Page 128 of House of Lies

He studies me for the longest time, and my chest closes up at the thought that he won’t return the necklace. But then he smiles and gestures for me to turn around so he can fasten it for me.

At least he’s got some good manners.

The guy who’d been smoking the cigarette walks past us, throwing a quick look our way before disappearing through the roof hatch.

“This clasp needs to be replaced,” Angelo says, sounding annoyed.

The chain tightens around my neck as he struggles with the clasp, and I quickly put up a hand to inch it away from my throat.

“Sure you don’t want to sell?” he asks. I flinch when I realize how close his mouth is to my ear. “I know someone who’d take this off your hands. Cordelia loves opals. Has a pair of earrings just like these.”

My breath catches in a panicked gasp as the chain tightens painfully around my throat. I reach behind me, trying to grab him, but my arm only lifts a few inches before flopping uselessly at my side.

What the hell?

What’s wrong with me?

My eyes dart to the coffee cup.

No.

No!

Smith was right. I shouldn’t have come here alone.

I’m not a good girl.

I’m a fucking idiot.

“It’s getting a bit chilly out here,” Angelo breathes into my ear. “How about we go somewhere warm…and private.”

Chapter 52

Ethan

Smith might look like a Wall Street bro, but he drives like a seasoned rally car champion. I’m not the only one holding onto the grab handle as he drifts around corners and roars through intersections—whether or not the lights are in his favor.

“Would someone mind getting me up to speed?” I ask, and quite fucking calmly in the circumstances.

The Balmont Boys didn’t even give me a choice. They herded me out of their Den and into Smith’s grey Bentley Bentayga like it was a fucking hostage situation.

Except for Troy.

As we left, Myles barked out, “Check his house,” and Troy jumped into a Range Rover and shot off with squealing tires.

“Saw Cordelia a few weeks ago,” Rich says, his voice louder than usual to drown out all the horns blaring at us as Smith completely ignores the fact that there are other drivers on the same road as us. “She’d just come back from honeymoon. Switzerland, of all places.”

“Stay on track, Rich,” Myles warns.

Cordelia had been my first regular. A wealthy, spoiled heiress who’d grown bored with her socialite lifestyle when she was still in her teens, it didn’t take her long to sniff out an invitation to the Devil’s Den, where she quickly became one of my most frequent clients.

I still remember our first scene together. I’d barely gotten started before she bleated out the Den’s signature phrase to end the scene, and ran away with tears streaming down her face.

The Devil made me do it.

She’d seemed so terrified, I thought I’d never see her again. But she kept coming back for more.

After I met Becks, I stopped working at the Devil’s Den. By then, Cordelia and Rich had begun an on-again off-again relationship, hooking up a few times a month when they had nothing—or no one—better to do.

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