Page 7 of Cunning Lies
Uncle Jay chuckles. “Your future husband helped with the last part.”
I want to scream, but I force myself to look off to the side. It makes me hate my potential husband already and I don’t even know his name.
Usually, we stay in nicer places—due to the courtesy of Uncle Jay and Patrick’s most recent ‘friend,’ someone I’ve researched so that we know exactly what we’re dealing with—but now, we’re pretending to be poor and broke. The carpet is stained with black spots and the purple damask wallpaper is peeling behind the television. Even this motel seems like a trap.
And it’s not like the yakuza has a social media profile I can research. The biggest yakuza in Japan apparently distributes a magazine to its members, but it’s in Japanese, and that’s not what we’re dealing with here in Vegas. This is the Endo-kai mafia, rumored to own the Samurai Castle Resort & Casinoandthe Samurai Corporation. But that’s all I can find. They keep their image clean. As if theyknowpeople like us are going to be digging into their lives. It makes me uneasy.
“I’m terrible at lying,” I mumble.
“Soon, you won’t have to,” Uncle Jay says.
“But what if he figures it out?”
Uncle Jay tilts his head. “Think about your dream house. We’ll buy the whole beach if you want.”
I rub behind my ear. My candle tattoo is there, one of the only things I’ve ever gotten for myself.
Beach House,my mom had said, reading the scent name of the turquoise jar candle.That fits. Smells like summer.
I told Uncle Jay I wanted the tattoo because I love candles so much, but honestly, it’s for my parents. It always reminds me of them. Of stability and safety.
And if a beach house gets me closer to their memory, then why not aim for paradise?
“And then we can retire?” I ask.
“Just gotta get through this job and we won’t have to worry about this again,” Uncle Jay says.
I don’t like this one bit, but Uncle Jay’s face is already marked up; if I back out now, that pain will be for nothing. I can’t have that. Not when he took me in when I was a little girl. Not when he saved me from the foster care system.
He never had to take care of me, but he did. I owe him for that.
“We don’t ask you for much,” Patrick says right before he turns on the shower. I hate to say it, but he’s right. I’m usually tucked away in high-end hotel rooms while I click through social media profiles, finding our next target. I’m always safe while they’re out doing the heavy work, earning our money.
“What do I have to do, anyway?” I sigh.
“He’s sending some stylists in a few minutes,” Uncle Jay says, wincing at the pain. “That should be fun.”
“Like right now?”
Someone knocks on the door, shaking the whole motel room. I freeze. Patrick’s already in the shower, so I look at Uncle Jay, hoping he’ll answer it.
“He’s sending a makeup artist. Not some soldiers,” he says. “Go on. You’re a big girl. They ain’t gonna bite.”
My heart pounds in my throat, but I swallow it down and walk a few steps over to the door. I open it.
Three women straighten in front of me. Plastic smiles grace their expressions. Four tattooed men in black suits stand behind them, staring at me.
I peer over my shoulder at Uncle Jay, making sure he sees this too.Not just the stylists.The yakuza are here too.
The first woman, a blond, blinks rapidly. “Hi. Are you Vivian Petrus?”
I nod. “And you are—”
“Come with us.”
They drag me to the Bellagio, and it’s a whirlwind of bathing, clothes, makeup, and blow dryers. By the time I reemerge, it’s the early evening and I’m literally a pampered doll. The blond stylist leads me to a set of angled mirrors so that I can see my entire outfit, and for the millionth time today, I gasp.
A shiny champagne dress fits my frame. The bodice is sheer, and there’s a high slit, showing off my freckled legs. The color is so close to my skin tone that if it wasn’t for the shininess of the material, I’d look naked. There’s elegance and a promiscuous quality to it. I turn to the blond stylist.
