Page 46 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

“It was, but perhaps someone is rebuilding.”

The wooden chair creaks as I sit back into it. Lenny Foster was murdered, and Salvatore Moretti has to be the killer. What other explanation is there? My boss is a part-time billionaire, part-time psychopath. Shivers run up my spine as I fill in the missing pieces, my skin breaking out in goosebumps.

“Do you have any idea who could be rebuilding the Crows?”

“I thought I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions.”

“I know,” says Mike. “But if you know anything…”

“I don’t.”

Mike consults his computer, typing away on his keyboard.

I watch the reflection of the screen through his glasses, seeing him scroll through a list of search results. He frowns over something in particular, zooming in.

“What is it?”

Mike glances at me, his mouth twitching, almost like he is on the fence about showing me something. For eighty bucks an hour, he damn well needs to show me.

“Take a look at this,” he says, flipping the computer monitor around. “Your mother bought the unit for an eighth of what it is worth now.”

“Who is the new buyer?”

“The buyer is private, but this price tells us everything we need to know.” Mike flashes me a look over the desk. “Your mother’s notes on the Crows are worth a lot to someone.”

And I know exactly who that someone is…

I rise from the desk, my heart beating out of my chest.

“I take cash, card. Whatever is easiest.”

I dig my hand into my purse, unfolding a wad of cash, handing over the correct amount.

“Ah,” tuts Mike, spreading the cash across his desk. “You’re missing another forty.”

“But I was only thirty minutes.”

“My prices have doubled.”

I frown, opening my purse, handing him another forty. “You should update your website.”

“Perhaps,” says Mike in passing, rising from his desk to see me out. “Goodbye, Miss Bennett. Remember to give me a call if you see the vehicle again.”

How much will that be? Eighty bucks a minute?

“Sure,” I say, bidding him goodbye, taking the elevator down after being fucked robbed.

I cross the road, staring vacantly into space like a zombie. I should probably report Salvatore Moretti. At least file a police report. Fuck knows what this guy does on the weekend…

“The weekend is a concept I have been struggling to understand for several decades now.”

I glance at the time on my watch, picking up the pace. I have weights to lift with Sapphire, and I could fucking use a gym workout right now to let off some steam.

By the sounds of things, I’m going to need all the strength I can get… and not just in the physical sense. Lifting weights builds willpower. It forces you to overcome the pain, to push through it.

And I will be doing a lot of pushing through and resisting next week when I look into my boss’s eyes and tell him no more sex.

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