Page 61 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Zoey

I wake to silence. Which, in my limited experience, is perfectly on-brand for this crypt-like villa I’m being held captive in. But it’s different this morning. Not just quiet, but empty.

My door’s unlocked. That’s a first.

I move soundlessly through the villa, searching for Smith. Yesterday I felt dead. Today I want to break shit.

No longer a ghost, but a fucking poltergeist.

How fucking dare he?

Every unlocked room I check is empty. Perfectly preserved, like a museum of luxury living. By the time I’m done with both upstairs wings, I am hungry, thirsty, and enraged.

Smith’s not here anymore.

I find Troy in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee as black as his clothes, and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. When he sees me, his expression shifts to something between pity and exasperation.

“He left,” I state.

Troy doesn’t meet my eyes. “Had business at the casino.”

“Business.” The word tastes bitter. “Right.”

God, it shouldn’t hurt this much. We barely know each other. He’s a literal killer who almost strangled me two nights ago. But somehow he made me feel...wanted.

Like I mattered.

Stupid. So fucking stupid.

I never mattered.

Not to him, not to fucking anyone.

“Zoey—”

“Don’t.” I hold up a hand, surprised by how steady my voice sounds when everything inside me is screaming. “Just don’t.”

I pour myself coffee with hands that barely shake, proud of this small victory. The first sip burns my tongue, but the pain feels good. Real. It’s something I can control when everything else is spinning.

Smith’s gone. After showing me exactly what kind of monster he is, baring his soul about Michelle, and then handing me a new identity like a consolation prize—he just…left.

No goodbye.

No explanation.

He probably thinks this is all so fucking noble. Mr Bad Ass, dusting Zoey off and setting her back on her feet. But all I feel is the familiar ache of being thrown away by someone who was supposed to care.

First my step father. Then Ricky, choosing to ghost me instead of asking for help. Now Smith.

Guess I’m just that forgettable.

“He’d have stayed if he could,” Troy says quietly, like he can read the devastation written across my face. “But he’s needed back at?—“

“Please.” I take another sip of coffee, using the heat to burn away the tears threatening to spill. “He’s a fucking coward. Let him run back to his precious casino. It’s not like he doesn’t know where to find Patricia.”

Troy’s jaw tightens. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” I set my mug down harder than necessary, coffee sloshing over the rim. “I’m a complication. And Smith doesn’t do complications, does he?”

It hurts more than I thought it would to say it out loud. But from the way Troy’s face hardens, he knows all about Michelle. How Smith took care of that particular complication.

But under the hurt, beneath this sick, hollow feeling in my chest, something’s stirring. Something that feels a lot like ‘fuck this shit.’

Smith thinks he can just move me around like a fucking pawn. He thinks he knows everything. Has all the answers. All the power.

He’s wrong.

And I could be wrong, too.

I’m assuming Ricky is dead, but I can’t know for sure.

And I need to know.

Because that’s all I could think about last night, head pounding from all the tears, throat scratchy from all the sobbing.

What if Ricky’s still alive? Hurt, scared, but still breathing.

I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t at least try to find him.

“I need to go back to the city,” I tell Troy.

His coffee mug freezes halfway to his lips. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m not asking for permission.”

Troy sets his mug down and turns to face me fully, his expression serious. “It’s for your own good.”

“So, what…my brother is gone, presumed dead, and I’m supposed to just...what? Accept it? Move on? Become Patricia fucking Dyer and pretend none of this ever happened?”

The careful control I’ve been maintaining finally cracks as I start shaking. “I can’t do that, Troy. I can’t just leave him behind.”

“Smith said?—”

“Smith can go fuck himself!” The words bounce off the walls, harsh and final.

Troy stares at me for a long moment, and I can see him weighing his options. Loyalty to Smith versus...what? Pity?

“Even if I wanted to help you,” he says finally, “—which I don’t…my orders are to make sure you get to your destination.”

“Beaver Falls.”

“Beaver Creek.”

“Whatever,” I mutter, draining my coffee before stabbing in his direction with a finger. “You can go fuck yourself too.”

I spend the next hour wandering the villa like a caged animal, looking for an opportunity. The staff moves around me with practiced invisibility, but I catch glimpses—a gardener pruning roses, a housekeeper changing linens, a man in coveralls checking the pool equipment.

Normal people with normal lives who probably have cars. Or at least know someone who does.

I find her in the laundry room, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and work-worn hands. She looks up when I enter, surprise flickering across her face.

“Miss? You need something?”

“I need your help, please,” I say, trying to project more confidence than I feel. “I need to get back to the city.”

Her expression immediately shutters. “I...I can’t?—“

“Please.” I step closer, licking my lips. “If you can’t help, just tell me who can. A driver, maybe? Someone who wouldn’t mind an extra passenger? I’ve got money. I can pay.”

She glances toward the door, then back at me. “There is Manny,” she says quietly. “He collects supplies from the market.”

“Where can I find him?”

“He comes back in the morning.” She wrings her hands nervously. “But Mr. Smith will not?—”

“Mr. Smith isn’t here.” I reach into my pocket and pull out the casino chips I’ve been smuggling with me for what feels like an eternity. “Does Manny like to gamble?”

Her eyes widen at the sight of the chips. Based on her reaction, they’re more than enough.

“I...”

I press a chip into her hand. “Please.”

“I will ask him,” she whispers.

“Thank you.” Relief floods through me so fast it makes me dizzy. “Thank you so much.”

She nods quickly and hurries away, leaving me alone with the scent of fabric softener and the first genuine hope I’ve felt in days.

Soon as I’ve convinced Manny to sneak me out of here, I’m heading back to the city to find out the truth about Ricky. I’ll call his cell, see if Elonzo will pick up. I might have to arrange another drop, but that’s fine by me.

And if he’s really gone...

Well. Then maybe I’ll consider becoming Patricia Dyer.

But not before I know for sure.

Not before I’ve done everything I can to save the only family I have left.

Smith can run back to his casino and pretend this never happened, that I never mattered. But I won’t abandon my brother the way everyone else has abandoned me.

Even if staying means facing Elonzo Hernández and his entire Colombian cartel.

Even if it means walking straight into the trap Smith was so desperate to keep me from.

Fuck it.

If I’m going down, I’m going down swinging.