Page 29 of Iris' Lying Eyes

“I’m Iris,” I say, lifting my chin. I’m no stranger to made men, but I can’t say I’ve ever hung out with their women, which means I’m the odd one out in this scenario.

Judging by the shrewd looks, though, I’m in for a treat. Say what you will about the mafia men presumably cooking up dastardly deeds next door; women can be just as fucking treacherous.

“Iris. Hm. Please sit down. Shelly, make room, will you?”

Shelly scoots over on the couch, her laser-like focus analyzing everything about me, starting with my tattoos, which earn a frown.

“You came here with Bastion?” Whipping my head around, I meet another woman’s avid stare. This one is striking, though, with dark hair and green eyes. She’s lush in all the right places.

She raises a brow, and I smile, but it sure as shit doesn’t reach my eyes.

“Yes,” I say.

Smirking, she crosses her arms over her chest, no doubt to emphasize her generous breasts peeking through her thin blouse.

“Oh,” the woman across from me titters. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?” I ask warily.

“They say he’s hung like a horse.”

Staring into her faded blue eyes, I blink. I did not expect that to come out of this woman’s mouth. Her thin lips stretch into a smile, and she pats my hand with her wrinkled fingers.

“Who said that?” I ask no one in particular, but the green-eyed bitch chimes in. “I did.”

Oh, so she wants to play. Okay.

Shrugging, I stare at my cuticles and say, “Well, it was choking my throat last night. You be the judge.”

Bitch narrows her eyes, but our little standoff is interrupted when a woman appears at the door.

“Raquel, I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself. Iris, is it?” She pins me with her stare, and I nod.

I’m guessing this is the lady of the manor. She holds out her hand, and I follow her stiffly from the room. She’s eighty if she’s a day. I can practically hear her bones creak as she walks; regardless, she exudes power in every pore of her being.

She leads me into another parlor, this one showcasing an antique desk that she sits behind as she waves at a chair.

Cautiously, I sit and smooth my dress. I have a feeling I’m in for a tongue lashing. Usually, this wouldn’t bother me, but this one has clout, and I’d be stupid to ignore it.

“Well, we’re in a bit of a pickle,” she says, her shrewd stare pinning me in place.

Licking my lips, I muster a smile. “Oh?”

She cocks her perfectly coiffed silver head to the side and says, “Yes. I like your spirit, Ms. O’Malley. It reminds me of myself when I was your age. However, I can’t have this in my home.”

She waves her hand. I shift and smooth my fucking skirt again. “I-I’m sorry.”

She smiles, her dark blue eyes shining before she sighs. “While I appreciate the apology, you don’t belong here. I can’t have your type in my home. You understand?”

“My . . . type?” Is she speaking of my parentage? Or something else?

“Yes, dear. Bruno may think it’s okay to bring his side piece, but we have rules. Hm?”

My cheeks heat. Why, I don’t know. It’s not the fucking Dark Ages. Her opinion shouldn’t matter, but it does.

“Besides, I’ve heard rumblings about you.” She tips her chin down, and I avert my gaze. Excellent. Now what? More implications about me being a whore.

Strangely, as I sit across from this woman, dressed in a designer outfit and sitting on a fancy tufted chair, I feel the shame of my actions more acutely than ever.

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