Page 13 of Bitter Lies

He’s right. They’re all here.

“Satisfied?” His insistence on rushing me to accept it and move on only deepens my skepticism.

“I think I’ll have a look around. Sit and relax a bit. It’s been a week.” Ignoring the man and the deepening furrow of his brow, I take a seat on the cushion bench, the soft fabric yielding beneath me.

“Fine.” He tosses the keys and they land at my feet. “I have important business that requires my attention. Lock up once you’ve finished looking at the same art you’ve stared at for years. And if you ever accuse me of something like this again⁠—”

I cut in. “You’ll what? Disown me? Take away my allowance?”

The ice in his drink clinks softly as he brings it to his lips, his gaze cold and unwavering. “There will be a day, child, when you’ll appreciate all I’ve done for this family. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Something’s amiss. He’s edgier than normal, spiking my curiosity. My grandmother’s unintentional confession echoes in my mind. She’s never once said something that wasn’t partially true, even during a spell. Her words swirl in my head, leaving me grasping at their importance.

I stand and walk closer to one of my favorite paintings. A Rembrandt. It’s a print, not the original. The original hangs in The Neue Pinakothek in Munich. Larkin took me there for my sixteenth birthday. We devoted an hour to that room, appreciating and discussing topics that only art enthusiasts would understand.

Taking a step closer, I kick something, the soft click as it hits the wall catches my attention. It takes me a second to spot the tiny green gem. I bend and retrieve it. It’s cool and smooth as it settles in my palm, lighter than I expected.

Someone lost this here. Who?

My grandmother doesn’t like emeralds. She once called them the devil’s jewel—I’m guessing there’s a story behind that.

The only jewelry my grandfather wears is his wedding band, and it’s devoid of any gems.

So, who does this belong to and how the hell did it get in here?

Chapter 6

Aiden

We’ve been in this stuffy office for over an hour. Trent, the captain of the Doyles family, dragged me here when he heard Mr. Lopez was ready to sell the painting he’s salivated over for more than three decades. I’ve spent most of that time observing, watching the men negotiate while gaining insight into their shared past.

When Mr. Lopez takes a call that he doesn’t want us to overhear, the mood shifts. The old man excuses himself, the creak of the door echoing as he leaves us alone in his office.

Once the door clicks shut, I’m on my feet, ready to follow him and listen in. It’s a skill I’ve mastered—sneaking up on unsuspecting people without being noticed. Learned it in the military. Now Trent uses it to his advantage.

“Take a seat, Aiden. Rico and I go back a long way. He understands the price he will pay if he crosses me.” Tugging at his sleeve, Trent spins the four-leaf clover titanium ring on his right middle finger. “How are things at the club?”

Bailamos is Silas’s newest investment, a hot Latin nightclub in the Soho district. It’s the perfect place to blend in without being noticed.

Silas bought the club as a front. A venue for him to meet with Doyle family clients without attracting attention. Later, if required, he invites them into the backrooms, away from prying eyes. So far, all is going as planned.

“So far, so good. The lines on weekends stretch down the street. VIP sales have doubled. Even on a slow night, the place is packed.” I sink back into my seat beside him, the worn fabric yielding beneath me. “With the new surveillance system installed during renovations, we’ve got eyes and ears everywhere. Tonight, we’re meeting Mr. Theiss to discuss a business proposal.”

“Tell me more about that.” Reaching into his pocket, Trent retrieves a cigar and inhales its scent.

“I don’t know the details.” Stretching across Rico’s desk, I pick up the guillotine lying next to his cigar box. “Apparently, he contacted Silas to set up a meeting.”

Trent holds out the cigar, and I clip the end for him. “I don’t trust the jeweler. The Russians have been hanging around his place again. Find out why.”

I nod as he flicks his lighter, taking a slow pull from his cigar.

“There’s nothing like a Cuban.” He blows a ring of smoke out, the ember glowing as he takes another pull. “Ever smoked one?”

“A little expensive for my taste. Plus, my grandfather died of lung cancer.” After you’ve seen someone suffer the way he did in his final days, smoking anything, no matter how good it might taste or make you feel, is a deterrent. We weren’t close by any means, but I didn’t enjoy watching him suffer.

The door creaks open, and Rico steps in, a frown pulling at his brow. He settles into his chair, the worn leather creaks softly as he leans back.

“I’ve changed my mind. Now is not the time to sell, I’m afraid.”