Page 51 of Juan

As if sensing his trip down trauma lane, Amber squeezed his hand, her delicate fingers brushing over his skin in a soothing stroke. “I guess I’ll be spending the day with him, figuring out how to get her a birth certificate and file for sole custody,” she said, her matter-of-fact acceptance of what they knew the results would be calming the irrational flutter of doubt in his chest.

“Any other updates we want to go over?” Callie asked, her gaze skimming the room, pausing on her sister.

Slowly, Daphne looked at Amber. Their eyes held for a beat before Amber turned and looked at him. Shit, she knew. They all knew.

His eyes shot to Scipio, who shook his head. He hadn’t said a word about their call with Toni.

“Anything you want to share, Juan?” Callie said, her voice dripping with a creepy sort of sweetness, making him feel as if he’d just been caught stealing the last piece of Dottie’s famous coffee cake.

All the women except Grace narrowed their eyes at him. Philly, Lovell, Viper, and Mantis grinned. Shit, he should have known better than to assume his brothers wouldn’t tell their partners. Or that the women wouldn’t talk.

“What?” Grace said.

“You won’t want to hear this,” Juan replied. Now Grace’s eyes were narrowed, too. He sighed. “Fine. Not sure why I need to say anything since it seems like everyone already knows,” he grumbled.

“I don’t know,” Grace pointed out.

“And they don’t know the update,” Viper said.

“What update?” Mantis demanded. “You didn’t mention an update earlier.”

“She’s going in tonight. She’ll have stuff in place tomorrow,” he said.

“Who’s going where?” Grace demanded.

“A, uh, friend of ours,” he answered, although calling Toni a friend felt a little like taunting the devil. “Her name is Antonia Ewing. Or Toni.”

Grace blinked, then went pale. “Oh god, please tell me you didn’t call Toni.”

Chapter twenty-four

Toni stared down at the sleeping fuck, the dim glow from the bathroom night-light casting his face into shades of darkness. It would be so easy to take care of Juan’s problem right now. No one would know; she wouldn’t leave a trace. She never left a trace. Not unless she wanted to.

He snorted and rolled onto his back. A thin stream of light fell across his forehead. Objectively, Anthony Ely was a good-looking man. Nothing outstanding, but more than passable. In his sleep. With the personality of a dumpster and the morals of Samuel Little, he wouldn’t improve on waking. He hid his proclivities well, but he wouldn’t have fooled her. For good or for bad, she had an innate, almost preternatural ability to spot the bad apples. Her grandmother called it a touch of the sight. Her mother swore she was able to sense, if not see, auras. Her? Well, she just thought she had an exceptional bullshit meter.

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a single Red Hot. She’d decided this was a six Red Hot job, and six of the small balls of fiery sugar were tucked into one of the pockets of her leggings. In the other was a little surprise for Sleeping Fuckface. Her sweatshirt and utility belt held all her goodies.

Pulling out the tiny vial from the pocket opposite her precious Red Hots, she carefully uncapped it. Sweeping her gaze over his exposed skin, she picked a spot, then tipped the vial over. One, two, three, four drops of the liquid it contained fell onto the soft skin on the inside of his arm. Carefully spaced, she watched as the drops spread, leaving a short trail down the curve of his body, absorbing through the pores before any liquid reached the material of the sheets.

She counted his breaths. At nine, they shifted. At thirteen, they slowed. At seventeen, his mouth fell open, and his body all but melted into the bed.

She’d considered doing this job without her little sleep aid. But once she entered the massive house, she decided the benefits of a leisurely look around outweighed the delicious adrenaline rush she’d get wondering if he’d wake while she searched. Besides, this was important to Juan. To all those guys. She wouldn’t call them friends. She didn’t really have friends. But she respected them, what they’d done both while in the army and after.

And men who beat their wives and didn’t blink at leaving their baby to die deserved a slow end. They deserved to know what was coming for them. If she could find something to help make that happen, that would be satisfying. Very satisfying.

She could always come back and finish the job if the shit hit the fan and the fucker managed to get off. In fact, she would, she decided. If she didn’t, Juan and some of his brothers might, and she couldn’t have that. They had a good life now and deserved every minute of it.

Secure in the knowledge that the treacherous, lecherous, kinless villain would know nothing but oblivion for the next six hours, she turned away and started with his closet. Her gloved fingers ran over every seam, opened every drawer, felt every pocket before she placed a tiny listening device under the bottom edge of the door and moved on. She hit the bathroom next, followed by all the other rooms on the second floor, which included four more bedrooms, each en suite, a media room, and a laundry room. She wasn’t surprised to find nothing. Men like the canker blossom that was Anthony Ely were creatures of habit. He’d spend 90 percent of his time in his room, his office, and the downstairs TV room she’d spied on her way in. The other 10 percent would be in the kitchen and bathroom. Pausing at the top of the stairs to eat a Red Hot, a small concealed door at the end of the hall caught her attention. She smiled. She hadn’t seen an attic door like that since she was a kid traipsing around her grandmother’s old Victorian. She noted the oddity of having the same feature in a thoroughly modern build but doubted the tedious nuthook sleeping in the primary suite ever set foot in the attic. She’d check it out, but she’d save it for last.

Swiftly moving through most of the downstairs rooms, she let the glasses she wore video the scene, turning them off briefly when she placed a listening device or tiny camera in a strategic spot. No need to catch that on any reel that might live forever in some data center. That it was her own data center receiving and storing the information didn’t matter. That shit could be hacked. Not easily, but she’d calculated there was a .00001 percent chance. Enough for her to take a few extra precautions when it came to her identity being anywhere in those files.

Finding nothing of note, she made her way to the room she’d been anticipating since slipping past the milk-livered miscreant’s security system—his office. Men, and she hesitated to refer to the foul-smelling dung cannon upstairs as one, were not only creatures of habit but also exceedingly arrogant. Both traits served her well.

Pausing in the doorway, she assessed the setup. The large room, perhaps six hundred square feet, boasted the requisite carved wood walls and shelves, coffered ceiling, and massive walnut desk. The parquet floor was covered with a beige, rust, and ivory area rug with an Asian design. Azeri if she had to guess. A good imitation to be sure, but she’d eat the electronic devices in her pocket if it was the legit hand-knotted antique that the feeble-spirited scullion wanted everyone to believe it was.

Slowly, she took in the room, letting her glasses pick up all the nuances as she sucked another candy. She’d find nothing incriminating on the surface, but Juan’s lady love might notice something out of place, something that didn’t belong. It might lead to nothing if she did, but after the placement of a pencil helped a friend catch a killer, Toni didn’t take anything for granted.

Once she had a good overview, she stepped inside and made a point of getting close-ups of the desk and the bookshelves that sat on opposite sides of the room. After that, she flipped the camera off and got to work.