Page 8 of Cunning Lies
“You said he picked out this outfit?” I ask.
She nods. “He picked out several outfits, but this is the one I thought would fit you best.”
I’m barely able to accept that it’s me. The column silhouette is so flattering that I imagine I’m a celebrity on the red carpet. The dress is sleeveless, completely exposing my neck like a swan. A faint shimmer powder decorates my tattoo, as if my candle was touched by a mermaid. My hair is wrapped in an updo with a few loose strands by my face.
I snap a picture in the mirror, then send it to Uncle Jay.
You’re going to kill it, Vi,Uncle Jay says.Patrick says you’re hot.
It weirds me out when Patrick says stuff like that, even if we’re notthatrelated. I guess my mom and Patrick’s mom were third cousins or something, but they’re both gone now, and it’s just us. Uncle Jay, Patrick, and me.
And yet, right now, I’m alone. I’m the only one who has to do this.
A man in a black suit waits at the corner of the mirrors.
“Miss Petrus,” he says. “I work for Mr. Watanabe. I’ll escort you to the car.” I open my mouth to question him, but he continues, “Please follow me.”
He turns so quickly that I have to lift the edges of my dress and hurry to catch him. Then I notice the other black-suited men following us. I find every door, every bathroom, everyexitI can on the way out of the building.
I can still run. I don’t have to do this.
But Uncle Jay and Patrick are counting on me, and after all they’ve done for me?
This is our last job. I have to do it.
CHAPTER4
VI
The suited manholds open a door to a private exit off the side of the building, but before I go through that door, I swallow a breath, steeling myself. This isn’t research, but I grew up with an uncle and cousin who are expert cons. I probably picked up things by mere association.
I can do this.
I step through the doors, holding my shoulders back with confidence. But then I stop in my tracks.
It’s him.
Tall. Muscular arms. Wavy black hair that hangs around his face in a carefree way. Stubble across his jawline. Dark brown eyes that glow as they soak me up. His suit is expensive and tailored—not like the suits I see Uncle Jay and Patrick wear—and a hint of a tattoo, a koi fish swimming against the current, brings color to his neck. Pure masculinity drips from his lips, like he’s about to tease a secret out of me. But it’s his posture that stops me. Strong and dominant, like he can command an entire fleet of soldiers with a flick of his finger.
“Vi Petrus,” he says in a warm, gravelly voice. He holds out a hand, and as I reach for it, he pulls me into a hug, swallowing me in his ginger whisky scent. My stomach tightens as his hard body presses against me, tension rolling to my throat.
This is the man who helped my uncle cut off his own finger?
I stutter into his chest: “And you are—”
“Kenzo,” he says cooly. “Thank you for coming with me on such short notice. These galas—” he laughs, deep and whimsical, like he’s seducing a crowd of eager listeners, even though it’s just me, “—they require a certain social appearance, and trust me, it helps to have a partner in crime.”
He winks, and my stomach does a backflip. A partner in crime? That’s not exactly the kind of thing you want to hear a man from the yakuza say, especially someone who has bodyguards at his disposal. And to make it even worse, he’s acting like I don’t know about the horrible self-amputation his family forced my uncle to commit.
But I force a smile. He thanked me for coming.As if I had a choice.
“Any time,” I say.
He opens the car door for me. “Good. Let’s go.”
We pull up to the MGM Grand Conference Center, a rectangular building with red accents and palm trees lining the landscape. Inside, Kenzo leads me to the Grand Ballroom. A string quartet plays covers of pop songs on the stage, and Kenzo nods appreciatively at the musicians. The room is filled with high tables cloaked in shiny fabric. Even the carpet is elegant, designed with stylish vines and leaves.
“Champagne?” a server asks.
