Page 9 of Deceitful Oath

Of course, it is. The girl who glows golden. The jokes write themselves.

“So,” he continues, his voice laced with boredom, “she’s pretty clean, as far as I can see. Dead parents, grew up in foster care, works three jobs, no living family members.”

“Tell me about the jobs.”

“Let’s see,” he says, scrolling back. “Waitress at Rocky’s Cafe, delivery driver for some distribution warehouse, and bartender at The Velvet Room.”

“No arrests? Nothing illegal? No criminal ties?”

“Honestly, no. I couldn’t find anything,” he admits, slipping his phone back in his pocket. “She’s done some weird shit, though.”

“Like?”

“Got caught up in a potential cult through some guy she was dating, stole a live turkey but was never charged for theft, paid a bunch of money out to save some pigeon she found that was hurt or something, bought a motorcycle and crashed it on the same day…”

“Jesus Christ, this girl’s a mess.”

Enzo laughs as he stands up to follow me to the elevator. “She seems like a lonely, broke girl who gets herself caught up in trouble while trying to survive.”

“So, you’re a criminal profiler now?”

“I’m just calling it like I see it,” he retorts, pushing the elevator button.

A lonely, broke girl. What would she want that would cause her to be willing to poison a kingpin like my father? What would disarm someone like that so that I could get close to them?

“Anything else you need from me?” he asks, holding the elevator doors open. I blink back into reality, realizing I’m in my entryway.

“No, that’s it for now.”

Enzo nods and the doors slide closed. I strip off my clothes as I head back to the shower.

Money? Someone like that could surely be paid off. But that’s too easy.

I turn the heat up this time, stepping into a burning hot stream of water, letting it beat against my skin. The sensation is an intoxicating mix of pain and pleasure. I turn down the temperature a bit, adjusting to the feeling.

She obviously has a hard time running her life. She probably needs a personal assistant or something, but that’s not something a girl like that would trust me to handle.

Images and thoughts of the waitress flood my mind again, and my body responds. Goosebumps break out over my arms as I fantasize about having her in the shower with me, soaking wet. I picture the water making her skin slick, her curves even more appealing.

I close my eyes, imagining myself tracing every curve with my tongue, nipping at her skin with my teeth. I hear her moans in my mind, fantasies of her lips parted, gasping for pleasure as I sink into her play on repeat.

This time, my self-control flies out the window, and I slide my hand over my aching cock without a second thought. I feel vaguely ashamed as I finish up and climb out of the shower.

I shouldn’t be thinking about her like this. Wanting her physically like this is messing with my head.

Suddenly, it hits me.

Love.

Love, like lust and hatred, is one of the strongest human emotions. It disarms people, makes them easy to manipulate. Love weaponizes trust, turning normally level-headed individuals into fools.

If I make her fall in love with me, I can tear her life apart piece by piece—and satisfy this insane physical craving for her at the same time. Granted, she wouldn’t fall in love withme, but she would turn into a fool for her ideal man.

I grab my phone and dial Enzo. He answers immediately, his voice echoing through his car’s Bluetooth.

“Find out what she likes,” I bark out. “Everything. I need to know everything about her…her interests, what she hates, her favorite food—all of it.”

“Give me a few hours.”

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