Page 83 of Bitter Lies

“I don’t believe so.”

He straightens, deliberately placing himself between me and the exit. “Your accent isn’t British. Where are you from?”

Before I reply, the lift grinds to a halt. The doors groan open to reveal my favorite guard, standing there waiting just like she promised.

“Hermosa Islas. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m running late.”

The subtle, almost imperceptible lift of his eyebrow tells me he’s heard of it before. He hesitates for a moment, then gestures for me to walk past, a slight shift in his posture.

I’m almost out when he grabs my wrist to stop me.

“I never forget a face. Are you sure we’ve never met before?”

Lynette moves with precision. Her hand clamps over his wrist. “Sir, step back. Do not touch the princess.”

His hand falls from mine, and I don’t wait for her. I head straight for the exit, where I know Marty’s waiting.

The doors slide open, and the second Marty spots me, he yanks the car door wide so I can get in. I’m almost there when the man from the lift calls after me.

“You’re Sofia’s daughter.” It’s not a question, and when I spin to look at him, I don’t like his expression. It’s gone from marginally friendly to downright deadly. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

I don’t give him the satisfaction of a response. If he’s looking for one, I know my face says enough.

Instead, I slide into the back and wait for Marty to close the door.

The man doesn’t leave. He stands there, watching until Lynette and Marty jump in and we pull away.

“Everything alright?” Marty asks from the driver’s seat.

“Yes.” I take a deep breath.

“Do you know him?” Lynette turns to look at me.

“No, I’ve never seen him before.” A nagging premonition in my gut suggests we’ll meet again, and that doesn’t sit well with me.

“I’ll see what I can find out,” Lynette says. “I’ll let Sasha know we had a situation that needs looking into.”

I nod, but my mind is elsewhere. “Is everything set?”

“We’re heading to the private airfield now. We should be there in about fifteen minutes,” Marty says as he keeps an eye on his mirrors.

My finger hovers over the privacy panel button, and I announce, “I need to make a call.”

I close it and dial the one person I know I shouldn’t trust, but do.

Chapter 32

Aiden

My search for the gallery key begins with a visit to Rico’s office. I’ve been tearing through it for nearly an hour now.

No key. But I found several other interesting items. Documents.

All doubts have been washed away about Rico’s business arrangement with Cort Theiss. And if I’m reading these correctly, the two have been backstabbing not just Trent but also a Russian—whose name I know well.

The Del Markov Bratva hasn’t been active in London for some time. Not since the murder of Heath Doyle, Trent’s father, that ignited a war that drenched the city in bloodshed.

It went on for years.