Page 1 of Vengeful Lies

CHAPTER 1

Eli

Another fucking note. What the actual fuck? A tic runs through my jaw as I press the buzzer, and the voice of one of my security team comes over the speaker.

“How can I assist you, Mr. Monti?”

“Who was in my apartment?” I demand, looking toward the bathroom, where the note is pinned to the door by a fucking knife.

I bounce between my apartment in New York City and my mansion just outside of it, staying in whichever suits my needs at the time. Both places have had security breaches recently.

“No one, sir. As instructed, no one is to enter unless they’re with you.”

Fucking hell. I hang up.

Who’s the crafty little motherfucker barking up the wrong tree? Someone who seems to want a very slow and painful death. I really didn’t want to install security cameras within my own home, but it turns out I might have to do exactly that.

I pull the knife from the door, letting the crumpled piece of paper fall to my hand. I unfurl the scrunched-up ball and read the note written in bright red pen.

Why is your underwear so neat and tidy, asshole?

I clench my jaw. I swear to God, if this is Hawke playing a prank, I’ll gut him for it. Then again, the kiss mark at the bottom of the note might indicate a woman. I know better than to underestimate a woman. However, I also know better than to underestimate my less-than-mentally-stable friends.

I fist the note as I walk into my bedroom to find everything in perfect order, as it should be. My left eye twitches at the one drawer wide open… my underwear drawer. I walk over to it and slice a quick glance down, and my teeth grind in irritation. “What the actual fuck?” I say out loud.

Whoever is fucking with me is good, I’ll give them that. They know how to break into my apartment without leaving a trace, find my fucking underwear, and leave a dead fucking rat in it.

Maybe it’s not Hawke. Maybe it’s his twin, Ford? He’s a little more silent, but I wouldn’t put it past him. They were, after all, adopted at fifteen by Anya Ivanov, head of the underground auctions. Even her husband, River, is known for his creative messages and executions, and I can say, at the very least, the twins are unpredictable. The only person who can keep them in line is their mother because they’re shit scared of her. Hell, I’m even a little scared of her.

But even as a prank, I can’t see why they’d be so tempted to piss me off, especially with the pressure I’m under from the head of the family—my father. And I adamantly refuse to let him or my mother catch wind of this. I deal with my own shit.

It’s infuriating that this has now happened twice, and I still haven’t uncovered the person’s identity. But I will.

Walking into the kitchen, I find a plastic bag and then head back to my bedroom, where I use the bag to pick the fucking rat from my underwear drawer. Now that I think about it, the whole drawer needs to go. And I need new fucking underwear.

It doesn’t take me long to throw out my entire drawer and make a few quick calls for everything to be replaced. I’m adjusting the cuffs of my suit as I step out of my apartment complex. I deal with all manners of filth and torture, but something about a dead rat is just undignified.

“Took your sweet-ass time!” Hawke complains, leaning against my car. His twin, Ford, is flicking through his phone as he waits next to him. Though the two are identical, Hawke has a bulkier build from his extreme love of lifting weights, whereas Ford has a slimmer build, which is better suited for stealth. Both have tattoos, and people actively give a wide berth as they step around them—the two ooze mischief, hell, and death. The jet-black hair and dark brown, almost black eyes do nothing to counter otherwise.

“You said you just had to change your shirt, so what took you so long?” Ford asks, looking up from the phone and pinning me with those dark-brown eyes. I may or may not have just tortured someone, leading me to need to change shirts. I certainly wasn’t expecting to find a dead fucking rat before my next meeting.

I ignore them both. They answer to me, not the other way around. Where my father has only one loyal second, I have two.

“Neither one of you happens to be into wearing lipstick these days, do you?” I ask dryly.

The two share a confused glance. “Only around my cock,” Hawke replies as he kicks off my car and comes toward me. As he does, a woman wearing black heels barges between us.

“Whoa there!” Hawke snaps, taking a step back. The woman swings around furiously. She’s striking, although black shades cover her eyes, preventing me from getting a look at them. Auburn hair falls past her shoulders, and her bright orange dress is appropriate for the weather but not her ill temperament.

“Asshole,” she bites out, and I’m almost shocked by her boldness, considering most people instinctually know not to look our way, let alone speak to us.

“She must be talking to you,” Hawke says in shock.

I’m exasperated by his constant antics. “Why must she be talking to me?” I ask, irritated, but for some reason, I’m unable to look away from the woman staring at me with such scorn.

She puts her hands on her hips expectantly. What is she waiting for? An apology?

I can’t see her eyes through the dark lenses of her glasses, but I sense she’s rolling her eyes as she says with a pout, “You don’t even remember me, do you?” I think I would remember if I fucked her.

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