Page 104 of Enigma: The Complete Collection
“Who said I did?”
He huffs. “Come on, don’t treat me like an idiot. I know you lied.” His tone is a cross between angry and confused. “I just don’t understand why. Isaac will never forgive you if he thinks you deceived him.”
Tears burn my eyes. “I did deceive him. I may not have told the Bureau about his house, but I did deceive him. I’ve been lying to him for months.”
Not allowing Hugo to deliver one of the many replies I see in his eyes, I scramble out of his car, then dash for my building as quickly as my quivering legs will take me.
CHAPTER4
ISAAC
As I bend down to gather my shattered whiskey glass from the floor, my mind drifts back to my exchange with Isabelle. I’ll admit I handled the situation poorly, but I’ve been pushed to my absolute limits today. I’m also drunk, so the brunt of my fury was handed to a woman not deserving of all my anger. It is excusable, though. My home, my private residence, the one thing that’s solely for me, has been trashed beyond recognition.
Artwork I collected over the years is damaged beyond repair, antique furniture was hacked with box cutters, and priceless ornaments are chipped and broken, but even more concerning than that is the damage they did to items with a high sentimental value. I can’t replace those things. They’re irreplaceable. They didn’t need to conduct their search the way they did. Whoever did this wanted my attention. They have it now. I won’t stop until I find out who did this as I refuse to be blindsided for the second time.
When I was arrested this morning, I felt Isabelle’s presence before I saw her. That’s not uncommon. She has that effect on every red-blooded man she meets. Time stands still when she enters the room. She doesn’t walk, she floats like an angel. Just one glance into her rich eyes makes my cock as hard as stone. I’m talking from experience when I say it only takes a mere second to grow infatuated with her. That’s how thought-provoking she is.
When I sensed her presence this morning, I spun to face her, prepared to launch into a campaign about her not needing to panic, and that everything would be okay, so you could imagine my surprise when I noticed she was wearing a bulletproof vest and had a Bureau-issued revolver in her hands.
I’ve known for months she was hiding something. I just had no clue it was something so mammoth. The woman who invades my every waking thought is an undercover FBI Agent—an elaborate ruse to pry me for information. People are always gunning for me. I learned early on in my career about tall poppy syndrome. If you’re already wealthy, say like Cormack, with old family money, it’s okay your success is expected, but if you build your wealth from pennies as I did, you must be doing it unjustly and illegally. There’s no middle ground.
People often assume my wealth was gained from fraudulent, underhanded activities. It wasn’t. Don’t get me wrong, I'm not saying I am a saint. Like many red-blooded Americans, I’ve dabbled in some illegal activities in my life. Enough to warrant an FBI investigation? I don’t think so. Obviously, my reputation has even superseded me.
When I say I fought my way to where I am, I’m not being facetious. Bare knuckles and a dirty concrete floor gave me the capital to start my empire.
For months, my college roommate, Cormack McGregor, pestered me to go out with him on the weekends. He was the definition of a popular school jock. He wasn’t just well-liked because of his cocky personality and playboy reputation but because his family was obscenely rich. They didn’t just have decent-paying jobs, they were so wealthy, Cormack wouldn’t have to work a day in his life if he didn’t want to.
I was attending college on a scholarship, so a majority of my time was spent with my head in a book to ensure I maintained the grades needed to keep it. Regrettably, Cormack didn’t understand the word ‘no.’ After pleading relentlessly for an hour, I agreed to put my business paper on hold for another night.
Inquisitiveness made itself known with my gut when an hour after me agreeing, Cormack pulled his BMW into the driveway of a derelict building on the outskirts of a town forty miles from our college. Cormack noticed my grim expression, but he did nothing to settle it. He just smiled a beaming, full-toothed grin before making his way into the dusty building. I trailed closely behind.
We walked into a dingy space that appeared to be a college gym in its heyday. The walls hadn’t seen a coat of paint in years, the windows were covered with cobwebs, and the floor was brown, appearing as if it hadn’t seen a mop in over a century.
The further we walked, the greater the smell of sweat became. I unearthed the reason for the scent when we broke through the hundreds of people huddled in a circle in the middle of the warehouse. Two well-built men were fighting toe to toe. One had blood running from a split above his left brow. The other had a variety of bruises scattered across his torso. Both were covered in soot.
The crowd sighed in sync when the guy with the split eye was hit with a grueling right-swung fist. He plummeted to the floor, his sickening crunch occurring a mere second before an African-American man in his early twenties checked him for a pulse. Although he was breathing, he was knocked out, so the plain-clothed referee declared the fight over by technical knockout.
My interest piqued when he handed a wad of cash to the winner. He shared a portion of his prize money with a middle-aged man at the side of the makeshift ring before giving a smaller cut to the referee. Once they dragged the unconscious man out of eyesight, a new, less-battered fighter took his place. He was massive, easily five to six inches taller than me, and his bicep was bigger than my head. His veins were either laced with steroids, or he worked out for hours on end.
My eyes strayed to the referee when he snatched a microphone off a portable speaker on his right. “All right, gentleman, who’s it going to be?” He scanned the crowd, eyeing off men as big as the one standing mid-ring. “Is anyone brave enough?”
The room fell into silence. It was both uncomfortable and amusing.
“What does he want?”
Cormack’s attention diverted from a pretty blonde cozying up to his side. “He's looking for a contender to fight Bruno.” He nudged his head to the brute in the ring. “People are reluctant to fight him because he’s undefeated.”
“How much is the buy-in?”
A condescending grin formed on his face.“For who?”
“Me,” I answered without pause.
Cormack laughed so loud, he gained the attention of the MC/referee. “Do we have a challenger?”
Cormack stopped shaking his head when I said, “Yes.”
The MC cupped his mic with his hand before stepping closer to me. “Who’s your fighter?”
