Page 74 of A Girl and HER Prince
A crash behind them made them turn. A vase of flowers had fallen to the ground and BamBam was trying to lick it all up. “BamBam! No!” she cried out and pulled away from Venice.
Their “suitcases” were getting out of control, although, honestly, Venice no longer cared if the donkeys trashed this mansion. Let the Myrdons rot.
He rummaged through the shelves for water bottles, finding the best brands tucked up high.
This familyliterallyhad it all, and yet, Venice had no doubt that they’d gotten it all from tearing his homeland apart.
Who were these people anyway?
His fingers froze over a water bottle as he filled it up in the sink. He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t suspected who this mansion belonged to sooner. Water spilled over his hand and he hurriedly tugged back the bottle and twisted on the cap. He stuffed it into BamBam’s pack on his way out to the hallway.
Livvy glanced up from gathering up plastic utensils. “Where are you going?”
“There’s something I want to check out,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” He headed straight for the study towards the front of the house. Books lined the shelves in a room that was meant for cozy tête-à-têtes on heavy wingback chairs in front of a massive fireplace. He’d noticed a desk in there earlier—wine glasses were still set out and half full as if those who’d been drinking from them had only just stepped away.
What if Achilles had sat in these chairs?
Shutting off those torturous thoughts, he moved around the desk’s perfectly lacquered and polished walnut surface. He began rifling through the drawers.
He found brochures to exotic vacation getaways to France, Switzerland, the Bahamas… and deeds to properties in even more remote extravagant locations. What were these? Second, third, fourth homes? He shuffled through the sheaths of documents signed by a name that he’d expected to see from the beginning of all this: Atreus Mnon.
His uncle was the owner of this sprawling mansion.
He’d dropped the royal name, Tyndarian, of course. After all, Atreus Mnon wouldn’t want to appear like the hypocrite he was! His whole spiel to the Myrdons had been that the royals were arrogant, entitled creeps, who’d stepped on their people’s toes to get ahead. His uncle was perfectly exempt from these damning accusations, however, being the youngest son.
Venice slammed the papers against the desk to glare at the luxuries surrounding him—not one piece of furniture was worn or chipped; everything was new and designed after the latest fashions. Golden statues and fountains glittered outside the window to show Atreus Mnon as a liar, and to tempt those who were already aware of it to join him and get rich too.
His throat felt tight with rage and fear. He’d stumbled across Caine’s lair—the man who’d killed his brother without a scruple had roamed these halls only days earlier, drinking wine that had been bought with blood.
If anything,thiswas the proof Venice needed to know that Achilles wasn’t behind this. He wouldneverwork with the man who’d been behind his parents’ deaths. Memories of Clysta’s screams haunted both of them still.
Venice had been seven, old enough to remember. Achilles was eight. Yes, the details were hazy for Bris and absolutely obsolete for Gina, but for the boys, the deaths ran through their nightmares.
Clysta’s dark hair had fallen over her face when she’d broken away from them to find her husband. Achilles’s little sister was a picture of her now, and so it hurt thinking about. Her mother had been so wretchedly beautiful as they dragged her away beyond the compound. The shots rang through the air seconds later.
At least Achilles had been spared from watching her die.
Venice’s stepmother, however, had been killed right in front of them while she protected the children. Creusa had raised him. She’d been everything to him.
His uncle had them exterminated like they were nothing.
All these years, Venice and his family had been hiding away under assumed identities, keeping out of sight, clinging to each other, afraid to let anyone else in. And Atreus Mnon had been living likethisafter all his sins?
He’d more than enjoyed the spoils of war, hadn’t he?
No, Achilles would rather die than work with Venice’s uncle. There was more to this mystery, and Venice was going to uncover every last grisly detail, even if it destroyed him.
In the meantime, Venice and Livvy had unwittingly spent the night in a den of killers and thieves. It was all he could do not to scramble free from his uncle’s unholy lair this very instant. Perhaps setting fire to the hornet’s nest on their way out would be a fitting house gift to their deadly host.
But first… Venice dug through the desk to find anything to use against his uncle. The years he’d spent studying law and business taught him more than a few ways on how to topple a tyrant. After the Myrdons had gone after Venice’s cousin, the “lost princess,” they’d been stopped by forces stronger than their own.
His cousin had married a very rich man; Paris was the heir of the WaterSprite fortune, and the billionaire wasn’t someone to tangle with. He had the money to keep Princess Helena safe, and he also happened to have the American citizenship that brought in help from the CIA.
From there, the hunters had become the hunted, especially after they tried to come after Paris’s family. Now it was up to Venice to cut off the head of the snake.
If Venice could identify the Myrdons’everyhideout, their every ally, where his uncle tried to hide his money and who he did business with, he could corner him like the rat he was. Atreus Mnon wouldn’t go another day without paying for his unholy crimes.
Venice folded the deeds of the lands in half; he collected correspondence, bank statements. His hand brushed a ledger. Incredibly, the book held passage after passage of Atreus Mnon’s contacts, favors owed, dirt on agents and politicians, and what he’d done from day to day for the past four years, written to an unknown person named “Peter”—from the mundane to the horrific:“Send envoy to Seattle.”
