Page 14 of Bitter Lies

I bet Trent regrets not letting me follow him. Whoever called didn’t just talk; they changed the old man’s mind. I’m good at reading people. Lopez isn’t acting on his own—he’s taking orders.

The question is, who’s giving them?

The two men stare at each other for several drawn-out minutes, giving me the time to study them.

Rico’s silver hair is slicked back. He’s a slim man with soulless, dark brown eyes. There’s a hint of nervous energy in his age worn face, but he hides it well. Especially when the head of the Irish mob is glaring at him like he wants him dead.

Trent is the opposite. His hair is a darker gray, with a few nearly white streaks near his temples. He’s not slim, but he’s not overweight. Fit for a man in his mid-seventies. His lighter brown eyes glare at the other man, doing their best to remind him who he’s speaking to. A man who has no problem killing you just because you breathed wrong.

Neither man gives me the impression that he gives two shits about the other.

Trent blows smoke right into Rico’s face. “We had a deal.”

“Yes, well, I’m revoking the deal. My granddaughter loves that painting as much as Alma. I’ve decided now isn’t the right time. If I change my mind, I’ll ring.” He rises and gestures toward the door, holding his composure better than most in Mr. Doyle’s presence. “I have another meeting. I’ll show you out.”

Trent remains seated, the steady draw of his cigar filling the silence. “I’ll pay double what I offered.”

I do my best not to react. This isn’t what we discussed before arriving. The plan was to talk him down, not double the offer. What the fuck?

I’ll give Rico credit. He holds it together. Doesn’t even flinch at the offer.

“The Botticelli is not for sale.”

Lifting his foot, Trent extinguishes his cigar by grinding it on the sole of his shoe. “I’d think on that, Rico. Alma’s not what she used to be. You had your reasons for wanting to sell. Wouldn’t it be a pity if she found herself in trouble over something she doesn’t remember?”

Trent’s warning keeps my attention locked on Rico, picking up every subtle shift in his demeanor. I have no idea what he’s referring to. I’ll ask later, though I doubt he’ll share. Trent shares only what suits him. If he’d wanted me to know, I already would.

Rico’s lips twist into a grimace as he shoves his hand into his pocket. “Don’t forget who shares in her guilt. Are you willing to sell him out as well? Don’t threaten me, Trent. You’re forgetting your place.” There’s a brief, intense pause. “And what I did for you.”

His eyes shift to me before adding, “It would be wise to remember that. You have way more to lose than I do.”

With each passing second, the tension thickens, the air between them heavy as they stare each other down. I don’t know their history, but I will. The moment I get home, I’m digging. Something I wish I’d had time to do before being dragged to the unexpected meeting.

Trent rises, palms pressing into the desk as the wood creaks beneath him. “Careful, Rico. You sure you want to go there? How is your granddaughter?” His gaze sharpens. “I imagine she favors Sofia. She was a beautiful woman.”

He pauses, leaning in closer and lowers his voice. “Might be time I paid the girl some attention. Take a more active role in her future.”

Rico lunges at Trent, catching us both off guard. He grabs his lapel and drives the dull letter opener to his throat. “You go near her, I will kill you.”

I’m on him before he can do more. My grip tight on his wrist, forcing him to drop it. A metallic clang echoes as it strikes the desk. “The next time you threaten Mr. Doyle, it will be your last. Do you understand?”

Rico glares at me, a vein throbbing in his temple, nods curtly, his jaw tight. “Let me go. There will not be a next time. We are done. For good. Show yourselves out.”

I lock eyes with Trent, his infuriating smile a stark contrast to the tension hanging in the air.

He turns back to the other man, still smiling. “I’ll call you next week. We’ll revisit the Botticelli. You should reconsider my offer. It’s generous. Give it some thought. I’m sure you’ll come to the right conclusion.”

“Fuck you, Trent!” Rico growls through gritted teeth.

My boss chuckles, low and condescending, as he nods toward the door, urging me to open it. “Give Alma my love. Perhaps the three of us can have dinner soon. Like old times. She always knew when to make the smart choice.”

I’ve never seen a man’s face turn that shade of reddish-purple before. It’s concerning. Something he should probably speak with his doctor about.

Since Trent is familiar with the penthouse, he takes the lead when we leave Rico’s office. It’s my first time accompanying him while he’s conducted business with Mr. Lopez. He brought me along to learn its layout.

He hasn’t said why, but I can guess. I make a few mental notes as we approach the front door. Something tells me I’ll be back soon to retrieve the painting.

No one tells Trent Doyle no.