Page 52 of Vicious Seduction

Again, he’d caught me off guard. I hadn’t expected him to leave me alone in his home so quickly. Was it trust that enabled him to be so bold … or arrogance? Or maybe it was cameras. Would he have outfitted his apartment with surveillance equipment for my stay? Surely, he didn’t live with cameras on him ordinarily. Or maybe it was all part of an elaborate scheme to drive me slowly insane with uncertainty because that was starting to happen, whether intentional or not.

I didn’t know what to think. The self-doubt and second-guessing were killing me. I’d never had anyone else to rely upon in the past, but at least I’d been confident in my ownabilities. Where Oran was concerned, I didn’t even trust myself.

Do his intentions matter? This is an opportunity you can’t pass up.

Right. I needed to focus on what was important.

Padding along the wood floors in my bare feet, I didn’t make a sound as I went in search of a home office. A place this size had to have some sort of office. And it did, but it wasn’t what I’d expected. The modern design suited Oran, but the use of framed family photos as the primary decor took me by surprise. One white wall was almost entirely dedicated to a collage of matching glass frames—all the same as though to minimize distraction from the photos themselves. Some images were candid while others were posed portraits. All of them held an element of joy and sincerity.

My gaze swept across the smiling faces, a stab of envy lancing through my chest. Aside from the awkward initial introduction at his cousin’s wedding, everyone I’d met had been welcoming and kind. They seemed to be genuinely good people, which was ironic. But if Eliza Brooks could give to charity and be a celebrated member of society while secretly being Satan herself, then the Byrne family could be a loyal band of honorable criminals. If only I knew where I fit into the equation.

The opposite wall hosted a console with a credenza containing a few more framed photos. One caught my attention because of a pamphlet propped up next to it. A closer look unveiled that it was a funeral memorial. Brody Marcus Byrne. He’d passed away six months earlier, and he was the spitting image of Oran.

Reading the text, I confirmed that the man who had died at the early age of fifty-eight was Oran’s father. The framed photo was of the two of them holding matching whiskeyglasses as though toasting to the camera. They sat at a glossy mahogany pub table, their smiles radiating warmth.

I’d met Oran’s mother at the wedding. She seemed somewhat solemn though kind, which now made more sense. She was still grieving. I imagined Oran was too, considering he hadn’t mentioned his father’s passing when introducing his mother.

I returned the memorial to its place of honor and peered inside the drawers of the console below. He was organized, I’d give him that. Two large file drawers full of alphabetized folders. Files for appliance operation manuals. Maintenance records for a personal jet. He even had a file to catalog news articles about local city politicians. All sorts of information, and none of it relevant to me.

The matching executive desk of glossy dark wood with a minimalist design spoke to understated elegance. Nothing about the room was flashy or braggadocio like Lawrence’s had been. Oran’s home base was functional and focused yet inviting. The surface of his desk was clear save for yet another framed photo, this one of Oran and his family when he was much younger, a rock painted hastily to look like a ladybug, and an electric bill for the apartment. All about as ordinary as I could possibly imagine. So ordinary it was frustrating.

He had to have a computer. Where did he keep it? I had yet to see him carry a laptop with him. And there was no sign of a docking station or desktop computer.

Undeterred, I continued my search. The top left drawer held office supplies, but the one below contained a small stash of papers. Finally, something with potential. One sticky note had the name of fellow Olympus member written on it. It also contained a phone number and the date December first—the first night Oran had attended a club dinner.

I had recognized the name but didn’t know much about him. I took a picture of the note to look into it further.

There were two printed online articles, one about a hit-and-run accident two years ago, and the other was an editorial about the state of Russian organized crime in Moscow.

They were obviously of interest to Oran, but I had no clue why.

The remainder of the stack was a comprehensive background check on me. It was eerily thorough in some ways and woefully incomplete in others. The internet had a long memory, but not everything made it online.

I returned the papers to the drawer and finished my search, not finding anything else of consequence. Wanting a peek at the trash, I discovered that there was no bin under the desk. Odd. I made another scan of the room and almost missed the small metal container outside on the patio next to a set of lounge chairs.

I crossed to the glass door and fought the whipping wind to have a look. At the bottom of the black metal trash bin was a small mound of ashes and a few scraps of charred fabric. As a designer, my eye was always drawn to fabrics, which is how I knew with certainty these scraps had come from the shirt Oran was wearing the day before when we’d gone to the club for dinner.

He’d burned his shirt, and when I noticed a heavy crimson stain on one of the frayed scraps, I knew why. This shirt had been evidence. Of what, I wasn’t certain, but something violent, without a doubt.

I’d known Oran was into organized crime, but seeing evidence of it gave meaning to the words. A tangible reality. Oran Byrne wasn’t afraid of violence.

Did that change the way I felt about him?

I wasn’t sure, but it reinforced in me a need to protect myself.

I took the small blood-stained scrap and went back inside. Taking a piece of paper from the printer, I carefully folded the fabric remnant within the paper and took it back to my room to hide away. I wasn’t sure what could be done with the evidence, especially when I had no clue what crime had been committed, but it was leverage at the very least, and I needed to seize every opportunity available to gain the upper hand.

That night I went to bed in my new bedroom with a flickering sense of hope carrying me into my dreams. I could do this. I could not only survive what life threw at me, but I could use the circumstances to my advantage. I drifted off feeling bold and determined only to wake hours later with my heart in my throat and the shadow of a man standing over me.

CHAPTER 27

ORAN

Even if Ihadn’t had business to take care of, I would have needed to leave the apartment to get away from Lina before I said or did something I would regret. I’d been aggravated by the way she’d fought me about staying away from the club and the way she’d recoiled at the notion of moving in with me temporarily. But neither of those things had bothered me as much as the utter despair that clung to her when she saw her clothes in my closet. That shit stung.

I didn’t come home until I was certain she’d be asleep. I’d needed the time to cool off for two reasons. The first was illogical but present nonetheless. I was annoyed that she couldn’t see all the things I’d done for her. That she still thought I was just an asshole manipulator. My secondarysource of irritation came about when I faced the first because it made me realize that at some point my priorities had changed.

The last twenty-four hours had all been for Lina.

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