Page 7 of Wicked Truths
He is wrong, but in the wrong hands…in Dom’s hands... The thought makes me sick.
The message notification blinks:
SweetBunny,
You’re failing.
I need more information from you.
And a little birdy told me that your stepdad’s plane is booked to leave the Gold Coast Airport at 2 PM tomorrow. I’ll give you until 7 PM tomorrow to send me the information I need.
You know the consequences.
SweetJustice
My fingers grip the edge of the desk until my knuckles turn white. Maybe Mom’s right. Maybe Mateo Conti, with all his darkness and danger, is the only one who can protect me from this nightmare.
2
Amara
The next day, Istand in the foyer, watching Mom direct the staff with her mountain of Louis Vuitton luggage. Eight suitcases for a weekend trip. Really?
“Darling.” She pulls me into a perfumed embrace. “Have the absolute best time while we’re gone.” Her lips brush my ear. “Do what you need to do. I’ll call you later.”
A groan escapes me before I can stop it.
The driver appears at the door, and Dom wraps his arms around me. I inhale. His cologne, spicy and masculine, makes me feel dizzy. But it’s the involuntary shiver that skitters down my spine as his hard body presses against mine that makes me nervous.
“Be careful, piccola.” His voice drops lower. “Mateo isn’t a nice man.”
He steps back.
I swallow hard and nod.
I’m caught between two impossible choices.
Mateo could be the only person to help me with SweetJustice. He has the connections, the power, and the manis purely psychotic. Yet, running away still feels safer than getting involved with someone like him.
“See you Monday, Amara. Have a lovely weekend.” Mom’s in the car and the door closes before I have the time to reply to her.
The moment their car disappears out of the driveway and the gates click shut, I sprint to Dom’s office.
My hands shake as I yank open drawer after drawer, rifling through papers, folders, everything I can find.
Nothing.
I scan the walls, looking for any sign of a safe behind the expensive artwork. Check behind each frame–nothing there either.
The bookcase yields no secret compartments, and no hidden switches. Just leather-bound volumes collecting dust.
Frustrated, I sink into Dom’s chair.
What am I even looking for?
What could SweetJustice want?
Bank records? Business deals?
