Page 90 of A Lethal Game of Trust

Mia practically shoved the phone in my face, regaining my attention.

On the screen, on a bloody loop, was Dom grabbing me by the waist and hauling me back into the house.

I took a deep breath. “What do you want? Because, if it’s him, he doesn’t want you.”

“And what, he wantsyou?” she laughed. “I bet he’s already bored of you by now.”

This bitch wanted to play.

Now it was my turn to lean back in the chair with a smile. “I don’t know what Issy and Dom told you about my family, but do you know the Castillo name? Do you know the Belov name?”

She became very still, looking up at me through her blonde waves.

“Our families are linked to prestigious companies across the world now,” I told her, enjoying her anxious toe-tapping. “But do you know where that money came from originally? We own ports across four continents. We don’t just run little security companies and bakeries, we definitely don’t just run social media accounts,” I jibed at her job. “Oh no, Mia, we ship firearms, drugs. Sometimes we ship people we don’tparticularly like to the bottom of the ocean, sweetie.”

She locked her phone and placed it on her lap.

“Are you a strong swimmer, Mia?”

Her eye twitched.

“Do you want to be one of those people I don’t particularly like?”

She shook her head an inch.

“Name your price, then fuck off.”

“Ghost,” she blurted. “I want Ghost. I’ll—I’ll tell Issy if I don’t have him by the end of the month.”

The one thing Dom loved the most. When his cat had been diagnosed with epilepsy, Issy said he was close to tears.

I’d only seen him cry the night my dad died.

“No deal,” I said, then stood and snatched my earrings from the table. “Tell whoever you want, but I warn you that if you do, you will want to invest in a life jacket.”

33

DirtyWork

Dom

Dad didn’t get his hands dirty much. Not anymore.

Uncle Anton, however, took it in his stride. He sat on one of the chairs in the corner of my office with his trainered feet up. He hardly ever wore a suit, claiming blood was a bitch to get out. He lived in designer athleisure.

Pompous prick.

He scowled as the sad, pathetic man I’d spent the last hour getting to know spat his blood on the wood floor, narrowly missing my feet. That was when I realised he still had teeth. Fucker shouldn’t still have teeth.

“Come on now, Datu,” Anton sighed. “Who were the women intended for?”

Fucker should be without his cock for what he did.

Actually—

“Sex! Intend for sex!”

Anton heaved a sigh as I tightened my grip on the knife. My gun was on the desk, silencer attached and ready to go.