Page 1 of Dirty Game

CHAPTER ONE

Rosalynn

The numbers don't lie.

People do.

Men do.

My uncle did, right up until the moment he sold me to save himself.

But numbers? They're honest in their brutality. They tell the truth even when it damns you.

Which is why I'm sitting in Varrick Bane's office at two in the morning, staring at columns that should balance but don't, knowing that someone is about to die.

It might be me if I’m not careful.

My fingers trace the discrepancy for the third time as I try to wrap my head around this.

Insomnia has caused me to wake, and here I am back at the computer.

Seven hundred thousand dollars, hidden across fourteen different transactions over the past two months.

Whoever's been skimming from the King of Vancouver's empire has skill—they've buried the theft beneath layers of legitimate expenses, shell company transfers, offshore holdings.

But they made one mistake.

They assumed no one would cross-reference the shipping manifests with the warehouse inventory reports at the same time they reviewed the quarterly projections.

They assumed wrong.

I pull my cardigan tighter around my shoulders, though the penthouse is warm.

Three weeks. That's how long I've been here, payment for my father's debts.

Three weeks of learning to navigate Varrick's world of calculated violence and OCD level like control.

Three weeks of keeping myself invisible while cataloging every exit, every pattern, every moment when his attention shifts elsewhere.

The leather chair creaks as I lean back, and I freeze.

Sound carries in the penthouse at night.

The last thing I need is to wake?—

A muffled sound echoes from somewhere deeper in the penthouse.

Not quite a scream.

Screams are for people who think someone might save them.

This is something else—a wet, choking noise that makes my stomach clench.

I know that sound.

Uncle Marco used to make men make that sound in our basement, when Father's debts came due in blood instead of money.

I should stay here.