Page 101 of Wild Fury (Fallen Royals 6)

I twitch. It’s a good story, one I could see police latching on to if the right evidence was displayed.

“How’s my sister?” I ask.

I’ve barely had any contact with her—just a few texts here and there after her insane wedding day. Sometimes when I’m sleeping, I can still hear the echo of gunshots. She’s living in Italy now, well away from the spotlight the Mafia brings.

His lips quirk. “You can talk to her now, if you’d like.”

I shake my head. “Maybe.”

Two years is a long time to go.

“You can’t speak of this,” he adds. “Of what happened. You’re not free and clear—but no one is searching anymore.”

I sigh. “I’m starting to think no one was searching for me in the first place. It was a good ploy to get me out of the state, though.”

He guides me to a black car idling at the curb. He opens the back door, and I pause before I slide in. He joins me and glances my way. The driver meets his gaze in the rearview mirror, nods once, and sweeps us back into the throng of traffic.

“The governor, I believe we were discussing.”

“The new one?” I keep my expression blank.

“The one you framed.”

I snort. “Please.”

He eyes me curiously. “Who hired you to take those photos? His wife?”

This was months ago—although, the photos only came out to the media recently. Within the last six weeks. They were everywhere, incriminating the man.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, you’re welcome.” He leans back and glances out the window. “Who do you think made sure you had some way to survive?”

He can’t be implying what I think he’s implying—that my whole job is a fraud. That I’m a fraud, because he tossed things into my lap. No. I couldn’t have been under the DeSantis thumb for two fucking years.

Just another chess piece Jameson moves across the board, but I’m nothing special. The sacrificial pawn, I suppose.

“What did you do?” I ask.

Still smug, he doesn’t belie any sort of discomfort. He doesn’t shift. No guilt.

Not like me, rotting from the inside out in guilt and shame.

“The wife needed someone reliable, and I needed her husband out of the office.”

“Why?”

He smiles. “That’s for me to know, and you to find out… Or, maybe not.”

“It was your job,” I whisper. More shame, crashing over me. I hate the grimy feeling under my skin, the knowledge that he used me and I didn’t even realize it. “And, what, did you hire the mistress, too?”

“A call girl. Easily persuaded by cash.”

“Untraceable cash.”

Jameson twists toward me. “You’re a good investigator,” he says. “Very green, reckless, but you have the sort of brazen to make it. But I’ve got to ask you something.”

I sigh. “You may as well just spit it out, then.”

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