mother?” I can’t hide my surprise. “How so?”
“She’s the only other woman who’s ever slapped me.”
I grin. “Well. You deserved it.”
“Yes, I did. Both times.” He winks.
Electricity crackles between us. I feel my internal temperature rising.
“Speaking of that,” I say, “I have one more thing to add to my assessment of you.”
“Yes?”
“You have a kink.”
“Impact play. A form of BDSM.”
“Ah, so you’re aware of it.”
“Only since you.”
I swallow deeply, suddenly feeling like my skin is on fire.
A moment passes between us, the silence deafening. He’s staring at me as if waiting for me to say something, do something, but I’m so flustered that instead, I rip off a piece of bread and shove it into my mouth.
Dammit, how does this man turn me into a blubbering puddle of idiocy?
I swallow the bread and chug my wine.
“Eat your dinner,” Astor says coolly, now back to his original demeanor.
I take this as the perfect opportunity to bring up Prishna and see what Astor will—or will not—reveal. Will he tell me about the death certificate? The real reason she’s working for him?
“I would, but the dinner is likely poisoned.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Prishna cooked it, didn’t she?”
“She did.”
“She hates me.” I cock a brow. “Yet another person who wouldn’t care if I left.”
“It really bothered you when I said that, didn’t it?”
“Of course it did.”
He doesn’t apologize. Instead, he says, “Don’t mind Prishna.”
“It’s impossible not to. She despises me.”
“Prishna despises all women.”
“Is it because she’s in love with you?”
“No. Because she’s afraid I’ll replace her.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Loyalty.”
“Loyalty to what?”
“To whom, you mean.”
“You’re such a dick.”
“Slap me then.”
“Ah, the kink returns.” I wink. “Stop distracting me. Who are you being loyal to by keeping Prishna?”
“My wife.”
“Your wife?”
“Prishna is Valerie’s sister.”
“Sister?”
He nods.
“But—”
“Yes, they’re different ethnicities. Prishna is Indian; Valerie is white. Valerie’s parents adopted Prishna when she was a child.”
“Oh, I see.”
I picture the necklace, the two broken hearts that come together as one. Sisters. They must have been close. Also, this partially explains why she works for him, but not why she stays.
“So, that’s why Prishna hates me,” I say thoughtfully. “She’s protective of you and also grieving her sister.”
“Perhaps.”
I shake my head. “It feels like more, though. She seems scared about something or someone, and a bit unhinged—abnormally so. There’s just something about her that makes me feel uneasy.” When he doesn’t acknowledge these accusations, I continue. “How long have you known her?”
“Six years.”
The death certificate I found with her name on it says she died at age forty, which, according to what I assume her age to be, could very likely be six years ago.
“Where did she get those burns on the side of her face?”
“A fire.”
“Yes, I gathered that.” I roll my eyes so hard, I feel it in my brain. “I mean, like, what happened?”
“You’ll have to ask her.”
“You’ve never asked?”
“Why would I?”
“Oh, I don’t know, to get to know your employees on a personal level?”
Now he rolls his eyes.
“You didn’t even ask her sister, your wife?”
“Nope.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Established.”
“Okay, when did it happen? Do you at least know that?”
“A long time ago.”
“Like around when you hired her?”
“Before then. Are we going to spend this entire meal talking about my assistant?”
“Fine. Just tell me this. Why would she tell me that you picked out my clothes—which were your wife’s? Why lie about that?”
“I don’t know.”
“There’s something strange about her ... I just can’t pin it down. And while we’re on the subject, there’s something strange about this house.”
He looks at me from under his lashes. “Cillian told me about the doll and the pictures in your room.”
“Yeah, I confronted Prishna about it, thinking it was her. She looked scared when I showed her the doll. She said?—”
“Listen to me,” he snaps. “You are safe here. You are safe with me. Nothing is going to happen to you, as long as I have you. Ever. You have my word, Sabine.”
The image of Astor watching me sleep pops into my mind, and I realize then that he has not been watching me because he wants to. He’s doing it to make sure nothing happens to me.
My captor and my keeper.
What a confusing combination.