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I snort. “It’s not like you didn’t just throw your pussy at me, but sure, now we’re modest?” I reply sarcastically before turning my back, like the fucking gentleman I am.

Olivia has no idea the shit she’s in. She’s at my mercy now, whether she realizes it or not. The longer she takes to understand it, the harder this will be for her. So, I let her have this—the illusion of control. Let her think she still has a say.

“Done,” she says, and I turn around just in time to see her pull a hair clip from the bag, sweeping her curls back off her shoulders. Then she goes back into the bag and pulls out a pair of pink fuzzy socks.

Jesus Christ.

I raise an eyebrow. “You sure?”

She hesitates but nods. “Yes. But I do have a question.”

She has the nerve to ask questions? After all this?

My anger simmers, but I keep it in check, for now. “Where are we going?” she asks.

“How about you answer my questions first?” I growl. “Then maybe I’ll tell you.”

She lets out an exaggerated sigh and plops onto the bed like this is all one big inconvenience. My eyes narrow, watching every move, every shift of her body. She’s putting on socks like she’s just getting comfortable, like she’s not my prisoner. But I’m not fooled. Her body language will betray her when I start asking the right questions.

I sit at the far end of the bed, keeping my face neutral, but I don’t take my eyes off her, watching, waiting. She’sgoing to talk. They always do.

“Fine, Warden, ask away,” she says, sarcasm dripping from every word.

“What were you looking for, inmate?” I fire back.

“Information,” she snaps. Her eyes flicker for a second, like she wants to test me. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, she has the audacity to ask again, “So, where are we going?”

My patience is wearing thin. “Information on what?” I press when I catch the slight tremor in her hands as she takes the clip out of her hair, only to put it back in again.

She’s nervous. Good. Let her be nervous.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she counters, trying to sound firm, but I can see through her. The walls are already crumbling.

“That’s because you didn’t fully answer mine,” I deadpan. This back-and-forth game is already grating on my damn nerves, and I’m losing patience with her smart mouth.

She hesitates, fingers fiddling with the hem of the sweater.

“Fine,” she finally says, sounding less sure of herself. “I was looking for information about my parents. Something happened to them when I was a kid, and I want to know what and why.”

Fuck, that wasn’t what I was expecting to hear. Not even close. But it still doesn’t make sense why she was looking into me. “Why do you think I had anything to do with it?”

“I know the Commission was involved somehow.” She lifts her chin slightly, regaining some confidence. “Then I learned you bought my uncle Tito’s casino while he’s sitting in jail.”

Tito.

I boughtSatana,formerly Lucky Strikes, because it was a sinking ship. Tito’s a scumbag who’s been rotting in prison for almost fifteen years, caught running some real dirty shit out of that place. His girlfriend skipped town over a year ago, and the casino had been bleeding money ever since. I took it off the bank’s hands when it went into foreclosure. I saw it as an opportunity to make a profit. But the place isn’t even open yet; it’s being renovated.

This isn’t adding up. “That still doesn’t—” I start, but she cuts me off.

“Look, I know he did some bad things. I haven’t spoken to him since the night everything happened,not that I haven’t tried.”

My eyes narrow. “What happened?” My interest is now piqued. I wasn’t expecting to get pulled into her story, but now I need to know more.

“It doesn’t matter,” she snaps, but her face betrays her.

Oh, it fucking matters.

“He won’t talk to me. I tried visiting, writing, and emailing, but there was nothing. He won’t respond.”