Page 50 of Dance of Ruin

Since he told mewhyI was his.

And as horrifying as it is, I’m still thinking it’snotimpossible beyond a shadow of doubt that he might be connected to what happened to Bianca, no matter how horrible it was.

People say you have to crack a few eggs to make an omelet. My dad is the kind of man who would crackdozensof them if that’s what it took. He’d burn the whole henhouse down. I know this.

It’s not ruthlessness, just driving ambition. The endalwaysjustifies the means for him. Getting to the White House with a Cabinet position has always been his goal, with the unspoken follow-up of targeting the presidency one day.

…You don’t have those kinds of lofty goals unless you’re willing to break every egg on the planet.

It’s not like I think my dad personally sent a bomb to the Barone house. Thatisimpossible. Single-minded as he is, his career still comes first, above everything.

But it’snotimpossible to think he might be involved with the people who sent it. It’s not like we ever had mobsters coming to the house when I was a kid. But I do remember him having secretive, sometimes shadowy people over, how they’d lock themselves away in his office and talk in hushed tones.

Seven timesI’ve called Dad since the other night, and still no answer. Not even a voicemail. Not even a “Can’t talk now” or “I’ll call later” text.

All I got was a boilerplate message from one of his aides: “Congressman Kim is on the Hill today with back-to-back committee meetings and pre-confirmation briefings. He’ll follow up as soon as possible.”

Like I’m a constituent, or a freaking reporter.

Not his daughter who would love to hear him say “No, sweetheart, I had nothing to do with almost blowing up your friend and coworker.”

Even if it’s a lie.

“So, all of this is because you think my father?—”

“No.” Nico cuts me off bluntly. “Not because Ithink. I fuckingknow.” He nods his chin at me. “Your clothes are still on.”

I swallow.

“To be clear, if your father was here facing my wrath instead of you,hewouldn’t be stripping for me,” Nico says evenly, his eyes never leaving mine. “He’d be going head-first out the fucking window with his severed balls stuffed down his throat. So pretty please, with a cocksucking cherry on top, remove yourfuckingclothes before I cut them off.”

A shiver tingles down my spine. Without another word, I turn and shyly peel off my hoodie. Fold it over the nearest chair. My shoes come next. Then my t-shirt, then the leggings.

I’m down to the lingerie now, and I pause.

Waiting.

Wanting him to say something.

To comment. To approve. To notice.

The corner of Nico’s mouth lifts just slightly.

“Were you hoping for a review of your bra and panties, ballerina?” he says dryly, harsh sarcasm in his tone. “Take them off.”

Shame floods my face as I reach behind me and unclasp the bra, letting the straps slip down my arms before the whole thing falls to the ground. The panties follow. Cold air kisses my skin as I bare myself to him again.

The room is silent as he looks at me from his chair behind the desk, blue eyes sweeping over me with slow, clinical precision.

My skin is on fire, and he hasn’t even touched me yet.

His gaze pauses between my legs, and he smirks. “Apparently you can remember basic commands. That’s a good sign.”

Dickhead.

Even as I mutter it to myself, there’s an electricity in the air that wraps around me like static.

Nico points a finger to the floor beside his desk.

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