Page 16 of Morally Corrupt

5

THEO

"You're sure he was the target?" Putting the phone on speaker, I head to the mirror to arrange my tie.

"Yeah. We found detailed plans at their hideout. They'd been following him for a while." My friend from the Philly force recounts how they'd ransacked the place and what they'd found.

"At least you can close the case," I add drily.

"True. Thanks for the effort. If it weren't for you and that woman, more people would have gotten hurt."

I grunt something and hang up.

No one had been able to identify the mysterious woman from the scene of the shooting. Even her gun was untraceable — black market. But she'd been one hell of a markswoman, even drunk. A smile tugs at the corner of my lips as I remember smelling the alcohol on her breath.

The police had concluded that the target had been an electronics company CEO. He'd recently laid off half of his workforce due to some financial difficulties, but the workers were under the impression that it was a case of embezzlement and poor management rather than just a poor turnover. While the shooters are dead now, the investigators found enough evidence to prove that it was indeed a case of syphoning funds and the CEO is now under arrest and pending trial.

I spare a glance at the clock on the wall and sigh in relief. I still have time.

After being hounded by Martin one too many times, I'd finally accepted his lunch invitation. From what I'd gathered from the mayor, Martin likes to host monthly Sunday lunches with different influential men.

The only reason I'm looking forward to this event is because Martin's connections might help me advance my own plans.

As soon as I reach his house, I am greeted by a footman who leads me to the drawing room — very old-fashioned. Then again, Martin's entire persona is the epitome of old money, and his imposing mansion is just what you'd expect of him.

"You are a little early, Mr. Hastings," the footman comments. "The other guests have not yet arrived, and Mr. Ashby is still busy. He has instructed me, however, to show you to the drawing room, where his daughter will keep you company."

I struggle to keep a straight face at his words, mostly because I can recognize this for the ploy it is. Martin's daughter must be what, twenty by now? It's not as if he hasn't tried to orchestrate an introduction before. It seems it's finally worked out for him.

"Thank you," I reply with a tight smile.

As we walk toward the room, a sweet piano melody resounds in the house. The footman shows me to the door and takes his leave.

A little curious, yet mostly apprehensive, I push through the double doors and enter the room. Inundated by light, the room has ceiling-high windows that face the back of the house, the green lawn stretching into a forest in the distance. I follow the rays of the sun as they bathe a white piano that is situated in the middle of the room.

A girl, no, a woman, is seated at the piano, eyes closed, her hands gliding over the keys and emitting the most melodious sound I'd ever heard. I don't think she hears me come in. There's a tranquility to her face, the way it subtly moves to the tune of the song, the small, almost imperceptible movement of her eyes under her closed eyelids.

I stop, and I stare, transfixed.

Her black hair is long, the ends curling inward. It flows down her back almost like an ebony cascade. She's wearing an off-white gown that cups her breasts in a modest fashion before cinching at the waist and flowing downwards. With her pale skin, she almost looks like Snow White.

I shake myself, a little amused by the direction of my thoughts. I'd never thought myself particularly poetic, but the sight of this woman, so immersed in her music as if she's living in her own world, makes me wonder if she's even real. Makes me want to insinuate myself into her world.

I stand there, just watching, for what seems like an eternity. It's only a soft gasp, followed by an "Oh!" that has me alert again. Her eyes snap open and they focus on me. A deep black, I feel myself falling even more.

She might just be the most exquisite woman I've ever seen in my life, her natural beauty so pure and untouched.

"I didn't know there was someone in the room. My apologies." Her voice is just as melodious as the piano music.

"No, I should be the one to apologize. Your music is beautiful." She lowers her eyes slightly, a blush staining her cheeks.

"Thank you," she murmurs, raising up from the piano and coming to stand in front of me.

"You must be one of my father's guests, no?" She gazes up at me, her eyes wide and innocent. She's tiny, her head barely reaching the middle of my chest. Her height, coupled with her slender frame, serves as a friendly reminder that she's almost a decade younger than me — clearly off limits.

"Theodore Hastings," I introduce myself, holding out my hand to her. She gives me a timid smile, hesitantly putting her hand in mine.

"Bianca Ashby."

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